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Tue, December 14

Can't We Just Be Friends?

I was second on the waiting list for spin class tonight. I figured, hey, it’s Monday, I am sure people were just overzealous in their post-weekend eating fest plans, and merely AIMED to make it to a killer Monday spin class.

I was wrong. The class was packed, and it was only ten minutes before the start of class.

It didn’t take long for the instructor, already on his bike, to notice me waiting outside.

“She’s in”, he said, in his Irish? British? Australian? accent.

The guy with the clip board (yes, they actually use a clip board) looked at the instructor, and then at me like, “hey, I don’t make the rules. And neither does HE.”

Then the instructor jumped off the bike, and locked me in a one-armed bear hug… “This one is IN, and that’s final.”

He was bigger than the clipboard guy.

Feeling confident that I might just make the class, I went to get water. Two minutes later, the spin instructor was there, to refill his bottle.

“Alexis, hand me your towel so I can save you a seat. And it will be right up in front.”

“Great idea! Oh thanks!” I said. “That’ll be excellent—that way, I can’t slack off!”

Happy oh happy me…I got into the class.

The instructor did his usual head turned down, eyebrows raised stare, right at me, every few minutes, to make sure I was peddling my ass off.

Yes, I did eventually have to take off my t-shirt because there is no ventilation and the room is so small…but sports bras are standards in spin classes.

At the end of class, he made his usual joke: “So are you gonna take the next class?” (He teaches ANOTHER spin class, directly after this one.

My face was red, I still hadn’t caught my breath, but I managed to exhale and speak at the same time, breathlessly, “Are you KIDDING? I’d just about collapse onto the handlebars…No, no, I’m going to do some stretching, maybe a few—“

He interrupted me (note: insert dreamy accent here): “We should get a drink some time after class.”

“Well, if you mean a drink as in a date….No. I have a boyfriend.” (I was quick on that one. Usually I try not to assume someone is asking me on a date, for some reason, I think to myself each time, “Hm. Maybe this guy means a ‘friendly’ drink?” But not this time. Ohhhhh no. Experience has made me wiser.)

So I had to say, “Of course we can get a drink some time, anyway…. Oh by the way, I’m leaving the country for three weeks. Going to Mexico with my BOYRFRIEND.”

You know, this keeps on happening to me at gyms. I befriend an instructor, a personal trainer, a manager…it makes me happy to have friends in a place I go to three to four times a week. It feels like community. But each time I THINK I have made a new friend, or just found a nice trainer who feels like spending an hour showing me new and wonderful ways to sculpt my legs and abs, or an instructor who has taken a special liking to me because I push myself and really love his class…it always turns out like This: An awkward moment when I get asked out on a date.

And now…what to do? I love this class! I like this teacher (not in THAT way, obviously). And I already am avoiding my Tues. spin class because of the scary skeevy married guy who hit on me a few weeks ago…I’ve completely avoided my old gym on the upper west (except for sneaking in the back way to take dance classes), because all the trainers there eventually asked me on a date.

Did I miss something?

Last year, when my romantic life sucked (well, it was busy, but the quality of the romantic prospects was poor), should I have walked around with red, sweaty face and dingy old sports bra and t-shirt? Would things have improved faster then?

Sheesh.

Anyways…More updates, cuz this blog is looooong overdue. Last Wednesday, J played Dodge ball with me, Shannon, Laurie, Lenore and three other guys. We were the ONLY team with girls on it.

The “Championships” were much, much smaller than the last time. Last time we had maybe 20 or more teams, playing in a ginormous gym, and the games lasted until 11:30. This time, we played in a tiny elementary school gym, with six other teams. We were the biggest losers…Really. Each time, the guys on our team would get out first, because they actually RAN to the ball. The girls just tried to stay in the game as long as they could without getting hit. And every time the girls had a ball, we would throw it to the other side, with hardly any spin or aim…Just to DO SOMETHING with it. (We did have one really amazing player though, who beat down quite a few boys).

This time though, the boys were not as mean…at the last event, the girls got pummeled with balls. Last time, the guys could care less that we weighed half as much as they, and you know, had BOOBS. This time, I stood across from this one guy who had the ball, and he would consider throwing it at me, and then his eyes would look troubled, and then he’d smile and throw the ball to someone else on the team.

He couldn’t hit a girl…

Friday night, J and his friends, and my friends Jen and Michelle (Michelle from the readings, not table-dancin’ Michele)…all went uptown baby, uptown baby, to this new barbeque restaurant called “Dinosaur” (130th and Broadway?). It originally started in Syracuse, and now we have our very own ribs and cole slaw place, in the Big Apple.

It was like being in suburbia: The hostess had a microphone that called out tables. They must have imported all their waitresses from Syracuse, or Texas, or wherever else people are friendlier than NYC, because the waitresses were all chipper and TGIF-like, “Hey! So what can I get ya for your apps? Wings? Artichoke dip?”

I’m used to servers who lazily come by the table, assume you must have intensely researched the menu already and impatiently wait for your order.

I personally ate seven slowly cooked, sinfully bbq saucy ribs…and “salt potatoes”…and corn bread…and slaw.

We all went home later, swearing to never eat again.

But the next day I met friends at Pain Quotidian, where I never can say no to nutella and French bread.

I spent the rest of Saturday looking for a wedding dress to wear to a fancy one that J was invited to when we get back from Mex.

Tried to get a bargain at Filene’s, but only walked away feeling very low in self-esteem after catching every flaw I know I have and a few I hadn’t even IMAGINED, in their dressing rooms’ awful, bright lighting and mirrors that (I pray) add ten pounds.

Of course I ended up buying a super expensive dress by BCBG at Bloomies, after seeing myself in the dimly lit, (hopefully) accurate (if not slimming) mirror of their dressing rooms.

But it’s OK. Until now, I have never owned an elegant cocktail dress.

I love those words: Cocktail Dress.

Imagine if they called them “Drink Dresses.”

And then, what does that mean–are we only supposed to wear them during cocktails, and change into something else for dinner? Is there a dessert dress too? Come to think of it, there should be a fixed price, three course dress…by BCBG of course.

Went to J’s mom’s holiday party on Saturday night. I thought I’d just stop by for a quiet drink, and then J and I (who were already dog tired from our separate day’s activities) would head home to sleep.

But these folks put us, and the friends who J invited, to shame! They were belly dancing to Shakira, mixing martinis, downing rum and cokes, slipping on the newly renovated kitchen floor, doing the shimmy and the shake. The women were slimmer than I could ever hope to be, and wearing LEATHER PANTS and crop tops. The men were…mostly shlubby looking…but they danced. That’s a plus.

The party was rockin’ until 2:30 in the morning. Ashamed at how low-energy we were for being in our early to mid-twenties…we hung our heads and went home.

Sunday…Brunch with J, mom, and dad at “Redeye Grill.” (We can’t afford it, but it is so darn yummy.) It was exactly what I wanted…A chance to catch up with my parents and also for J to get to talk to them without distractions (i.e. my brother, sister, etc.) As mom says, “he fits right into our family.” At least she didn’t say that to him (mom, you score!) I just hope he didn’t think too much of the,

“I’d like to meet your mom, J. I really would. Not in a “serious way.” Just in a “friendly” way. You know.”

Posted by lexzog at December 14, 2004 11:31 AM

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