2009-02-14 - 2:52 p.m.

MY MILKSHAKE BRINGS ALL THE DORKS TO THE YARD

There's a guy at the gym that I call Phlegm Guy. Not to his face, of course. And it's not malicious, it's just who he *is*. I guess vigorous exercise just shakes all his sinus goo loose, because once he gets into his zone, he starts snorting, hacking, and clearing his throat in the most egregious manner. I've been on the elliptical machine next to his on several occasions and couldn't help but giggle (interiorly) when he started his glob harking. Bleah.

There's another guy I know as ...Douche, actually. I was going to sit here and figure up some clever name for him like, "Old Yeller" but the truth is, I know him as Douche, because he's the only DOUCHE who feels compelled to yell while he's lifting. Just him. Nobody else needs to bark to show how much they're straining. Douche shouts, grunts, and does Pvt. Joker's warface sound to show us all just how much he's doing. All right, that's not fair...clearly he doesn't realize that he is coming off like Ron Burgundy...maybe that's just what he needs to get the weights up that last rep...but just *him*. Nobody else. It irritates the soup out of me.

There's an older guy who's had his eye on me since I started going to the gym but only now has he worked up the nerve to talk to me. I call him "Old Guy"...which isn't fair, as he's most likely JUST into his 50's...but he's Old Guy anyway (not to be confused with "Grampy", who also tries to make eye contact but who is about four feet tall with a case of dookie breath that makes him no fun to run next to) and he looks at me and tries to make eye contact and wave each and every time he sees me. Old Guy isn't a bad looking guy, and he's not THAT old. He kinda looks like George Michael...without the hair and gay. He's a business man and a nice enough guy but there's just something about him that irks me, and it's getting a little uncomfortable because he is moving in for the kill. Yesterday he came in wearing his business suit and walked up to me and said, "I come in here in my gym clothes and you're not impressed, so I come in here decked out in one of my suits and you're STILL not impressed...what's it gonna take?" I bit back "ether and a hammer", and just smiled, as he made a hasty retreat to the tanning booth. That's another thing...he's all brown as a berry. Like, artificially, sorta. I don't know. ...Okay. Here's the truth of it: real men don't tan on purpose. There. I said it.

The Adonis who does the one-armed push ups, silently, manly-ly, and who makes me eyes water does not notice me at all. Well, he called me sweetheart once, but that's just because he wanted my machine. He's under 25 if he's a day and I'd feel too unworthy to take him seriously even if he DID notice me.

No, I'm the apple of the others' eye...Phlegm Man, Grampy, Douche and Old Guy. These are the only men who've acknowledged me with purpose. 'Cause I'm a lucky dog. Lucky dog, lucky dog, I'm a lucky dog.

*staring at you, flatly, for effect*

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