To the Gym Rats

Dear sweaty gym going guy,

It’s been a long time since I saw you last. Months in fact. I had almost forgotten all about you. Pushed you from my mind, the way I’m always trying to forget clowns and bigheaded mascots.

But today I decided it was time to address the looseness I’ve been feeling on the underside of my arms and the fact that I felt my butt jiggle just the slightest bit while running up the stairs the other night. I didn’t like it. Which brought me to the gym.

I know there are some women who go to the gym in the hopes of finding themselves a boyfriend. I can point her out to you. She’s on the elliptical machine wearing tiny bike shorts, and a sports bra. Her long blond ponytail is swinging in what I’m sure is perfect rhythm to the Britney/Justin/Beyonce mix being piped into her ears from her hot pink iPod. She’s drinking Fiji water, and somehow manages never to break a sweat.

On the other hand, there's me. My sweatpants are too big, and splattered with green, orange and purple paint. I have a hard time keeping them up under the weight of my brick like fake pod, which is outdated but since it still works I stick with it. I wear a sports bra, yes, but it stays hidden under any number of hideous and loose fitting t-shirts I choose to wear to the gym. And I sweat. A lot. My face turns a lovely shade of purple during my forty-five minutes on the stationary bike I ride, because the elliptical machine requires a kind of coordination I’ll never have.

When I move on to lifting weights I don’t want your help. Machines don’t require a spotter, and I don’t need advice on proper form thank you.

And if my t-shirt happens to creep up while reaching my arms over my head and you catch a glimpse of the tattoo on my right hip it is not an invitation to reach out and touch it. Your hands are sweaty, and have been touching equipment that has been sweated on by countless other people today. Yuck.

I know I should be flattered that an in shape guy such as yourself would be interested in me. And that anyone could possibly find me attractive after an hour long workout is a miracle. However I’m far more likely to be interested in a man with a beer gut and a sick sense of humor than a man with a six pack who clearly cares more about shaving than I do.

So, sweaty gym going guy, go flirt with Barbie and leave me alone.