As some of you may know, I've been hitting the gym somewhat religiously for over a year now...
Well, unless it's the day after a date and I'm either hungover and sobbing while laying face down in my hallway or I'm eating a large stuffed crust pizza with a side of self loathing and blue vag. Blue vag is like having blue balls, but for girls. Blue vag is an epidemic amongst the over 30 female, and single demographic, and it usually happens when a guy tells you he hates kids, sticks you with the bill, is 70lbs smaller/bigger than his profile pic, mentions his cat, says he'll call but he doesn't, talks about his ex, or turns out to be a little whiny bitch...you know, the kind of info that makes your vag so frigid that it could host the god damn winter games on it.
For the most part, I've deleted my online dating accounts, with the exception of Match.com as it's proving to have only 1 or 2 potential suitors a month for me that speak english and are under 748 years old. I really wish I could post the picture of Ray from E-Harmony as Ray was the oldest looking 40 year old known to man who creepily held a baby, (without smiling), in each of his photos and loved shopping in Buffalo. He also listed "chemist" as his profession.
IS THIS THE KIND OF CHEMISTRY YOU DO RAY? HUH RAY??!
Anyway, this was the fateful message that sent me over the online dating edge back in August that caused me to hit (more like SLAM) on my delete button.
Anyhoodle, I had a point with mentioning I've been pumping iron at the beginning of this post, but you know, most people with dating PTSD can get off topic...So please, forgive me.
So yes, the gym.
I'm 99% certain that my future husband goes to my gym
only based on the fact that I can see his anaconda through his gym shorts, and momma likey only, he doesn't know I exist...yet. *Insert pic of restraining order.
Well, that's not true, he does know I exist for a few reasons:
1. I accidentally stole his towel while I was using the stair mill/grasping on to the rails praying Jesus would take me to the light. He politely tapped me on my leg (as I was taking my last breath) and he asked "Excuse me, have you seen a towel around here? " I promptly blacked out and felt much like this when I realize it was my lover:
*Must read in best Oprah voice "Heee's talkiiiiing toooooo meeeeeeee"
However, I struggled to spit out my answer mid step, "Bahhhhh, Ummmmmm, I.....(sharp breath in)....I think (gasps for air) I may haaaaave stolen (struggles to not go cross eyed) it."
He looks at me and awkwardly laughs, not knowing if he should call 911 or make a donation to the Heart & Stroke foundation in my name. "That's okay, I'll go grab another one." Annnnnd that's why they call me the pick up artist, ladies. See how smooth that was? So smooth he just silently disappeared back into GQ heaven (where he came from), just like that.
He totally went and touched himself in the men's locker room after conversing with such a poised, strong, athletic woman.
2. He saw me staring at him in the mirror by the squat rack. I, much like babies, forget that you're not the only one that can see your reflection in the mirror, other people can too.
What I think I look like when I'm casually spying. You know, an innocent 70 year old woman with pearls.
But in reality....
3. He saw me wiping sweat off my mustache. Yes, you read that correctly. If you're a regular reader, you just nodded in agreement and exclaimed "Ah, yes, her mustache." But if you're not familiar with my facial-hair growing capabilities, then saddle up partner, it's a long story. Actually, scratch that, I've got some particularly low self esteem today from eating 17lbs of leftover Thanksgiving stuffing on my turkey sandwiches soaked in gravy, so I'm not sharing too much detail on the fact that I sprung a goatee at midnight on my 30th birthday.
4. He heard me yell "Holy fuck" when I accidentally on purpose upped my tricep weight to 75lbs and not the 30lbs these wings of love are used to. I know, that was very Serena Williams of me, but I wanted to impress him since he was close enough to my weight machine to see that I wasn't just your average sweaty transvestite, I was a strong one. (I say transvestite because I'm convinced I look like a cross between my dad and a man that's trying to look like a woman when I sweat.
5. He hopped on the epiptical-thingy beside me one night and I cranked up my resistance to the highest level and nearly fainted. Well, it wasn't really fainting so to speak but my bad ankle (click here to read about the great high heel incident of 2012) totally gave out on me. But I refused to get off
I only do that in private the machine because I was at the peak of my aerobic intensity/right in the fucking middle of Dr. Phil. BTW, I watch the last half of Dr. Phil every weeknight at the gym on the t.v because:
a) It's a great distraction from the fact that I'm single and sex-less in the city and I'm not struggling like his guests often are, with an emotionally inept husband who hasn't touched me since my wedding day
b) I can work on my southern accent
c) I can work on my Dr. Phil impersonation
d) I can learn intriguing psychological phrases such as, " So how's that been workin fer ya?" "Oh c'mon, this ain't my first rodeo." "No matter how flat you make a pancake, it still has two sides"
e) I can feel better knowing that my eyebrows haven't been sown into my scalp like his wife Robin's
Okay, so there is a good chance he knows I exist. And there's also a bigger chance that he thinks I'm as creepy as fuck, but my mom always told me it's what's inside that counts, and it's not about how insanely creepy you are in the outside. So I'm hopeful, he'll wise up and see me for the loving, sweaty stalker that I am.
I should get to bed...putting Xanax in my PEZ dispenser, has proven to work.