I got chatted up by a very nice, very cute woman at the gym a couple weeks ago. I noticed her while doing my ab reps as she was wiping down the weight equipment with a rag, moving ever so daintily from one machine to the next. She was dressed in an adorable black fleece gym outfit with faux diamond studs splattered across her impossibly small derrière, forming a word that was either a brand name I'm not familiar with or a word I wasn't aware was part of the English language. We passed each other and I forced a courtesy smile, noticing her flawless make up and perfectly coiffed hair. I suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious as my attention was drawn to the sweat-soaked top clinging to my skin, courtesy of half an hour of torture on the stairmaster. My hair was sitting precariously on the top of my head in a hastily-pulled ponytail and my face was sporting nary a lick of makeup to soften its red and splotchy workout complexion. I continued watching her out of the corner of my eye as I went about my workout, dumbfounded that such a perfectly cute woman would set foot in a gym with the likes of people like me. (I admit I also tried to figure out exactly what that said on her rear end, but that required a little more ogling than I felt was prudent.)
No sooner had I turned my attention back to squeezing the life out of my adductors did the woman approach me.
"That would be... fun," I managed, forcing a smile. But in my mind I instantly pictured a horribly ugly scene of running mile eight of a tough, hilly, hot half-marathon course and being passed by a woman wearing a sash and tiara with her rear end speaking to me.