Since I work at home these days, going to the gym in the morning is one of the few times in my day when the physical presence of other people affects my wellbeing in any way. And I’ve noticed that my reactions to the behavior of others while I’m there reflect a kind of primal personality I guess I carry around with me all the time, but that doesn’t rise to the surface all that often under normal circumstances. That is, the things that happen in the gym tend to make me very aware of my reactions as being those of Me the Human and not so much Me the Meera. You know.

I’ll give you an example. There’s this thing you’re supposed to do in the weight room. When you’re done using a machine, you’re supposed to pick up one of the little spray bottles of mildly disinfectant-y water that’s sitting around the room somewhere, spritz all the surfaces of the machine you so cheerfully sweated on, and wipe them down with a little towel, also provided. Takes five seconds, you don’t give anyone MRSA, it’s all good.

Now, despite the fact that there’s a (long and rather rambling, okay, but still) sign on the wall asking you to do this (in rather small print, okay, but still), not everyone does. Obviously. Because many people are asshats. It’s really not such a big deal, though—it’s easy enough to spray the machines before you use them, too, to take care of this eventuality. And the truth is it’s only a small number of people who’re really sweaty enough for it to even matter.

Yet what happens to me when I see someone not wiping down their machine after they’ve used it is extremely visceral. My heart races a little. I can hear it thumping in my ears. My evil stare follows them around the room, and I always contemplate confronting them, but never actually do. “Contemplate” isn’t really the right word, either—”imagine” is more like it. I visualize being all calm and cool and assertive while I hand them a spray bottle and towel, with a raised eyebrow, and in my head I see them shrink away to clean in chagrin. It’s like I’m the superhero of the gym.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that the sense of outrage I experience in those moments is so basic and uncontrollable that it feels very much like a Paleolithic remnant, a powerful reaction that stems from an instance of the violation of the principle of reciprocal altruism. I can’t stand it that I’m being good to these people by following the rules and keeping them safe from germs, and they’re not doing the same thing for me. It makes me want to sweat in their general direction.

On some Saturday mornings, two particularly irritating weight-lifters go through their workout together in the lower hall, which shares a ceiling with the weight room we use. When they’re there, which thank goodness is not every week, they carry out an extraordinarily loud and obnoxious conversation that echoes up into our chamber. This too makes my heart race and thump in my ears. But on these occasions what I feel is anxiety, not anger. The conversation that reverberates up from below is not only extremely annoying, but also changed by the echoing walls so that its sound takes on an aggressive, shouting quality. It has the aural character of a fight between two tough guys, and it makes me tense and nervous. I can’t ignore it. I feel upset, even though I know they’re friends and they’re just chatting—unnecessarily loudly. There is nothing I want more than for them to be quiet so that I can feel peaceful and safe. Again I feel the rhythm of an ancient fear in my body, irrational and strong.

Good thing I only go three times a week.