gym dandy

Before I recount yesterday's gym fiasco, I need to revisit a cruicial point. I have never thought of myself as "sexy". Sure, I have days when the light hits me just right and my belly fat looks slightly less marsupial. Cute? Okay. But not hot. To me, I'll probably always be that gherri-curled, Morrisey worshipping eighth grader.

So there I was in the middle of my mid-day workout. Me and T.I. running on the treadmill; on the road to nowhere and loving it. That's when he walked in. About six feet tall, smart haircut and muscles that said "I work out three times a week" and not "Sterroids have shrunk my balls into twin Gobstoppers". I saw him because I'd glanced up to see who'd walked in front of my mirror (I run in front of the mirrors- sue me) and just when I was about to rejoin T.I. in The Zone, he winked at me.

Huh? The wink wasn't flirty or necessarily friendly. It was more like an acknowledgement or telepathic dap. I wondered if he even realized he'd done it. The Morrisey worshipper went straight into denial mode: "He didn't do it on purpose," she said dismissivel. "We're not hot. We're invisible".

Sometimes I wonder if I'm as invisible as I think I am.