Julieanne Leupold

As I near the end of my time here at Pepperdine, I’m getting into that super-reflective mode.

You know, that kind where you hug your friends out of nowhere because you realize that this time next year you won’t be able to.

Or when you settle old debts like all of those unpaid parking tickets or forgive old grudges like who locked whom out every weekend.

Even the kind of reflection where I sit back, stare at the wall and try to summon all the academia and practical knowledge I gleaned out of classes during my four years.

Although strange pictures of the Venus of Willendorf from Humanities 111 and congressional laws from political science float around in my head, there is really one piece of information that sticks in the forefront of my brain and sends unanswered questions ricocheting through my skull.

I have discovered there is a force field in the gym. Don’t worry if you haven’t been able to detect it – it is invisible.

It is that dividing line that separates the free weight section in the back from the cardiovascular and weight machines in the front. Or essentially, it separates the boys section from the girls section.

Although I have always believed in confronting obstacles and breaking barriers, this do-not-cross force field is downright scary. Maybe very few women venture to this testosterone-filled place because they are frightened of dropping the weights or violating the rules of the no-girls-allowed boys club.

Myself – I am afraid of looking like a complete idiot. With the weight machines there are these handy little pictures that you can study for a few minutes while pretending to adjust your weights. But free weights don’t come with step-by-step directions.

Although my sorority sister tried to teach us the proper way to use free weights so we wouldn’t end up looking like the female-version of Hulk Hogan, I’m still a little intimidated by the guys who turn bright red and hold their breath as they lift astronomical amounts of weight. Then immediately they turn to the mirror, lift up their shirts and study their progress in their never-ending quest to be buff. Or they strut up to the scale to see if they had added any muscle bulk.

It seems like I should have studied this strange male behavior pattern in sociology, but instead it was brought to my attention in women’s studies. The absolute separation of genders just seemed strange.

I mean doesn’t it seem odd that the majority of women – who mostly use the stairmasters or treadmills or elliptical machines – avoid the scale on the way out of the gym? And personally I only glance in the mirror to see how bad I look drenched in sweat with my hair sticking up and that I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this-voluntarily look in my eyes.

Maybe I am the only one who has yet to learn the rules to the boys-only club or the password to break through that invisible force field. Next time I’ll try whispering “Hulk Hogan” at the entrance and see if that does the trick.

Februrary 14, 2002