I’m on the elliptical warming up before I head downstairs to work out. Here on the second floor, I have a panoramic view of the cafe, the front desk, and the machines. My heart skips when I see his dark gray head bobbing, coffee cup to his lips.
Why is he always here?
Yes, I’m talking about Gym Guy — the same man from “The Invisible Woman,” the piece I wrote a couple of weeks ago. If I can see him, I conclude he can see me should he look up.
Please don’t look up.
Too late.
I look away and cast my eyes down, hoping against hope that I don’t have to speak to him later.
To deter men, especially Gym Guy, from talking to me, I’ve started wearing light-blue colored headphones. What says “don’t talk to me” more than noise-cancelling cans on your ears?
These prove no obstacle for Gym Guy. He has finished his coffee and finds me at the leg press — again — and comes near. I take my time sliding the headphones off. He’s patient, then gushes.
“I googled your name. I found out some interesting things. How do you spell it?”
“It’s spelled with an ‘I.’” My voice is flat, bored.
No one can ever pronounce “Ilona,” let alone remember it. I’m filled with dread that he thought of me outside of our brief interactions, that he remembered my name and typed the closest facsimile into his phone.
With that, I put the headphones back on. He leaves and then turns around, quizzically. I pull at the headphones as if they’re too heavy to take off.
“I can always tell people who are highly educated. You must have an advanced degree.”
I confess I do, and he is pleased. Very pleased.
“Yes, I knew it!”
My headphones go back on. I need to escape ASAP and move somewhere remote, far enough away without sacrificing why I’m here. There’s an overheated space at the gym’s edge with only benches and free weights and, more importantly, no people.
He doesn’t follow me.
By myself, I find my breath. Gym Guy does not know that googling someone’s name — and then telling them you did — is stepping further over a line. He doesn’t know that calling out someone’s credentials is also overreach.
Where will this end?
I know from experience that these guys don’t suddenly get religion and back off. You can’t insult them, and directness can inflame.
This experience isn’t the first on a list of violations I could recite, and it won’t be the last.
Start with my daughter. When she commuted to her first job out of college, a forty-year-old man stalked her. He would greet her and chat her up every morning, no matter which train car she tried to hide in. Then at night he would find her again and walk her to her car. She was polite. She engaged in small talk because she was too scared not to.
My advice was to take an earlier train or drive to a different train station. The problem went only away when she moved from the suburbs into a city apartment.
I’ve had a man expose himself to me on a subway. I’ve received an angry, X-rated letter from a guy I rebuffed. I’ve had a man follow me when I used to walk the dog in the neighborhood.
I could go on.
That’s the part that’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. It isn’t one rotten morning. It’s a ledger so long that the entries stop being able to hold their own weight. I recite them without emotion because outrage, every single time, is its own full-time job, and I ran out of that energy a long time ago.
I’m disgusted with the situation I find myself in with Gym Guy.
I don’t want to change gyms, or the time I go. Yesterday I saw him again at the cafe, sipping his coffee. I held my breath the whole time I was there, knowing my headphones refuse the work I needed them to do.
Miraculously, he didn’t seek me out. He was still sitting there when I left, an hour later.
I consider I might be over-reacting. He’s probably lonely. I’ve heard about the male loneliness epidemic, but fixing it was never going to be my job.
Where he lands—overly interested, creep, or full-fledged stalker—I couldn’t tell you. Sorting him out isn’t supposed to be my job. And yet here I am doing it anyway. Clocking him from the elliptical, cataloging what he says, deciding day to day whether today’s the day he doesn’t take the hint.
That’s the part that makes me tired.
I’ve learned this much: the vigilance gets applied evenly, to all of them, because from where I’m standing there’s no way to tell the harmless ones from the ones who go looking. If you’re lonely, I’m not here to fix that for you. I’m just trying to keep myself safe.
What would you do? Help me with your comments.
Next week, I’m back to doing my Substack Lives. On Thursday, September 24th at 11 a.m. ET, I will chat with Monica Hebert of the Daily Rewire. She writes for women who are done playing by the old rules and are ready to dream again. Monica’s deepest desire is for you to be remember who you were before the world got its hands on you.
Sound familiar?
We are definitely vibing. It’s going to be a great conversation, so mark you calendar!
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Dear "Substack friend".
As you know, I'm a "guy" :). I hope I can bring something to this subject from that perspective. First, I got shivers reading both of your pieces. I felt your discomfort and...fear. So please understand that I get how you feel your life has been invaded by this person. Not acceptable.
But here is a guys take:
Most of us guys are pathetic. We are in a forever circular loop of seeking approval from females. It goes right back to needing to please Mom. That can be helpful to some degree in a relationship. But beyond that it gets complicated. And clumsy. And awkward. And often, inappropriate.
It could be that this character just wants you to like him. And then he resumes his coffee. I have had many, many more female friends than guys. My most enjoyable years in a retail merchandising career was when I led a team of women buyers (we ran the women's sportswear division). The work, the dinners in NYC - the camaraderie was a joy. The guys in the menswear division were jerks. One of the happiest days in my career was when the boss offered me a plum job in women's wear. Mens wear had been dull and frankly a lot less profitable. Sorry, I am digressing.
Or this guy is looking for more. It doesn't really matter, does it? You want to be left alone. That's your human right.
So for what it is worth, if I were that guy and I was innocently looking for a female connection of any kind...I mean where DO you meet new people? I would appreciate a straight forward version of
"I want to be alone to exercise. Privately. No talking. No new friends. Just exercise. Please don't try to engage with me. Thank you for understanding."
If he is indeed a "stalker" (the Googling was creepy!) and he persists, unfortunately, you are now, through no fault of your own, in a danger zone. Tell the management, call the cops if it gets weirder, go to another gym. It ain't fair. It ain't right. But if he is that horrible, your safety is paramount.
Hope it's OK for me to jump in here. But your story disturbed me, made me worried. This guy needs a direct red light, full stop message. If he has any decency or normalcy, he will fade away.
Ilona, that's maddening. The worst part is that as women, we always need to be on alert. It may be as Bill Alstrom says, and just a lonely guy who can't take a hint. But unless he's missing all the cues or has decided to try to wear you down, you have made yourself clear, and he's not getting it. The googling and then telling you about it is a huge red flag, as well as asking you about your education and then attempting to flatter you with his thoughts about it. I agree with Bill, that a first step is to tell him that you want privacy when you exercise. If that doesn't work, talk to the management. These two choices would be hard for me, if I'm honest. Let us know what happens next!