Welcome to the first installment of "B!tch, please."
This is an entry that I will probably publish about once a week. Sadly, what that tells me is that dumb sh!t happens to me on a regular basis.
So, I'm a member of a certain gym, located in a certain city that shall remain anonymous. At my gym, there is - as there often is at such establishments - a good-lookin' white boy trainer. He's not really my type but, I would definitely say that homeboy is solid eye candy. You may be wondering why I would pass on a rare piece of man candy - especially in Silicon Valley where, as we all know ladies, the odds are good but the goods are odd. Well, first of all, I am not about to sell my birthright for a bowl of stew, if y'know what I mean. Second of all, well,....how do I say this delicately, tactfully,....the guy looks like a stripper. There. I said it. I ain't gonna lie. The guy has a body that is just waaaay too sculpted and arms, shoulders, pecs, and abs** that are just waaaay too perfect. There is no way in hell he works a 9-5 or some part-time job at your local Verizon Wireless store. Historical evidence (i.e., stereotypes) and personal experience (i.e., reading too many bad romance novels) dictate that he must be a construction worker named Brad who wields a powerful instrument by day and, er, another one by night. Anyway. You get my point.
For the purposes of this entry, I'm going to refer to this trainer as "Brad." Not only is it easier to write "Brad" instead of "hot white boy trainer," I also don't know his actual name. Anyway. Over the last few weeks, Brad has initiated a few conversations with me. Nothing big, nothing mind-blowing, just a few comments here and there. If I didn't know better, I would say that it almost seems like the guy is circling around and in before he makes the kill; in other words, it almost seems like he is working his way towards hitting on me. I don't know. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe he's just being nice. Maybe "Brad" is actually "Chad" and he's gay and I've got it all wrong. What say you, gentle reader, of the following - First, he started making small talk. Then, I would sometimes catch him looking at me. Initially, I thought that it must be coincidence; or I must look so dang nasty and sweaty that he was silently judging me. But then, he stopped to tell me that I have "the most beautiful hair." And then, he caught me off guard the other day when he said, "Bye, Nancy." WTF. He knows my name now? But, today - today - is the day that has convinced me that "Brad" is not a "Chad" but is, in fact, a "Chaz." Who or what is a "Chaz?" "Chaz" is sometimes defined as the "pet name" for "Charles." That seems innocent enough. On the other hand, if you hear the name "Chaz" and are overcome by an immediate, inexplicable urge to gag, roll your eyes, kick the guy closest to you, or hurl, it's probably because there is an innate, primordial reaction inside us all that equates a "Chaz" to a "Douchebag."
This is the conversation that went down:
Chaz [to my trainer]: Did you see her [me] in those jeans earlier today?
Side Note: I wore a t-shirt, jeans, and heels to work and went straight from work to the gym.
Trainer: No, why? What happened?
Chaz [to me]: You looked good in those jeans, Nancy. You looked goooood in those jeans.
Me: Uhhh,...okay. Um, thanks.
Chaz: Y'know, I love a girl in jeans. I'm not so much into heels but, jeans work for me.
Me: [pause] [awkward laugh]
Wow. Wow. Excuse me, Mr. Chaz Almighty. First of all, who died and made you the fashion police? Second of all, did I ask what "works" for you? Do I give a flying f@#$?! Did I wake-up this morning wondering to myself, "Gee, I wonder if Chaz will approve of my outfit today?" Did I get dressed this morning musing to myself, "Gee, I wonder how I can impress Chaz?" I'm not sure I understand how wearing my goddamn work clothes to the gym extended an invitation for Chaz to sign-off on my outfit. Y'know Mr. Chaz Almighty, I don't think I got the memo that the world revolves around you, can you please resend it so that I can rip it into shreds and use its fibrous remains to fuel my fireplace? Should I now toss my sizable investment in 50+ pairs of heels because, clearly, I am starving for attention and affirmation from you? Should I now address you as "Your Royal Highness" and wash your feet with my hair and, after feeding you Ruby Roman grapes and fanning you with palm fronds, should I return to my chamber and await your next command? Can somebody please tell me when did I become a concubine? Is my right to vote soon going to be repealed? Are my feet going to be bound in the shape of a lotus flower in preparation for being bound to a husband?
** = I deduced that his abs must be perfect based on what I have actually observed of the rest of his anatomy. Hey, if A=B and B=C, then A=C. I'm just sayin'.