I saw a woman at the gym today that was wearing makeup while working out. Not something gong I would normally notice or call into question except that she looked like a Barbie doll. She had the caked-on-probably-spent-two-hours-applying-it look. And it just made me sad, really. Sad for her that she felt the need to hide behind so much artifice. That she was so lacking in confidence that she felt the need to wake up early to hide her face, only to go to a place filled with women who are their own raw selves.
This is something that I have loved about going to an women-only gym. Here it is acceptable to get gross. We sweat. We smell. We have messy hair. We wear clothing that isn't designed to show off our breasts or our butts. This is where we are able to just be, and we accept each other for it. I love the woman who works so hard on the elliptical that her bra line is the only dry spot on her shirt. I love the woman whose extra pounds dance with her as she does Zumba. I love the girl who pins her green-streaked hair to the right while she runs because her left side is shaved. I love the pair of sisters who constantly one-up each other at the weight bar. I love the elderly women who let their saggy skin be seen as they walk from the pool to the dressing room in their swimming suits and flip flops.
I love these women because they are safe. They don't judge me or put me down because I haven't shed all the weight I gained in my last pregnancy. Instead, they encourage me to keep running, to keep trying. They encourage me to lift a few more pounds, to run a few more minutes, to push a little harder, to sweat a little more. I don't have to look perfect here. I feel their love every time I step through those doors. With every smile, with every nod of the head or wave of the hand, I know they are happy I am there with them.
And so I hope that this woman with the painted face can feel that love, too. I want her to know that we don't judge here. She is perfect how she is because she is here.
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