A couple weeks ago (well a few more, but I’ve been lazy and
not in a write-y type of mood) I was hit on at the gym. I was so taken back by the experience that
honestly, I wasn’t even sure it was happening until it was over.
I have never been one of those people who go to the gym to
meet people. I am a head down, sweat it
out and leave type of person. I am also
one of the sweatiest humans ever made, so I was really chucked into that
category before I even knew it existed.
I have also never been one of those people who understand what it would
be like to be one of those people who go to the gym to be seen rather than to work
out.
When I lived in Florida, there was a girl at my gym, who I
just called “Eye Shadow”. She would show up to Zumba class in head to toe
matching work-out ensembles – with the brightest eye shadow I have ever seen –
which obviously matched her clothes perfectly.
She barely moved her body at all, but always pushed into one of the
coveted spots up front. I never once
understood the point. I was paying an
exorbitant fee to be a part of that gym, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t sweat
enough to make every penny worth while.
And now living in New York City, paying New York City prices for
everything, that feeling has grown exponentially.
Anyway, it was a Sunday morning and I was nearing the end of
my work-out, and a man, not a guy or a boy, a man – easily in his mid-late
forties, came up and asked me about my shirt.
Drenched in booze-oozy sweat, and red faced, I looked up from my book
(and yes, I am one of those people who can read on the elliptical), pulled out
my ear bud and answered his question as efficiently as possible – totally
expecting that he’d walk away. He did
not. He kept standing there, in front of
my machine, making awkward conversation.
I kept trying to put my ear buds back in – but to no avail. It was exactly four minutes of his standing
there that I realized what was happening.
Much too late to push in a ficticious husband or talk about the convent,
and he after seven minutes, asked if I wanted “to grab brunch sometime?” My normal reaction to these things is to
shut-down and flee. However, on that day
I was feeling especially lonely, and said to myself “self, this guy may be bald
and old and weigh less than 100 pounds, but maybe he’s super interesting or
best friends with the man of your dreams?”
So, while I declined his offer for brunch, I found a scrap piece of
paper and gave Tom my phone number. Five
days later, he had not called and I gave up him completely. He called that night, (but five days is too
long to wait old man… step up your game), and I let it go to voicemail and did
not call him back.
I’ve seen him twice since this happened, and the first time was so stressful I
panicked, looked at the floor my entire work-out and ran home. The second time I was less awkward, but only
slightly.
So this is what I don’t understand – why would you ever want
to meet someone at the gym? The
inevitability that it doesn’t work out is so high that when you see each other
again, the feeling of peace and satisfaction you get from working out is
overwhelmed by awkward.
While I give Tom credit for being ballsy enough to ask me
out in the gym, I think he’s an idiot for waiting so long to actually call. But I’m also grateful that he did. Because I might have gone to dinner or a walk
or whatever, and that would be two hours of my time lost forever.
Moral of this story?
If you don’t want people to talk to you at the gym – don’t wear branded
clothing.
