Dating Tales

I do not want to be seen at the gym. I like to go in my grubby clothes and do my half-ass work out. I rarely go to the gym with intention of breaking any records or a sweat for that matter. Instead, I go to the gym to do the mandatory hour of cardio, strength training and stretching that Shape magazine says is expected of its readers expected of me.

For me, what is worse than being seen at the gym is being recognized at the gym. If it’s a friend that sees me it is certainly disruptive, but much less traumatic than having a guy I met at the bar last weekend see me in a compromising stretch.

In order to avoid seeing people I know, I avoid peak hours and eye contact, if possible. My strategy is quite effective, but not fool proof as I learned a few weeks ago.

On this particular day I was running on the treadmill. At one point I turned my head to check the clock behind me when I saw Tom. Instinctively I snapped my head back around without acknowledging him. I wanted to date Tom after meeting him at happy hour the Friday before. But had I just ruined my chances with my god-knows-what jiggling around for the last thirty minutes?

I ended my run, wiped my face as best I could, and turned to step off the treadmill. Unable to avoid him altogether, I acted surprised with my sudden smile and slow wave.

Hey, Tom said without slowing down at all. I’ll call ya.

I could tell my Tom’s nod and subtle wave that our Friday afternoon cocktails meant nothing. Slight devastated, I decided to skip the sit ups and squats and go directly to the locker room, grab my things and go home.

To speed up the process even more I kept my work-out clothes on deciding it was ok to take the train ride home in my smelly gear. I opened my locker, grabbed my bag from the hook and pulled the strap over my shoulder. I hastily pulled my nicer smelling work clothes from the locker and shoved my things in to my bag. I pulled the flap tight and snapped the button securing my belongings.

As I walked out of the locker room I saw Tom walking in my direction. There was no where for me to go. No way to escape. I made eye contact without even trying.

I waved and smiled politely for a few moments before I took a sharp right turn to leave the gym. Not a second before I took that turn I noticed how Tom burrowed his eyebrows and looked me down, up and then down again. It is not as though he was checking me out, it was as though he was trying to figure me out.

Did I really look that goofy in my sneakers and sweaty t-shirt?

I continued on my way toward the exit walking past the four rows of treadmills, past the two rows of elliptical machines, and past the row of bikes before reaching the door. As I walked down the first step leading to the door I felt something brush against the outside of right my knee. I walked down the second step and again I felt something brush my leg, except this time I felt something catch on my pants.

I looked down and there it was: my black, lacy, 36B-sized bra with extra padding hanging entirely out of my bag. One end was hooked to the inside of my bag’s flap and the other end was hooked to my cotton capri pants!

As I ran out the door I clutched my bra by its left cup and mercilessly drove it to the bottom of my bag. Everyone had seen my lacy black number.

Tom saw my bra. All the people on the treadmills saw my bra. All the people on the elliptical machines saw my bra. All the people on the bikes certainly saw my bra.

This time I might have been seen by everyone at the gym, but next time I’m sure to be recognized with or without the dangling bra.