It has to be me. It’s the only logical conclusion. And I don’t know what to do about it.
I started working out at a new gym. It’s small and intimate and totally awesome. I love it, I really do. But I must be doing something really wrong when I workout because I seem to develop these… these… nicknames of sorts.
About a year ago I shared about an odd nickname a spin instructor christened me with. It scars me til this day.
The last gym I went to, one of the trainers who trained another client near me started calling me Boss. I suspect no ill intent, but I associate Boss with either the controlling executive who has powerlunches, powernaps, and powermeetings, or the 80s sitcom “Who’s The Boss?” Neither are good.
Yesterday during my workout, the owner of the gym dubbed me The Hustling Champ. Again, he was only being kind with his words, but this was playing into my insecurities as being viewed as the Harley-riding-leather-chaps-wearing-spiked-collar type of girl or the woman in a powersuit and a tightly, pulled back bun.
Now I view myself as the girl wearing an over-sized sweat outfit and drooping hood as I yell, Ay yo! Pass me my Philly cheese steak, now! I need my protein.
It’s been a manic week for me and I would totally appreciate any prayers you can send my way. My heart is to bring this next generation into a deeper understanding of who Jesus is and how we can walk in dignity as we live our lives.
Love,
The Hustler
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