Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but I would have much preferred to go ungodly before my peers than go naked. Curtainless stalls offered a peepshow of jailbait skin, newly ripened breasts and smooth legs and bottoms. I had not yet developed the Playboy casabas most girls dreamt of having by this time. Men call us meat, and we refer to ourselves by fruit non de plumes. We're all girls here.
Today is no different.
They don't do this out of shyness, but out of fear. I see their heads turn away, brows furrowed with disgust and mouths silently cursing the fitness instructor who accepted my Visa card, the stupid customer service representative who let me have a Visa card, the bank who gladly helped me to establish credit in the first place, and my own parents for birthing such an ominous threat to their bodies. I want to say, I'm here to exercise. As much as I would like to explain this to them, I don't because they won't listen. I might as well be speaking Klingon.