This is me. The day after Mr. Muscles (that’s what I shall call him from here on out) handed me the note that said he thought I was–and I quote–”very cute.” Remember that? Yeah. That was fantastic wasn’t it?

Anyways, I like how I look in this picture. I think I look content. At home in my own skin. Which, to be honest, I’m usually not. (Are girls ever? Or is it just me?) But that note and the total attentiveness, i.e. staring, from Mr. Muscles at our lunch date yesterday (Yes. I called.) did something to me. But I’m getting ahead of myself aren’t I? (What’s new?)

So here’s the rest of the story.

After he handed me the note (go here if you don’t know what I’m talking about) I texted Frit immediately (of course) to tell her what happened. Then I finished my run. And then, on my way to my car, after a bit of debate–should I? shouldn’t I?–I texted him: Hey…this is the girl from the gym. Were you serious? Or was that just a joke or a dare maybe? It just seemed impossible that he could’ve been for real. Guys like him (athletic, strong, and really cute) don’t go for girls like me (somewhat pretty on good days, a few great features but not drop-dead-gorgeous, and by no means athletic). It’s like a law of nature or something, I’m certain. But he replied: Yes I was serious. (What? The laws of nature just went all wonky.) We texted back and forth the rest of the night and he asked if I wanted to go to lunch the next day. I said, Yep. I do.

The next day I was different. I didn’t check and re-check myself in the mirror. I didn’t change my outfit 10 times (only 3). And when I looked at myself in the mirror on the way out the door, I actually thought, huh. You look pretty hot Maurer. And yeah I know I’m going all Johnny Lingo/Mahana* on you. But for real. The laws of nature that I’d always lived by were gone.

See I’ve always had a pretty healthy opinion of myself in most ways. I’m confident that I’m a smart, successful, accomplished, talented, fairly funny–ok, ok, freaking hilarious–spiritually-tuned woman who can cook and hostess better than Martha. But I’m never the object of someone’s affection, or attention. So in the back of my head (or front of my heart, take your pick), I’ve always held the notion that boys just don’t like me for some reason. And the only conclusion I could ever come to was my looks. That had to be the reason I don’t ever get asked out. Ever. (Am I saying too much here? Probably.) So to have some random (cute) guy, at the gym of all places, find me so physically attractive that he would approach me out of the blue, not even knowing about the “smart, successful, accomplished, talented, freaking hilarious, spiritually-tuned woman who can cook and hostess better than Martha” underneath? Well. That just does something to a girl. Something good.

So I show up at lunch (I wore light khaki linen-ey slacks, a black 3/4 sleeve v-neck with gathers around the chest, and black ballet flats with my hair in big loose curls. I always want details like that so…there you go, in case you’re wondering.) and he was waiting–in jeans, flip flops, and a plain white-t. Um…kinda like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. And you know how I feel about Top Gun. And I know I shouldn’t think this (we Mormons don’t do tattoos) but the tattoo round his bicep peeking out from under his sleeve was pretty hot.

Excuse me while I go take a cold shower. I’ll be back to finish the story in a bit …

OK. I’m back. So like I said, he was waiting. We hugged. He was strong. [grin] And from there–we ordered, ate, and talked. And within 10 minutes … I was pretty certain he wasn’t for me. Within 45 minutes, I was way certain he wasn’t for me. I know. Sad huh?

He was super nice but we really didn’t line up on some major things–namely Church stuff. Plus there were some “choice of language” differences and differing philosophies about family and family relationships.

After an hour, I said I needed to go. He wanted to hang out the rest of the day. I said I couldn’t. He asked if he could see me again. And I wondered if he’d even listened to me during lunch? I mean it was so obvious that I so wasn’t what he was looking for. And he’s not at all what I’m looking for. If we’d pursued anything beyond that lunch, I’m certain I’d drive him crazy and eventually I’d get frustrated with him. And then I realized … he probably hadn’t heard much. He really had just stared at me. Which was so flattering and made me blush just a little. But really. After an hour, he knew nothing more about me than what he had known when I walked in, which was that he was attracted physically. He knew nothing about the “smart, successful, accomplished, talented, freaking hilarious, spiritually-tuned woman who can cook and hostess better than Martha.” And I need someone who wants to get to know all of that. I need someone who adores all that and can’t get enough of all that.

