“Okay, what about him?” she asks.

“Him?” I find the guy she’s talking about and blush a little, unexpectedly.

“Yeah, he’s pretty hot,” she says.

I glance over at my friend Sharon Kennedy and frown. She’s going crazy on this treadmill right now and she’s quickening the pace. “No,” I tell her. “I’m not working out to get laid. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Oh, come on. It’s literally the only reason why you got this membership with me. I know you’re not going here to better your health, or whatever you told the manager yesterday,” she says. I reveal an angered face. I wish she was wrong, but she’s partly right. It’s been a good minute since I’ve been with anyone new, and my last boyfriend was a bit of a disaster. Here’s a pro tip. Never date an alcoholic. Second tip: don’t date a guy who plays video games 24/7 and refuses to get a job.

“I just want to feel stronger,” I tell her. I glance over at Sharon’s ass, hugged tightly by her spandex workout pants. I look to my left and notice a guy checking her out. I look back down at myself and frown. How is it so easy for Sharon? It’s like she was born with a body men want.

Needless to say, it pisses me off.

“I’m here to be strong enough to protect myself from bad men,” I say.

“If you get a man like that guy over there, you won’t need to. He’ll do the fighting for you,” she says.

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

Her feet are stomping loudly on the treadmill. She presses a button and it starts moving even faster. Ugh. “I just want you to know, you already have a great body. I’ve seen at least three guys check you out today.” She hasn’t even broken a sweat and she’s barely out of breath. I’ve had it. I don’t think I can come back here with her.

I slow my machine down to a near halt. “I appreciate you,” I say, with a smile on my face. “But I think they are all checking you out.”

She presses another button and stops the machine. Grabbing a towel, she wipes a single bead of sweat off her forehead. “You’re so self-deprecating sometimes. You know that?” she asks. “I’m not lying to you. I saw this guy staring at your ass for at least five whole minutes. If he wasn’t so hot, I’d walk over to him and tell him to fuck off, but he’s a perfect match for you.”

“Bullshit,” I mutter. However, I’m eagerly looking at the “free weights” section to see which guy it could be. Is it the guy in the tank top with the over-the-top bulging muscles? Or is it the man with the mustache in the corner, wearing workout gloves from the 1980’s? Either way, I’m not the one winning here.

Sharon adjusts her Calvin Klein crop-top. “I’m not lying, babe. Look,” she says, pointing secretly at a guy at the bench press station. Tattoos run down his arms. His muscles press against his Under Armour shirt. When he sits up, we briefly make eye contact. He smiles and I quickly look away.

“That guy right there,” she says. “I think he’s some famous athlete or something.”

“Okay, he’s hot,” I say.

“See?” she smiles and leads me over to the squat machine. She sets an appropriate, heavy weight for us.

“It’s too bad I don’t date jocks,” I say.

She quickly pumps out twelve reps. She finishes, stretches her legs out, and looks satisfied with herself. I’m already too tired to continue. My lids are practically drooping over my eyes. I’m sweating bullets and I can barely catch my breath still. All in all, I look like a total car crash. Men like that right?

“Don’t play that game. You dated Jason. He was one hundred percent a jock,” she says.

Oh my God. I forgot about Jason. That was almost ten years ago and it ended with him sleeping with my best friend at the time. “In college? Yeah, that ended very well,” I scoff.

She laughs and waits for me to start my set. I bend down and get into position. I do about five reps until I feel my legs give way. I nearly fall to the floor. “I can’t do this,” I sigh.

“Yes you can,” she says. “Let’s just start at a lower weight.”

I don’t protest. At the end of the day, she’s right. I want to look better. I want to feel better. And, yeah, I want a decent guy to take me out sometimes. But when I look around at these guys, I immediately feel like I’m out of place. I’m the kind of woman that likes to curl up at night and read my stack of books. I’m not someone who runs the treadmill every morning.

Still, Sharon has vowed to get me to loosen up. “You can’t judge a guy by his level of activity,” she says. “I’m telling you. I’ve been on like 30 dates, all with guys at this gym. Some have been bad, no doubt. But I’ve met some really sweet men here.”

I glance back over at the guy with the tattoos. He’s moved over to the leg press. I watch as his shorts hug around his muscular thighs. He thrusts them forward and easily pushes a weight I can’t even conceive of. My mind begins to wander. He looks over at me and gives a sly smile. I quickly look away again.

My heart races and I start to feel anxious. Something happens between my legs. I nearly choke on my breath. “Okay, he’s really hot,” I admit.

I crack open the lid of my water bottle and feel the ice cold liquid hit the back of my throat. “I knew you’d like him,” Sharon says. “Good thing too. He’s walking over here right now.”

“Stop!” I whisper. My heartbeat halts. I quickly wipe my face with the workout towel. “Seriously? Is he really coming here?” I sneak a glance before she can answer my question.

He’s looking right at me. He’s coming toward me. He’s about to reach my machine.

“Wow,” he says, stopping right next to me.

I bite my lip and am about to respond, when I notice something off. His eyes aren’t meeting mine anymore. They’re actually looking right behind me. I turn around and see her. Some bimbo personal trainer at the gym is arching her back while walking on the elliptical.

“Great form,” he says to her.

“Hey Lawrence! I saw that you were in town for training. I’ve missed your face,” she says. Her body is perky and upright. She’s about as bubbly as the contents of a soap bottle.

“Yeah, I’m in town for another week or so,” he says.

I scowl. I quickly feel my heart sink into the ground. I grit my teeth and bite my tongue. Sharon’s eyes are wide and alert. She doesn’t know what to say to me. “It’s… fine,” I tell her. “I don’t like jocks anyway.” Right. I like nerds. I like men with imperfect bodies, who sit at home all day and read.

I’m about as disappointed as a kid who just spilled their ice cream, and I want to go home now. I grab my towel and walk toward the stairs leading to the locker rooms.

“Jacqueline!” Sharon calls out.

My books are waiting at home and I’m already gone.