(Not) Being Antonio Banderas (AKA How I went to the Gym, Failed to Flirt with the Pretty Girl, and Wrote a Blog Instead)

Well then.  What a title.  But I’m afraid I’m stuck with it, because I simply do not have the energy to create another.

At any rate, I had a terrible knot in my back (that’s what happens when you start working out for the first time in ages).  I decided, contrary to my lazy nature, to try to hit the gym and work out the knots with some light, healthful tension training.  Oddly enough, I was right – sometimes knots develop from overtraining one area – meaning I was a stupid caveman and did chest three times in a row, which strained my back.  So don’t do that.  Train all groups equally, as if they are an ACLU-approved fruit salad. There, you got a free training tip and a terrible metaphor, all for free.

At any rate, at the end of my sweaty exodus (I really do recommend it, I felt much better) – I say, as I prepared to leave, I beheld a vision.  The most incredibly fit, well-proportioned, gorgeous Látina woman was doing yoga in front of the wall mirrors as I left. 

And... she was between me... and the door. 

There comes a time in every pasty man’s life when he is forced – forced, I say – like a gladiator of old, to face and transcend his timidity.  In what I thought was a move muy sútil, worthy of Antonio Banderas himself, I smoothed back my sweaty locks and waved casually as I passed, a subtle and sophisticated smile upon my (rather chapped) lips.

Of course, it was at that moment that I came in view of the mirror, and to my dawning horror, I saw what she saw: a tall, doughy creep with holes in his cheap shoes who was leering at her from a flushed, grime-encrusted face as he waved the hand that held his old phone that had clearly been carelessly broken and taped-together (repeatedly).

Obviously, I fled.

And so it is that I sit here, alone, about to write what I can only hope is a cogent series of thoughts as I weep softly in the night.  (“MOM I’LL TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE AS SOON AS I’M DONE.  I KNOW I SAID I’D HAVE A GOOD JOB AFTER COLLEGE.  I DON’T KNOW –   ASK THE PRESIDENT!!!”)

There you have it.  A masterpiece, phoenix like, rises from the ashes of broken dreams and a shattered, lonely ego.  That’s how it’s done, kids.  That is, indeed, how it is done.

Unlike me.

Because I’m still alone.

And I can’t stop typing.

Dear God, please let me stop typing!