Dear Women of The Gym,
I am not looking at you. Seriously; I could care less that you’re working out mere feet from me so please stop giving me the death stare if my visage happens to project towards your body for a second. I understand that ya’ll fancy yourselves young, nubile pieces of meat that any man whose testosterone is being shot through his veins with every rep couldn’t possibly ignore, but trust me when I say I’m not checking you out.
First of all, I’m on an elliptical, which in and of itself is like a black hole for masculinity. If I wanted to exert my “Y” chromosome, my fat ass would be on the treadmill; instead, my upside-down Christmas tree like thighs are gliding back and forth with the breathtaking grace of a gazelle after it’s been hit by a sedative dart. This isn’t exactly the most flattering position for me to be in so let’s just assume that my dropped jaw is not a reaction to your running shorts, but instead a last ditch attempt to bring oxygen to my depleted lungs before I pass out. I would try to come across a bit more presentably but I’m not going to let myself collapse, it took me fourteen minutes to get this stupid thing to figure out my heart beat, you’d have to pry the metal handles from my cold dead fingers.
Speaking of presentable, let’s just assume that the asshole guys you’re trying to avoid are the ones with the sleeveless shirts whose arm pits are ripped so low that the entire garment looks like an upside-down bikini bottom for the girl who played Precious. If you see me with my bright orange Orioles t-shirt please know that I’m not trying to impress you with the fact that I like sports and am therefore a “man’s man”, I’m working out in the shirt because I have seven of them because they hand them out for free at the ballpark. Besides, when I wear them, my child bearing hips make me look like a traffic cone, so nothing I’m certainly not doing this for your benefit.
The same goes for if I show up in one of your group fitness classes. I realize that I’m generally the only guy in a class of twenty-some women, but that doesn’t mean I’m there for the view. I happen to like the loud music (Author’s Note: SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS!!!) and the overly caffeinated instructors; I grew up playing sports so having someone in charge tell me what to do makes me a lot more willing to do it.
Sure, it may seem kind of creepy to have the old looking dude with the beard standing in a mirrored room with you while Beyonce sings about sex, but please know that it takes a lot of courage on my part to even enter the room in the first place. I’m doing it because I can’t motivate myself to run every day and the classes are a change of pace for doing cardio. If I was doing it to get closer to you, surely I wouldn’t pick something where the mirrors let you see my 36-C’s in 3-D.
Let’s face it, none of us want to spend our precious gym time scowling at the other (Author’s Note: That’s right, I scowl right back at these bitches) so let’s just allow for the awkwardness and refrain from judgments. I’ll be the first to admit that women are at their most attractive when they’re all Sporty Spiced up, but we’re doing this for ourselves not for each other. Besides, how do I know it’s the treadmill that’s making you flushed and not my masculine panting?
Oh, that’s right… The boobie thing. Carry on.
XOXOXO,
Dan
P.S. To the young, very attractive girl working out in a sports bra and booty shorts with an iPod clipped onto the crotch, you can ignore all the above paragraphs; everyone including myself was totally checking you out. I mean, you kind of made sure of it by stretching in an open area for a long period of time and toweling yourself off ever so slowly. I was too intimidated to approach you but someone needed to inform you of your wardrobe malfunction; your daddy issues were totally showing.
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