Why I think God is punking me

It started yesterday. It was day four of the Swine Flu! (wouldn't it be funny if everyone screamed every time someone said that? Like on Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse. Try it. Swine Flu!)

Anyway, it was day four of my illness and I had to return to work, but it beat the shit out of me because, well, you know how it is when you lay in bed for three days and then on the fourth day you get up and take a shower and just that wears you out but then you have to do the stuff you showered for so then you're exhausted. Or maybe that's just me. Because I'm old. And lazy.

By the time I got home I felt like poo, but I had promised myself that this was Day 1 of Back to the Gym, my latest endeavor to get ready for an upcoming trip to Vegas. I've been in a cast for six weeks and used it as an excuse to do absolutely no physical activity so I'm looking a little soft around the edges, if you know what I'm saying.

I got home, put on my kickers, some old gray sweat shorts, a t-shirt that says "I'm Cool Like That" and a headband. I'm wearing zero make up, but it's the gym, I tell myself, and I live in the gayborhood. No one (straight) will see me.

I've got to walk Little B first, so I get him suited up and ready to go and then I stop.

The Greek lives in the building next door and it is 6 p.m. Prime dog walking time.

I don't remember much about the night I met The Greek but I do remember that he lives in the building next door and that he owns a dog. Just then (really just then, not for the sake of moving my story along) I get a text from Martini. "Just ran into The Greek. He's funny. I'll tell you about it later."

I say "Psyche!" to Little B. and kill about 20 minutes in my apartment to ensure that I will not run into him. Then I head out.

I'm walking happily along past all the familiar bushes and bikes B. likes to pee on when I approach this cute little bistro that just opened on the ground floor two buildings over. Standing outside is this bartender guy, who I call Vespa Guy, because I once saw him riding one down the street.

Vespa Guy works at this little hipster dive I like to hang out at when I'm in the mood to drink Chimay. Or just in the mood to drink and walk home safely. Well, mostly safely. I did break my arm walking home from this particular establishment, but that's neither here nor there. What's important is that he's cute and we've had a flirty thing going on for awhile.

I get closer. I'm smiling. His back's to me. I think, "I'll say 'hi,' and something clever like ... Hi?" Wait. I'm ugly right now. Balls. Ok, walk fast. He won't notice, he won't notice, he won't

Vespa Guy: Hey there! You're cast is off!
Me: Um, yeah
Vespa Guy: That's awesome. Does it feel good?
Me: Um, yeah
Vespa Guy: That's good. Have you eaten here? (he gestures at the bistro.)
Me: Um, yeah. Well, kind of. I came here but they were out of food (WHY DO I SPEAK???)
Vespa Guy: Wow. Well, then, you should come back. I'm working here now, too.
Me: Um, yeah. (What is my problem? Have I unknowingly had my frontal lobe removed?)
Vespa Guy: Well, hopefully I'll see you soon!
Me: Yeah. I mean, Yeah! Definitely.

I walk away. Fast. I turn the corner and feel a strong urge to kick myself but then someone might think I've actually lost it and call the authorities. I already sing and dance a lot in my neighborhood. Hitting myself could be the last straw.

As I round the corner to the home stretch of my walk I'm still mentally abusing myself for the Vespa Incident when I notice a black car slow down near me. Lost person or rapist? Crap.

The passenger window rolls down. A waft of very nice smelling cologne comes out. A man with a pleasant face leans over. Rapist! No. It's The Greek. I recognize him.Woo Hoo!

At first, this fact alone astounds me so much that it takes me a minute to realize he's talking.

He's saying something about running into Martini and how B. is cute and how we should get together. I don't know what I said to him. I kept looking at his face. It's a nice face. Heart all a flutter face? Not so much. But sweet. Then I look at his very neat khakis, polo shirt, belt. Conservative? Probably. Damn. Stay with the conversation SG.

He says he's afraid Martini and I think he's a creep over the whole making out thing. I say "Don't sweat it. Takes two to tango." Smooth.

Later I text him and say we really don't think he's a creep. He says I seemed uncomfortable when we spoke. I say it's because I looked like hell. He says he thought I looked pretty. LIAR! He wants to bed me. However, I think I'm intrigued enough for a date.

As I'm entering the gym, I run into Creepy Bi-Curious Guy . We haven't spoken in three months since I invited him to meet me and some friends out late one night and then proceeded to ignore him once he got there. There's a good back story. I'm not a Cold Hearted Snake. For realz. Needless to say our interaction was quick and awkward. (That's what she said.)

Tonight, hot hot hot neighbor, referred to here as Gym Guy, who I thought might be gay but now know isn't (because we ran into him out one night after Martini had had a few and she cleverly asked "Are you gay?") was at the gym.

He waited until I was at a 4 incline, going about 5 miles an hour, with The Promise Ring blaring in my earphones to come over and talk to me.

Gym Guy: (lips moving. I can't hear him)
Me: WHAT!? (in a much too loud voice. I take out my earbuds)
Gym Guy: Hey, how does it feel to have that cast off? (again with the cast. I'm going to need to wear that thing forever to give people something to talk about.)
Me: (panting) great! I'm glad to be back in the gym
Gym Guy: Your first time back? I haven't seen you here (He noticed I was gone!)
Me: No. Yesterday was. But it feels good. I'm not allowed to lift but once I can maybe you can show how to get this arm back in shape (Seriously, smooth, right?)

Then a huge drop of sweat rolled down my forehead and dropped off the tip of my nose. I swear both my eyes and his followed it as it crashed to the ground in slo-mo. Me-ow. I'm hot. Seriously boys. Come and get me.

Later I decided to attempt to go to bed early but this damn cough is seriously killing me. So I make a late night run to the nearest pharmacy for some of the strongest stuff they'll sell me.

I'm in jammie pants, my glasses (which I NEVER wear) the same black headband and again, no make up. I pull in and I kid you not there are two fire trucks and about 12 spectacular looking firefighters in the parking lot.

Can't a girl leave her house without running to all the potentials (or past potentials?) in her life?

I feel like I'm on What Not to Wear. Or like God is punking me.