Alison Bechdel, author of The Secret to Superhuman Strength
(Photo credit: Courtesy of Jeanette Spicer)
Before the pandemic, I spent most of my weekend mornings sweating, grunting, and trying not to hurl on the shiny hardwood floors of my beloved neighborhood YMCA. Something about my fellow gymgoers there moms whose kids sometimes escaped from the playroom downstairs to weave among the aerobicizers, retirees gingerly hoisting themselves up on spin bikes and then proceeding to crush it made the whole thing less noxious than other gyms. The last Saturday I spent at the Y, Phyllis, an effervescent woman in her 50s who runs the boot-camp classes, implored me to both love myself and run up 12 flights of stairs with a dumbbell raised above my head, instructions that struck me as hilariously incongruous. In the locker room afterward, I made small talk with another regular about hand sanitizer and hoarding beans. “By the way, I’ve noticed that you’ve toned down a lot in the las
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