Panther Hat Girl

I’d joined a private gym out of desperation. Tucked in an adobe plaza that could double as a Disney set, between a dog-washing business and a running store, it was a tiny but first-rate place: four treadmills, lots of ropes, balls, bands, and a single shower. The owner looked like Jennifer Lopez. A crowded day meant there were three people working out, three training. Early morning clientele were real estate developers and men in finance; late afternoons attracted aged-out competitive athletes like volleyball players and runners whose knees were shot. Then there was me, prioritizing fitness after a year-long waltz with grief.

My trainer was former military. Because of this, he designed high-intensity, functional workouts with minimal equipment, so lots of handstands, slinking and crawling like predators, push-ups, and boxing. I felt 80 years old. We also talked about PTSD, and war, and death, and he would share his relationship woes. I liked that he could get dark—it was a feature. Our time together became part of my healing process, and the gym that was supposed to be a temporary reboot became my norm. I dodged how much it cost if anyone asked.

A year or so later, JLo finished construction on her own gym, a corrugated steel box of a building in the gravel lot behind her house. Around the same time, my trainer got caught running clients off-book. JLo hired a new trainer, a college girl who was studying anthropology, who would show me pictures of her cats and the outfits she wore clubbing. It was a fresh start. To her, I was a just cool girl who hated burpees. Once she even filmed my lat pulldowns for her social media.

When I moved to Vegas, my plan was to rebuild this lifestyle, but my downtown neighborhood was mostly boxing gyms, and my university schedule made it tough to keep appointments anyway. I sulked for longer than I care to admit, then half-heartedly auditioned a few places. Eventually I committed to Planet Fitness, a gym that looks to be designed for muppets with its purple-and-orange paint and “you belong” messaging. Now I have to invent my own workouts and wipe down equipment once again.

Acrobats, body builders, and dancers train here on a budget. I have nicknames for the regulars, including “Crown Royal,” probably a bartender because all of his shirts advertise liquor. “Bus Guy” runs on the treadmill with desperation, like he’s training to miss the bus, and “Kevin” looks like a Kevin I knew growing up. If I have a nickname, it might be “Panther Hat” because I’ve taken to wearing a black Goorin Bros. trucker hat with a panther stitched on the front. I like how the hat makes me feel incognito, a bit like Leonardo DiCaprio in paparazzi photos.

This Planet Fitness location is in a strip mall next to a cheap cell phone store, a laundromat, and a pawn shop. Many unhoused people sleep in the shade of the awnings on the sidewalk, or build homes behind the 7-11. Once, a young woman came in to workout at the same time as me. I noticed her because she was carrying an old-school boombox and walked with a swagger. We left at the same time too, and in the parking lot she began screaming and crying. Her car had been towed in the hour we were inside. Her car was her home. I walked her back inside, but I felt so helpless, like I couldn’t even lift five pounds.

Because of stories like this, I’ve made it a point to be present at this gym, not just exercise. The other day I stopped at the front desk to chat with two guys who work there. “Does my hat mean anything to you?” I asked. I’d been meaning to bring this up with someone for weeks. They looked at me puzzled.

“I know a panther is not the same animal as a cougar,” I explained. “But am I advertising that I’m into young Black guys?”

This was hysterical to them. They’re both young and Black, and we speak freely—talk politics, music, what they want for their lives. Last fall, I lobbied hard to convince them to vote. They assured me the cap is nothing sexual.

The panther is personal. Once I participated in a guided meditation that asked us to imagine we each had a panther as a protector, and I was struck by how calming this felt. For a while afterward, I tried to stay connected to the visualization, but outside of meditation, it was too much. The hat, though, is perfect—fierce and soothing at once.

I love both gyms. I can’t tell you where my desire to have this range comes from, whether it’s built in or learned, but I remember a moment it was reinforced. Growing up, I took tennis lessons through the City of Flagstaff. One day, as fellow students and I stretched in the grass before class, we chatted about rackets that cost hundreds of dollars. We were ordinary kids; none of us had fancy equipment. Our instructor, a tall, blonde college girl was emphatic: “If you’re a good player,” she said, “you can beat someone with a two-by-four.” I never forgot that, because I wanted the expensive equipment and the country club court too. Her words cut like a slice. Suddenly we weren’t only talking about tennis anymore.