…is what I told myself recently at the gym when the guy with the hooped out ear lobes and facial \ body tattoos said he was copying my yoga stretches. His much smaller brunette girlfriend, also with tattoos, laughed saying she couldn’t even do them, notably staring at my rear end. So naturally my mind went from am I going to be invited to participate in a threesome, to am I going to end up like Nicholas Cage in that movie with the wicker baskets.
As I’ve posted on here before, more or less, the gym really is a fascinating study of human behavior. And not to be out done, you can gleam a good bit into a couple’s romantic health just by how they interact with each other and those around. The same goes for people attempting to couple, usually the guys shooting way above their league.
For example this one younger dude I’m friendly with at the gym was saying how he’s looking to hook up. In fact he was telling me he was getting close with this woman near my age, and said he had never been with someone that old; which to me someone in their early \ mid thirties isn’t that at all. (God forbid you were born during the 80’s!)
Anyway we were talking with a guy who works there when she came up and asked if she could have the one belt thing with the chain. The guy who liked her couldn’t help her fast enough with how to use it, even though she clearly knew how. A minute later I went to work on the ab crunchy sit down contraption where the best sweat angels are left (eww), and saw he was wearing the belt with a plate hanging down. As he tried to show her “form,” I noticed her face was buried in her phone while his was up his own ass. Interesting for sure.
Either way, the pair first mentioned seemed cool from my brief interaction. I was on the one treadmill in the back, strategically placed in the middle so I was farthest away from both speakers blaring whatever drek Pandora decided to torture my existence with. They got in the front row and to the right, and were talking and laughing the whole time, something I would hope to be able to relate to. (Especially now that I’m a gym guy, would love to be able to workout with my gal, corny as that no doubt sounds.)
Another tattooed lass joined them and I wondered if they were having a convention at the Howard Johnson next door. The guy gestured over at me and joked about mimicking my stretches, and as I flipped through my David Benoit tracks on my phone, the look she gave me indicated that the only time the word Benoit was on her radar is not because of the smooth jazz artist. I’m always careful of the questions I should and shouldn’t ask though, so I tipped my black Nike cap, she rolled her eyes, and the group moved on.