I woke up retardedly early this morning and schlepped to the gym for a rare pre-work workout (the least I could do after single-drunkenly killing off that bottle of wine with dinner last night.) It’s no secret that the neighborhood gym I attend is somewhat ghetto-ass. While my schmancy Crunch-dwelling fag friends brag about their glamorous, airbrushed Chelsea workouts alongside Anderson Cooper or Cheyenne Jackson, I’m at the Astoria Sports Complex in Queens, bench pressing phone books under harsh lighting with Philippe, the guy who makes my Souvlaki at the diner down the street. Don’t judge. I pay $7 for a year membership, and both treadmills get unlimited Telemundo (only when the treadmill part isn’t running.) But I digress…
Another perk of my dinky hetero Souvlaki gym is the alleviation of any pressure or expectation to look especially cute there. Torn t-shirts and comfortable sweats will always suffice. (Who am I trying to impress? Philippe??) Luckily, I looked at least half presentable this morning, though, because amidst the sea of busboys and meatheads, a very pleasant surprise: a handsome dirty blonde lovely on the chest fly machine totally checkin me out. I flashed him a half smile through the cracked mirror hanging above the free weights area, ducking a little bit to make sure I could be seen behind the lopsided "WANTED: RAPIST" sign that had been taped there (complete with black and white forensic sketch.)
I carried on with my workout, trying to look as sexy as possible (as sexy as one could look lifting 3-pound Barbie weights) and praying for perhaps a vein to show itself or a hidden muscle to suddenly sprout from my lady arms and impress my new friend. No such luck. But that's ok! He seemed to be holding interest! I was just about to flash another smile - this time with teeth (slut!) - when I felt a hand on my back and heard a deep voice say, "Hey, do you mind if I work in with you?"
*For those of you less-jockish types, "can I work in with you" is what "dudes" say to other "dudes" at the gym when they want to alternate on a particular piece of equipment in a semi-unconsciously homoerotic effort to save time. It's uber macho, so I was feeling totally butch...
I turned to accept, praying that it was him, but found instead that the deep voice asking to use my weights had in fact come from a 4-foot-nothing middle-aged woman, about 14 months pregnant. That's a real blow to the male ego, especially with my hot new fake boyfriend watching the whole thing play out. "Sure, pregnant lady," I said, "jump on in...dude." She proceeded to talk my ear off for ten minutes, making it almost impossible for me to flirt with blondie, who was just kind of laughing at "mommy and me" by this point.
I'd finally finished my last set with my prenatal weights and was about to peace out to Preggers, when she stopped me short. "Dear, would you mind spotting me," she asked as she lay her huge pregnant ass on the bench and grabbed for the barbell. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, EXTREMELY PREGNANT LADY?? DO YOU REALLY NEED TO BE BENCH PRESSING RIGHT NOW? YOU'RE CROWNING DOWN THERE! I SEE A HEAD! AND AN ARM! AND PS - I'M TOTALLY TRYING TO FLIRT WITH THE POSSIBLE FUTURE FATHER OF MY POSSIBLE FUTURE ADOPTED ASIAN BABIES! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!
So I spotted her. She talked a blue streak for another ten minutes. What she said, I don't know. I kept looking back, hoping to reconnect with new boyfriend, but by then he'd completely lost interest - in me and the rest of the Expectant Mothers of Astoria Workout Group.
Anyway, the point is: I am still boyfriendless. But Nancy and I are going to Lamaze next Thursday.
(call me, blondie. I love you.)