After an extended holiday break, my gym crush is back. Finally.
I actually have three gym crushes depending on what time of day I decide to brave the stupid-long lines at the treadmill while everyone and their mother’s aunt conquers 2010 resolutions. But it’s my #1 who is back on the circuit. My fave.
I know a little about Gym Crush because DC is a VERY small town, but I prefer to keep our interaction to a minimum, if not non-existent. I just like knowing he’s there. His presence makes me run a little faster and slap on some heavier weights. The funny thing is, he is totally not my type. And he’s not necessarily all huge and hunky, though I did catch a glimpse of his gym-crushy bicep in the mirror the other day. Meow.
But I know my boundaries. Really. (Though I did have a dream about Gym Crush recently. Not that kind of dream. His mother was there, too, for crying out loud.) I don’t stalk, unlike the guy who I believe has chosen me as a gym crush. I smiled at him ONCE because we were passing each other in the stinky hallway on the way to and fro the locker rooms. And now, he just looks at me. All. The. Time. And he ends up lifting weights near where I’m grunting through a series of boring reps. Sometimes right across from me. He doesn’t understand the gym-crush rules: personal space is key. There should be at least 8 feet between you and your gym crush at any given moment. I usually stick to 15 feet. I wish this guy would recognize it or at least ditch the leering and SAY SOMETHING. Though I think he gets there really isn’t a chance. Nothing personal. Just bad experience. I went on a date with someone from the gym last summer. Bad idea jeans. I’m done with dating people who exist in key compartments of my life: gym, work, across the street, in my building (Bad idea. Bad bad bad bad bad bad bad idea.)
But there’s nothing wrong with admiring from afar. And I can’t think of a better incentive to go to the gym. I will thank Gym Crush one day for my 6-pack abs and Smith & Wesson guns.