Sexy ugly

There is nothing sexy about being at the gym and actually doing what you're supposed to do at a gym. Which is why I love my gym.

No one is there to strut or gawk or condescend. Attitudes aren't allowed, and there just isn't any time to strut or gawk or condescend. Plus, everyone is equally sweaty and gross and gasping and red in the face and trembling and unattractive. Everyone stinks, because everyone is sweaty. It's gym time, and we're there to bust out butts and learn how to fight. I love my gym.

I do not love recreation centers, where unreasonable social paranoia would take over and I would do something tame and safe, like the treadmill, for fear that I might sweat off the makeup that I deemed necessary because muscly meatheads were strutting around checkin' out the babes. I wanted to be a babe. Just not a sweaty babe.

God bless my sweaty, smelly, ugly gym.

Apparently, despite my four-day gym clothes funk, my sweatiness and my gaspiness, I've got ... well, I've got something.

Because I just got asked out. I just got told that it's taken him weeks to get up the nerve to tell me that he thinks I'm pretty. Me, with the smelly green shirt, the frizzy ponytail, the red, sweaty face and the gaspy, wheezy lungs.

God bless my sweaty, smelly, ugly gym. And my green shirt.