Dear Young Treadmill Hotness,
You are fine. In fact, when you chose the treadmill next to mine my heart fluttered a little. Or maybe a lot. Like I was in 7th grade all over again and you just let me borrow your pencil during our pre-algebra quiz. It was love at first sight.
Secretly I always wish for a prince or hot piece of ass to sit next to me on flights. Mostly I just get overweight old ladies or people who don’t speak English and smell funny. So when you plopped your hot ass on the treadmill next to me you can imagine what went through my mind. No, you have no clue what went through the pea-sized brain of mine do you? B-I-N-G-O, read my internal banter between me and secretly, you.
Oh shite, I wore the wrong outfit to the gym today. Why did I choose the bra that makes one boob look smaller than the other? Gawd, I’m genius. Great, while watching myself jog in the mirror ahead I can see one bigger-looking boob bounce more than the other. Like two watermelons fighting for the summer picnic competition going on in there. I wonder if you notice asymmetrical boobage I have going on as well? Note to self, need new sports bras.
Oh, my hair. What a hot, frizz-net mess. Did I actually think the bobby pins would hold in this rat nest? Holy love of Clairol, I can see the fucking gray hairs framing my forehead from here. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to pull a Demi-Ashton relationship, so I bet I’m not even game in your book. You look 30ish. I look like I’m shaking hands with 40 (with asymmetrical boobage, mind you).
Wow, those are some calves you have going on. While starring at your legs that could probably run for 30 miles in stride without a glitch in your hitch, I’m almost falling off my treadmill because my sense of balance is so off. Oh wait, hold on……………whew, that was a close call. Running at a speed of 3.5 is dangerous compared to your pacing of 7.
Back to my bra. Did I put on a bra from the laundry basket? What is that stench? Do I smell that bad? Holy shit, I can smell Beirut from here. Oh hold please…. Self check. It’s not me. It’s the big girl next to me who looks as if she’s taking her last breath and sweating out beer and Jaegermeister from three nights ago. For a second there I figured you thought that rift was coming from me. Wait, what if you do think it is me who smells like a pig’s dung hole?
And while I keep trying to catch your glance in the mirror I happen to look over at you while you drink out of your water bottle (all in stride). Is that a wedding ring I see?
Too bad because my love for you could have been magical.
This Old Hag In Shitty Gym Clothes