As a twenty year old dealing with the stress of college, socializing and beginning adulthood, the last place I expect to find stress is the gym. Exercising is a great way to blow off steam, work up a sweat and leave high on endorphins. However, I have found that the gym has become a hot, new 'pick-up' spot, where every gym-goer is a participant whether they want to or not.
The formula is easy: girls increase their heart rate on the cardio equipment while guys increase their heart rates by watching them. There is nothing more masculine to me than watching Mr. Free-Weights (who will represent the genre of guy I'm discussing) lift a five pound free weight once and grunt loudly to accentuate how heavy the weight is and how strong and manly he is to be lifting weights. Mr. Free-Weights will then take a ten-minute walk around the gym checking out the inventory of girls, flexing his biceps at anyone who happens to make eye contact with him. After his ten-minute scan, he returns to his free weight to grunt and inventory some more.
My problem: my eyes wander. Running on a stationary conveyor belt for more than five minutes is probably the most boring physical activity I could participate in, second only to my research methods class (I say, just 'google' everything, right?), but that's not even a physical activity. I could have just added the greatest new music to my iPod, been watching The Real Desperate Housewives of Orange County on the television in front of me and I will still get bored after a few minutes. As my eyes wander to find something more interesting to look at to distract me from the monotony of running in place, I may accidentally make eye contact with Mr. Free-Weights, completely unintentionally. In the gym world, however, it's as if I invited him back to spend the night.
The set-up of my gym is extremely conducive to people-watching. The treadmills are lined up in front of a mirror, in which anyone on a machine can see themselves and everyone else on machines behind them. This space between the mirrors and treadmills is like the gym's catwalk, a stretch of rubber-padded ground where Mr. Free-Weights and his posse can walk, flex and eye-molest all day long. This is also the stretch of gym my eyes happen to rest on during my eye-wandering.
Urbandictionary.com defines 'eye-sex' as "The act of two people staring at each other in such a lustful way they might as well be doing it." Now, I am no 'eye-sex' virgin, and I'd like to think I could write a thing or two on techniques and skills but that is when I'm a voluntary participant. The gym is my sanctuary from life, where I can sweat out my troubles to Miley Cyrus music and no one can judge me. And when I say sweat, I mean SWEAT, from orifices normal people do not sweat from. It feels great. Needless to say, I have often looked and felt more attractive in my lifetime than I do at the gym. I'm not exactly 'on the prowl' when I'm in my spandex and sneakers, hair plastered to my neck and remnants of mascara streaking across my face, ear to nose. So, I'm almost at the point where I'm going to start singing along out-loud, reaching the peak of my runner's high, my eyes begin to wander, accidentally make eye-contact and BAM—I've just been violated by Mr. Free-Weight's eyes.
Oh, I see your bulging bicep, and I heard the way you grunted from that heavy weight. I even saw you walk around three times, which must mean you've lifted that weight more than once. What a catch you must be. But honestly, Mr. Free-Weights, could you at least buy me dinner before we engage in that kind of eye-intimacy? Call me old-fashioned, but I'm just not that kind of girl.
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