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“I did.”
“You’re off to a bad start.” She lifts one leg and slides it against the wall, pointing her toes to the ceiling. Then she bends forward, bringing her forehead to her shin for a deep quad stretch that also happens to be erotic as hell. “Let me ask you something, Leo?”
“Sure,” I say, my mouth going bone-dry.
“Do you think your gym is a welcoming and supportive place for all women?”
“Of course!”
“How can you be so absolutely certain?” She switches to her other leg.
“Because I am.” Where does she get off suggesting otherwise? “My gym welcomes everyone.”
“But BMI measurements and score cards are mandatory in your program.”
“I encourage setting goals,” I say, believing in what I do.
“Setting goals by your standards.”
“My standards are rooted in research.”
“Hm.” She turns from the wall and bends one leg behind her until her foot passes her shoulder, standing on one leg like some sexy version of a flamingo. “Your standards are inherently judgmental.”
“That’s BS!” I retort defensively as Susan Welsh’s feedback lingers in my mind. “Our plans are customized for each person. A scorecard keeps members on track and the STAR program allows them to collect points for their success.”
“What if it’s not about achievement? What if it’s about having fun or just feeling good?”
“I’m not running a play centre. I’m running a legitimate fitness program.”
“And I’m not?”
“Voltage Vixens? Shake That A$$? Come on, all that’s missing is a pole.”
“I’m actually considering it. But that’s not the point. What we do here is fun and joyful, but it’s also hard work. I dare you to try a class.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass.”
“You’re blinded by your thin privilege,” she accuses, bringing her hands together behind her, and arching her back for a chest stretch.
“More bullshit.” Her fuckable tits be damned, she’s pissing me off.
“Unfortunately, it’s not. You have no idea how some women might feel about you wanting to measure their BMI and keep score. To you, it’s just setting goals. But to her, it could mean judgement, pressure to lose weight, and body-shaming.”
What the fuck? “I’ve never body-shamed anyone or told any woman to lose weight.” Jazz would only have to glance south of my waistband to know I don’t think she needs to lose a single pound.
“I doubt that. Maybe it was unintentional, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But your ignorance or privilege of being a lean and muscular man, accepted and even revered in our society, means you could never understand what it’s like to be a fat woman—or fat man for that matter.
“Many people think we’re a heart attack waiting to happen. They think of us as being lazy and unhealthy. I teach at least five classes on most days, I can dance for hours, and yet by your weight charts and BMI measurements, I’m considered obese, and therefore unfit. That’s the bullshit, Leo.”
“I don’t make those rules and I don’t feed into them.”
“But you do, and you don’t even realize it. You might want to consider sensitivity training.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Wow.” She stretches one arm across her chest. “You’re really full of yourself.”
“I could say the same about you. Yesterday, you got mad at me for making accusations, yet here you are tossing out assumptions about what I think and how I treat my clients.”
