Run Ginny Run

I am sandwiched between Aubrey Miles and Troy Montero on the treadmills, while the younger Montero, Colby, hovers behind us, pushing 160 lbs. on the leg extension machine. I should be more discreet, but I can't help but look at them every so often. What beautiful people, I think, and so thin! The camera does add ten pounds. Troy is salon-blonde, lean and sinewy, while Aubrey is all bone, with a waist that she's whittled down to at least 20 inches. And here I am between them, all 190 lbs. of me, my hair like a wet bird's nest, my (love) handles bouncing as I run.

It's obvious they're used to being looked at. The cleaning lady watches them pound the track, her broom poised in mid-air. The trainers, try as they might to disguise their curiousity, can't help but stare at Aubrey's perfect buns, or at Troy's incredibly chiseled face. These artistas go about their business, running 6.0 speeds while chatting about their latest show ("That taping went on forever," said Troy, to which his brother replied, "at least we're done with three episodes."). I become conscious of my own ragged breathing, my sweaty arms, the bundles of fat poking through the fabric of my dri-fit shirt. They're oblivious to all this attention, but I, though I am only tangential to it, feel it in every pore of my (overweight) body.

What does it feel like to be scrutinized by everyone, everywhere you go? How do you develop your inner self when all that people seem to care about is what you look like on the outside? I envy Aubrey, Troy and Colby, but I also pity them. For when the glare of the spotlight fades, what will they have to hold onto?

So I keep running. 55 minutes later, my shirt is dripping with my sweat. I'm finished. I look up, to find that that they've already left.

But I'm still here.