A fictionalized marital comedy.
I like knowing that my husband finds me attractive. I like it slightly less when I am trying to complete a set at the gym and he appears to be conducting a sustained visual inspection from the next machine.
At first I smiled. Then I tried concentrating on the weights. Then I noticed two other men noticing him noticing me, and the workout acquired an audience it had not budgeted for.
“Could you stop staring?” I asked.
“I’m admiring my wife,” he said, as though this explanation automatically improved the viewing arrangements.
“I know. I’d like to finish this without an audience.”
He looked hurt. I understood that he had meant the attention affectionately. I also remained uncomfortable. Marriage had not canceled the possibility of those two facts existing at once.
For a moment he tried “My love is blind.” This was a brave defense from a man whose eyes had been operating with exceptional consistency.
Eventually, he went back to his workout. We talked afterwards. I told him I enjoyed a compliment and a glance; prolonged staring in a public gym made me feel on display. He could appreciate the distinction without requiring me to package it as praise.
On our next visit, he asked whether I needed a spotter. I did. This was an excellent development: the attention had acquired a useful job.
He still thinks I look good in gym clothes. I am delighted. He has also learned that some appreciation can wait until I have put the weights down.
