I have an incredibly friendly rapport with the people who work at my local Gold’s Gym. I’m usually wearing a ratty Michigan State t-shirt when I roll in, be it at 6:00 a.m. or 7:00 p.m., and I know who is working the front desk at any given time. I know that they recognize me from the t-shirts and amazing hair, and much like those conversations you would have with people on AOL Instant Messenger went, so too does a conversation with the person working the front desk at a gym. I say it’s similar to a AIM conversation because, well it is exactly that. You remember don’t you?
“Hey what’s up”
And that’s where the conversation ended. So too does a conversation with a gym employee. We’re not quite on a first-name basis, but we interact in only a way that you could with someone who you see every day but don’t really know. It’s a “Hi, how are you doing?”, and then a “thanks” after getting your card scanned to get inside. It’s not much, but it isn’t nothing either, you know what I mean?
In any case, I went to the gym after work yesterday, hoping to get a quick cardio session in and maybe some bis and tris for the guys. I really wasn’t in the mood for much else. Anyone who knows anything knows that the decision to go to the gym following work is a fool’s errand. Everyone and their cousin goes after work, which mean congestion, way more sweat on machines than is tolerable, and a lot of people just sort of idling about. I loathe the gym post-work, but I enjoy frequenting this particular one after a day in the cube for one reason and one reason only: the girl scanning cards at the front. I’m always met with a warm smile and the same cookie-cutter greeting upon entry: “Hi! How are you doing?”
I’ll then respond with my signature shit-eating grin and a meatball over the plate. Something along the lines of “Really well, thanks.” And that is usually it. I head into the gym, she stays at the front desk and we repeat the mantra every day that I decide to pick up and throw down steel after work. I have a problem, though. And it’s a fairly big problem. She’s really cute. She’s tan, she’s blonde, and there’s a twinkle in her eye that tells me I might just have a shot with her. She’s usually up front with one other worker at all times, and last night she happened to be up there with another girl.
All of this came to a head this morning when my boss told me something interesting. Last night he was right behind me on the way into Gold’s, so after I swiped my card and went inside, he heard this girl talking about me with her coworker. I was out of earshot by then, but the conversation was relayed to me this morning. Here’s how it played out:
“Why is he smiling?”
“Oh, I don’t know, he always looks like that.”
That’s it. That was all Dave heard them say. But that’s something right? Am I insane in thinking that I should make a bee-line to Gold’s Gym after work tonight and ask this chick out? It goes against two of my biggest mantras. One, blonde women do not like blonde men. That’s not a theory that’s a fact. And two, never, under any circumstances, hit on a girl at the gym. That rule, about hitting on women at the gym, is usually reserved for patrons of the gym, not workers.
It’s a huge risk asking this girl out. She says no, I’ll be subjected to very awkward conversations every time she swipes my card from here on out. On the off chance she says yes, conventional wisdom says that I fuck it up in no less than three dates. There’s a very good chance I’m reading too far into this. The comment about me last night was probably nothing. But it could be something. I’ll never know unless I try. But what is worse? Not trying and never knowing or trying, failing, and then having to go back day in and day out while a massive elephant sits idly in the corner. As my boy T.I. once said, “It’s a catch-22, either you lose or you lose.” I think I might swing for the fences. Fuck it, right? .
Image via YouTube