I am not a runner.
That’s not to say I don’t try. I run pretty regularly at the gym. But my running has absolutely nothing to do with enjoyment.
I don’t run 5Ks — let alone marathons — and I can’t seem to run while I’m talking to someone. My running is strictly a matter of fending off unnecessary pounds and making up for the junk that I ate at the latest work baby shower.
That being said, I figure the total lack of joy I feel has to be plastered all over my face every time I step on a treadmill. And that’s why I marvel at the fact that people feel the need to bother me while I’m there.
Usually, it’s some middle-aged gym prowler who tries to start a conversation by asking how many miles I’ve run.
“Wow, you must really love working out,” the last guy said.
Oh? Did you not see my sheepish eyeroll as I dropped my iPod on the treadmill five minutes ago? Or that moment when the headband holding back my hair slipped out, and I attempted to fix it without stopping. It must have been really impressive when I got myself so dizzy that I had to stop the treadmill to get my balance back.
But yeah. I love working out, dude. Go bother someone else. And he totally will, because no one is safe from creeps at the gym.
This week, I thought I had escaped without any hassles. Then I heard a voice yards behind me yell across the gym parking lot.
I turned around to find a guy I had seen inside wearing a Steelers championship T-shirt.
“Are you single?” he yelled.
Seriously? What kind of line is that? When has that ever worked on a girl? And you’re a Steelers fan? I didn’t wear this purple shirt on purpose, but I could have.
Maybe I’m just a grump, but is it so wrong to want to sweat in peace?