the lost man chronicles
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What Women Want

As I was patting myself dry, I overheard a husky voice blurt, “Shit! Now there ain’t any hot water. The pee-lah-tay class just got out, and so all the ladies must have just jumped in the shower together.”

Being that I just had taken a soothing warm one myself and having been the sole hombre in the class as well, I was extraordinarily amused by this slightly snide remark.

Admittedly, I played over the self-consciousness I tendered about being a “lady” now, but somehow I soon got over it. I believe I shrugged it off by thinking that at least I had the balls to diversify my exercise routine and was not compelled to grunt and bench press the rest of my youth away.

The class itself today was good and slightly challenging. I was able to focus myself and my body half the time, but trying to follow Tifanny’s instructions, combined with the occasional distraction of my mind wandering over her taut, yet supple, laterals (those are back muscles, and not any reverse allusion otherwise), was an occasional fallen branch in the stream of concentration.

Once, and only once, did I imagine placing my lips to her nape as she kept commanding, “Now, drop your shoulders, feel your abdominal fold into your spine, and breeeeeath.” Otherwise, I was able to “look into my belly” and participate like a good eunuch.

And quite unlike Mel Gibson stretching his catholic musculature over a pink yoga mat, I could hear no one think but myself. The internal blathering was obstructive enough, so that being surrounded by “ladies” was not as titillating as an outsider peering through the window might imagine or associate with some cinematic scene that comically reflects upon the differences between little Mars amongst a very large Venus.

I do not fret over the inadvertent taunting from fellow men as much as the presumption that some women now have, simply because I am now stretching alongside them. As the instructor addressed me by my first name a few times to correct a position or otherwise (strangely enough, she did not at all do so for others) a couple of pilaters felt comfortable enough to do much the same after class.

Granted, they were just being friendly, which is good and all, but underlying the amity is a disconcerting assumption that one can ignore decorum. For although I’m not a stickler for manners, I moan while I eat and often eat with my fingers after all, I just think it’s a bit awkward to be addressed so informally without even knowing who is addressing you. It kind of feels as if I’ve been undressed before an Amazon army in full regalia.

Ultimately, I know I’m making nothing out of nothing, and the sudden audacity these women have bothers me in the least. If anything, I am rather pleased to have been let into what feels like an inner circle of sorts. And perhaps by tolerating the wholesome gooey-spew of Tifanny’s gender-honed encouragement, i.e. “Now, pretend there’s a pretty penny between your shoulders,” or “Smile, and think of something lovely,” I just might gain some insight into—what women really want.

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