If Only I'd Been Wearing Pants

I got smacked with a crush this morning and I do mean morning. I've been working out in the morning before I go to work. It just makes sense even though I know it's counter-intuitive to the true fact that getting out of bed is painful for me every day of my life. I love to sleep. I love to dream. I love to be in that half-world right before waking where you're not sure what is a real thought or memory and what is a dream. Getting out of bed means that I have actual responsibilities to tend to.
Having responsibilities means I have culpability and that, mes amies, can hurt like a bitch when you are as hard on yourself as I am.

Plus, getting out of bed during the week means I have to get in the shower and get ready for work. There's a big window in my bathroom and this time of year, my shower is so cold that I can see my breath in the fog of the hot water steam.

There is no point of ripping myself out of my sleeping paradise and putting myself directly into the cold front that is my bathroom.

So instead, I get out of bed, put on work-out clothes and have at it.

This should in no way imply that I wash my face or brush my hair before I go to the gym at 6 am; I do not do those things. Although I do brush my teeth because that's just the right thing to do.

This morning, since all my gym pants are dirty, I had to wear leggings with some derby shorts over them and a grey tee shirt with a hole in the back.

Not that I have cute gym outfits at all but leggings and shorts at the gym take me out of the Serious Training/Doesn't Put on Gym Aires Column and places me firmly in the Weird Column, with the people who are wearing jean shorts and belts and the guys who insist on wearing full sweat suits and beanie hats while they work out on a Stairmaster.

Running late, wearing idiot clothes and with pillow marks on my ruddy, rosacea-afflicted face, I found myself doing military presses next to a REALLY cute guy.

Totally my good old boy type, too.
Scruffy, not skinny, short-haired, and sort of messy in his sweatpants and hoodie.
Yum. He was so sexy, y'all.
I couldn't help but stare.
Maybe if I was a person who washed her face before going to the gym, I would have went over and talked to him or said something like, "Nice pants."
Or maybe if I had been wearing actual pants, even.
With both counts against me: pantsless and splotchy, I considered that it wasn't exactly the best time to implement Operation Forward 2008.

So I sighed deeply several times and tried not to look in the mirror because every time I did, my thighs expanded by two inches, my sports-bra uniboob got droopier, and the dark circles under my eyes went from "normal for an aging Spinster" to "wow, was she in a bar fight last night?"

I finished my shoulder workout and slunk into the locker room to get dressed for work.

OF COURSE he was leaving just after me.
Little did I notice this, though, until I got to my car and turned to open the door and saw him way back, just coming out of the gym.

I must have TOTALLY been staring for like, real. Like, staring. Like, "Does that fat girl think she knows me?"

Because he waved.

From across the parking lot.

He waved a great big wave and a great big smile and he was so cute there, still in his delicious-lookin red pants, with his hood up over his ears and the utilitarian black gloves that most manly men wear early on a cold morning.

I waved back.

He got in his manly truck.

I got in my cute red Nissan. Sidenote: A friend of mine told me my car looked like a red M & M. In other words, not badass, even remotely.

I followed him out of the parking lot and he turned the same way I was turning.

I followed him down the same street I was driving down.

I considered following him to wherever he was going and jumping out of my car and pounding on his window, demanding that he roll it down so I can show him how cute I am when I wash my face.
He would agree, naturally, and we would pile into his manly truck and go to a dinner where the windows are all fogged up and soap-decorated for Christmas with gigantic ornaments. We'd stare into each other's eyes over coffee.
We'd even feed hash browns to each other, which would be so completely hot. And sausage, there would be sausage.

But I thought it might be too weird if I followed him so he turned one way and I turned the other way and that was that.

Sadly, I have a choice to make.

I can choose to get out of bed tomorrow and go to the gym to see if this stunning example of male manliness is there. This is a pain because I have my team practice in the evening tomorrow. To get up and go to the gym, work all day, and then go to a two and a half hour skating workout seems like over-kill. Plus, this is the first day I've ever seen him there. It could be a start or it could be a fluke.


I can choose to NOT go tomorrow and hope he's there Monday, which is typically the day I go back to the gym on this side of town. Fridays are usually a day off for me. Since I finish practice at 8 pm on Thursday nights, getting up to go to the gym at 6 the next morning would be sort of.... dumb.

Clearly, I have to get up tomorrow morning and hope for the best.

Hopefully it will not be in vain (ha ha - get it? Vain? At the GYM?).
Otherwise, cross your fingers for next Wednesday morning, a day that I will be sure to:
A. Wear real pants;
B. Wash my face when I get up.

And yes, I am already 100% aware of the fact that this guy is never, ever going to go out with me.

But everybody's gotta have a dream, right?

arizonasarah at 2:00 p.m.

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