I didn’t do it.
And from 6 – 7:15 p.m. EST on Thursday, 30 January, this was really not at all my fault. The fates had spoken; Gym God’s beautiful physique was not gracing the gym or, subsequently, my presence. (Phew.)
But then at 7:15 I crunched up to the left on my bright red exercise ball, and there he was. Back down and up again to the right: he made his gorgeous way from the entrance to the mens’ locker room.
This is where I went wrong. I could have chosen to pick up the pace on my crunches then loiter outside the locker rooms like the goob I am inside my head, awkwardly given him my number, and left the gym in an ambivalent haze of disbelief and pride (ostensibly composing a self-congratulatory post in my head). Instead, I continued with my core routine and determined that I would give him the slip of paper with my number if the stars aligned and our paths crossed. (Because that was going to happen.)
(Aside: Does this make me a coward? Or just socially conscious enough to not want to be a stalker? I am not entirely sure. HOWEVER, I can’t help but think that if roles were reversed and a slightly better than average-looking man cornered an off-the-charts me while I was going about my own business being sweaty at the gym, well… it would definitely rate higher on the creepy scale than the flattering scale.)
And just so you understand the extent to which the universe was disgusted by my passivity, this (WARNING: NSFW) shuffled on my iPhone immediately after Gym God entered my vicinity (#irony):