Dude at the gym,
I don’t know you
But I love you.
That day, I was on the pectoral fly/ rear delt machine
45 pounds on the rack,
Thinking I was doing great. Schwarzenneger had nothing on me.
And evidently you were just doing rear delts,
While supersetting it with something else.
You came up to me when I was facing backward
On the rear delt side of the machine.
I wasn’t expecting you. You knocked me out of my reverie, where I was thinking about what brand of dino nuggs I needed to get at the grocery store.
(My kids are brand snobs).
In the sexiest way imaginable, you said, “I still have two sets to go but we can share.”
Your beautiful soft, sensitive brownish-or-something eyes (I didn’t get that great of a look at you)
Indistinguishably vague Italian-ish accent
And big ole muscle shirt distracted me.
It had skulls on it.
Somehow they were the most beautiful skulls in the world.
Your skin, pure alabaster,
The same shade of Neon White as mine.
I suddenly couldn’t understand English,
Because you were only speaking the Language of Love.
Pretty sure it wasn’t Italian or anything though, seriously.
Breathless, I blurted out, “Huh,” very eloquently.
Gently, you said, “I was still using this machine but we can work out together, if you want to share it.”
Somehow sharing the same gross, sweaty machine,
That maybe like 10 percent of people actually clean off after they use it
Seemed like the most romantic thing I’d ever heard of.
I could imagine it now.
“They started out sharing the same machine at the local gym
But ended up sharing three kids and a dog.”
But it was not to be.
I can’t be vulnerable around gym equipment.
“No, you do you. I’ll do something else. I apologize.”
You smiled again and got back on the machine.
I hurried away, embarrassed
While also feeling more alive than I had in months.
I see you from across the gym,
Like some star-crossed love,
Wiping your sweaty face with a paper towel.
Oh, were I but that sweaty gross elementary school-grade
brown scratchy paper towel,
That I might graze across your slightly stubbly
Undeniably attractive and drippy face.
Who are you? What’s that accent? Why are you wearing a hat inside?
If it’s because you are going bald,
Don’t worry about that, Babe.
You have other fine attributes,
Hair is only a state of mind,
My Italian-or-whatever Stallion-or-whatever
Axolotl or something. To be determined.
Anyway,
Questions that will never be answered
Because I walked away, admiring you from afar.
As I got up on the stair machine but then got distracted,
Feeling the need to write you a love poem
Before my tired Mom Brain allowed me to forget this beautiful moment.
From the top of the stair machine I can see you,
Flexing your muscles in the mirror
and looking at yourself, like you are ready to be my next narcissistic ex-husband.
I’m sure every woman is allowed to have at least two of those.
A part of me is ready for it, ready to catch ’em all.
The other part is just going to write a poem about it.
