The Adventures of Marianne

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Mr. Muscles

Back in High School, I used to go to the gym fairly often. It was a pretty small place, but it definitely had its share of stereotypical "gym" people - there were the aerobics girls in skimpy spandex, older aerobics women in spandex from the eighties, the odd local volleyball celebrity, and of course, the iron pumpers who were past their prime and somehow thought that the tanning beds made them 20 again.

One of these iron pumpers, I would guess him to be around his late 30s, tended to lurk at the gym pretty much every day - either in the weight room or outside the aerobics studio, ogling the girls. He was an over-confident Texan that would hit on anything that moved, and I highly suspect that the fact that he brought his son to the playroom was merely a ploy to score "cute points" with chicks. He was shameless in his pursuit of girls.

Anyways, after having been rejected by a sufficient number of the skimpy spandex girls he moved on to me.

I remember the day with horror. It was shortly after I turned seventeen - I was stretching after a class, and before I knew it, this Schwartzenegger wannabe was putting on the moves. "Hayhhh, I saw you in there, you know.... I think you're veeeery attractive." Cue sleazy smile and inappropriate invasion of personal space . Charming.

I mumbled something about having to leave, because I had a lot of homework, emphasizing the fact that I attended the HIGH SCHOOL across the street. Disturbingly, he seemed unfazed. Every time I met him (which was far too frequently - I wouldn't have been surprised if he spent 4-5 hours at the gym every day) there would be these awkward conversations where he'd offer to drive me home and I would politely but firmly decline, with images of sleazy sexual assault going through my head.

Anyways, I saw him at the grocery store last week when I went home for reading week, and he stops to start a conversation:

" So how's it going, you haven't been to the gym in forever," he says, while unsubtly eyeing me all over as if to emphasize his point. Despite not even knowing my name, he finds it fitting to touch my arm and stand way too close. I almost feel bad for the guy - he's wearing skater clothes and his shopping basket contains protein powder, a tv dinner for one and a sixpack of beer. The guy seems to think he's 20, but his hairline clearly doesn't agree with him.

I take off and hope I deal with my age better - at this ripe age of 22, I'm starting to feel old.


  • Yeah, man... 22. Might as well do like the Inuit used to -- put yourself on an ice-floe and push yourself off into the lake.

    By Blogger JTL, at 10:30 pm  

  • tihi. eg huske han. SJEF! :)

    eg ler.

    By Anonymous Sarah, at 10:50 pm  

  • I think it's an issue of awareness. Some people just never learn. Some people learn the hard way. I hope always that nobody gets caught in the crossfire.

    By Blogger Mark, at 5:30 am  

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