"You can always meet guys at the gym," my sister advised me after my recent breakup. I had been single for three months following a relationship that was, as my mother pointed out, not one of my best choices.
"The gym?" I could just imagine myself cruising for sweaty men between the juice bar and the sauna. "Tell me you’re joking."
"God no." My sister said. "That’s where I met Jim. You remember Jim"
"Uh-huh" I said, playing along. If I had a dime for every man my sister dated, I’d be a millionaire. And if she had a dollar for every man I dated, well, she’d be a pauper. I scrolled down a mental list and came up blank.
"You remember," she prompted. "The cute CPA…The one with the Lexus." She emphasized the word Lexus.
"Okay…." Suddenly I did remember, "didn’t he have a hairy back?"
"Inconsequential," she replied, which in sister language meant inconsequential to his bank account.
A week later, I found myself debating my sister’s advice. Although I still didn’t know how I felt about picking up men at the gym, I couldn’t deny that my three-month cooling off period was headed straight into a drought. I felt a preemptive strike was necessary to prevent any long-term damage. Still, there was something desperate about women who prowled in spandex. On the other hand, I was approaching desperate anyway.
"The gym?" my best friend repeated when I told her.
We were knee-deep in Macy’s on a Saturday afternoon. My best friend was searching for a date outfit, and I was wavering between spandex leggings and cotton pants that claimed "to breathe."
"Did you try the grocery store like I suggested?" she asked.
The grocery store. Ah, now that was a story in itself. Somewhere in produce, between the oranges and the cantaloupes, I realized that the grocery store was not the hottest place to pick up 20something guys, but the most competitive arena for 20 to 30something women. This fact became even more apparent when, about 25 minutes into my "shift," I faced off against a leggy 30something blonde for the attentions of a mid-30s accountant type whose highest recommendation was a seemingly great head of hair. The blonde proved that age really did go before beauty, however, when, toting her seven years plus combat experience like a badge of honor, she won him over by asking him to squeeze her melons – literally. I was still trying to issue an invitational smile. After that, the only other possibility was a cute early-20s surfer type with a grocery basket full of Cocoa Puffs and Trix. But if cereal says anything about a man, well, Trix is for kids.
Later that day, after sitting through 15 possible date outfits and adding a sports bra to my purchase, I decided to see if my new cotton pants could breathe any air into my dying love life.
I began at the gym by scouting out the cardio room. Finding nothing noteworthy – although feeling slightly violated when someone’s grandfather checked out my ass while I stretched – I headed downstairs. In the weight room, the typical beef-heads were at work, grunting and flexing alternately. As veins bulged across the wall-to-wall mirrors, I pondered this strange breed of men that wore Spandex shorts, shirts with zippers and invariably spent the first 30 minutes of their work out high-fiving each other – when I spotted the mother-load.
At the water fountain, two male gods with blonde spiky hair chatted casually, a faint line of water still glistening on their lips. Although both seemed equal in every aspect, I had always preferred tall men, so I decided I’d aim tall but be satisfied with short. After catching the tall one’s eyes and issuing myself a motivational two-second pep talk, I began my prowl.
Head held high, shoulders squared back, I cut across the room, a smile plastered across my face. Midway there, I stopped short when I thought I saw tall guy rub water off of short guy’s lips. Wavering I trudged on when 10 seconds later, short guy countered tall guy’s move by brushing an errant blonde spike from his brow.
I decided my pants might breathe better outside.
Mom
Later that night, at my mother’s request, I stopped by for a quick chat at Barnes & Noble. I could tell, from the minute I saw her sitting at the café, that I had been set up.
"What?" She said as I sat down. "You can’t enjoy coffee with your mother?" She paused for a second then shuffled through a stack a stack of books on the table, producing a manual with a loud orange jacket. "The handsome gentleman at the register suggested this for you."
I read the title out loud. "The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Dating? Ma?"
"These are good books." She patted the cover and smiled.
"Yeah, to learn HTML," I replied.
But I looked around and spotted a hot 20-something at a table across the cafe, smiling at me.
"He’s cute." My mom said, waving. "Why don’t you ask him to join us."
"No." I sank down in my seat.
With a flip of the wrist, she opened the book and tapped a highlighted page. "Rule 23 says you shouldn’t be afraid to make the first move." She waited for my response. "Okay…Would you like to join us?" She yelled across the cafe.
"I have to go." As I stood, I noted the entire café was staring at us. Mortified, I forced myself to walk casually towards the door when I heard her yell from behind, "Don’t forget this."
Without looking back, I ran.
The next day, I woke up early to take my grandmother to church. As I helped her into my car, she asked me her usual Sunday morning question, "When are you going to get married?"
"I don’t know," I replied – my standing answer for the last three years.
"Have you tried -"
"Yes," I cut her off. Leaning across the seat, I spoke into her good ear. "I’ve tried the grocery store, the gym. I even tried the bookstore. What more should I try?" My voice jumped an octave and I sat back in my seat, frustrated.
My grandmother peered at me quietly through glaucoma eyes.
"Well, that’s your problem, dummy," she said. "You should have just gone to a bar." – Carmen M. Rodriguez