I can ignore you AND run for two hours. With my eyes closed.

My typical running motivation kicked into high gear this week. Awesome. It’s cold and snowing in Cleveland, in case you haven’t noticed. Same time as two years ago, where I felt my legs itching for a twelve-mile trip to nowhere. Where else to run, since the motivation wanes as quickly as the mercury: the fucking gym.

I. Hate. The. Gym.

But not only feeling the blahs and the lazies, I have a hot body to maintain since there is the slight chance it might be seen naked (I don’t know… my perverted neighbor told me this through his peep hole) — and as per usual, the ballet conditioning I have been doing since summer is becoming redundant. Just as bike riding did at the beginning of Fall. As did the professional dancing in my 20s. And cross-country in 7th grade. And when that Russo kid showed me his penis while we peed together when I was 8 (*yawn* bored, much?). And I really, really wanted to run and exert some negative energy before I ended up kicking one of my male coworkers in the nuts.

So, I joined the gym again anyway because I can (pretend to) be motivated by 4:45 a.m. buzzer alarms in the place where sweaty foreheads reign and people who do five minutes of elliptical-jiggling cardio think they’re in shape. I’m sorry, but five minutes will just not cut it, whether you’re Rambo or going Commando.

And shortly thereafter, I remembered what I inexplicably hate about said gym: Everything with sweaty balls and a penis extended from it thinks that the gym is the perfect place to pick up chicks.

Newsflash (even in the 0.0021% chance you got lucky in your Sophomore year of college): It’s not.

In the hierarchy of “meeting potential suckers suitors,” the gym is on the bottom of my WannaFuck List. I go there intentionally to sweat and smell bad and trip over my shoelaces and hit my head on unintentional objects of humor, without so much as the kindness of ugly strangers. I’m fine in my own world, thank you. I intend to continue running incessantly and blasting ABBA or Vanilla Ice on my iPod to ignore you. Even if you stand beside my treadmill for an extra hour after your workout ends. Especially if you play that little charade game where you pretend like you’re pulling something out of your ear, and I shrug my shoulders because it looks as though you’ve developed an ear tick or I forgot a Q-tip and I am good at Trivial Pursuit not Pictionary, you ass… Unless while I was running, a set of underwear slipped out of my (previously  worn) pair of my yoga pants, there is no need to get my attention. And even in that case, keep ‘em.

I don’t need you to share my water fountain. Or teach me how the leg-spreader machine works. I don’t desire you to work out directly in view of the women’s locker room (I arrive dressed, Asshat, so I am a walk-in-walk-out kinda gal). And no, I am not interested in how much you can bench, lift, squat, or suck. OK, maybe I already gauged how much you suck.

Because, seriously? Your gym-stalker actions only assist in achieving my personal goal of (maybe) actually running that half-marathon this Spring.

Maybe. And even then — sweaty balls or hairy — I am still not giving my number to a gym rat.

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