Earlier this month, I was at my local gym, where some schoolkids were also using the equipment, when I heard my name called from across the room.
‘Gabi! I need to speak to you, love.’
I had a sinking feeling as I walked over to the gym owner and resident house-mum, Lucy*. Had I not been cleaning the equipment well enough? I’d been remembering both the detergent and the disinfectant, hadn’t I?
‘Sweetheart, I’m going to try to say this gently, but we’ve had a complaint from the teacher of the schoolkids, and… are you wearing a g-string?’
My face felt hot, and dumfounded, I replied, ‘Yes.’
G-strings are all I ever wear, they’re comfortable and I like having no lines underneath my clothing. Wait, this is INSANE. Why am I defending my underwear choices to the gym?
But she was still talking.
‘…Because she thought maybe you were wearing a g-string on top of your shorts.’
Huh?! Oh. It must be my scrunch-bum shorts. But people wear these to this gym all the time! And anyway, if I want to dress like a superhero at the gym, I f*cking will.
‘Hun do you have something else you could change into? Something in your gym bag?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What about a towel, do you have a towel you could tie around your waist?’
‘I think it would be difficult to deadlift in a towel.’
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