But I also know now how much I need someone who makes me feel as amazingly gorgeous as he did. And that finding someone who feels that way was/is actually possible.

But you know something else? You know what I was thinking about throughout the entire lunch? Him. No, not Mr. Muscles. Him. He comes in a week. And well. I’m pretty over the moon for him. And … he kinda likes me too. At least that’s what he tells me (although he doesn’t use the word “kinda”). Which is weird/scary/crazy/unnerving to feel towards someone I’ve never met in person. And it’s also a little embarrassing to admit out loud since he stops by here every now and again (Hi you. I bet you’re feelin’ pretty good about yourself right now knowing that I was thinking about you the entire time I was on a date with another guy.) :) but really, as soon as I said goodbye to Mr. Muscles (and called Frit to give her the run-down on the date of course) he was who I wanted to talk to. Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

And that is the end of the story about my fling with Mr. Muscles. Twas a lovely 18 hours.

Please feel free to leave comments, concerns, or questions in the comment box below. Thank you for your time.

Have a lovely afternoon.

*You can watch Johnny Lingo & Mahana here: Part 1, Part 2 It’s a short movie and totally worth watching over and over (like I did when I was a kid). I even had a goldfish on my mission that we named Mahana.

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I don’t know if I ever even had a “groove” to lose to begin with, but hold the phone! I’ve got one now.

I’ve never been one of those girls. You know. The ones at the gym whose hair stays in place even after pounding the treadmill for an hour. (What kind of a person can even pound a treadmill for an hour?!) The ones who don’t sweat, who look cute, and bounce around the weight room doing absolutely nothing but collecting stares from the menfolk and standing by the water fountain. No. I’ve never been one of those.

I’m more the holey pajama wearing, sweat-dripping, lung-heaving, working-my-butt-off (if I’m lucky) type who doesn’t wear makeup and whose hair rivals Medusa by the time it’s all over. Let me tell you, I’m hot.

Last night was no different. But for better, or worse, that’s where this story begins. Do you have the visual? Okay. Here it goes.

So I had just finished 100 squats and 100 lateral shoulder raises and had made my way through half of my 100 lunges and 100 shoulder presses (Yeah. I’m a rock star. Let it be known.) when a guy came around the track and almost ran into me. He looked at me. And Iiiiii avoided eye-contact. Technically I was getting a little too close to the inner lane. But I couldn’t be bothered with such trivial details! I was, after all, lunging and keeping my balance and counting all at the same time (talent people. talent.). So I kept my eyes straight ahead and off he went, sprinting around the track. I finished my lunges and shoulder presses and laid down on the mat to do abs.

He arrived back to the stretching area as I was beginning my second set of crunches. With my knees in the air, red faced, sweaty, and huffing out each count, all I needed was stirrups and I looked like I was practicing for child birth. And yet, between count 8 and 9, here’s this guy standing over me asking what time the gym closed. Seriously? Do you not see me counting? (I didn’t say that out loud.) “In an hour. 11 p.m.”

I finished my crunches and began stretching. I could see him out of the corner of my eye writing on a torn piece of paper, using the weight bench as a table, and honest-to-goodness, my first thought was, Oh gosh. He’s like a trainer or something and wants to help me reduce the size of my backside. Cuz really, let’s be honest. My backside could be smaller. And of course that would be the first thing anyone would think of me if they saw me at the gym. That or, poor girl, she looks like she’s going to pass out. And seriously, he was way strong and muscle-y and looked like a trainer and was bouncing around the track like he was going to run a marathon right then and there. My second thought was, Krista, you’re an idiot.

I kept stretching. He gathered his bag and as I was leaning into downward dog he came up to me, said, “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry, but here,” handed me the piece of paper, and jogged off. My third thought was, he probably just wants to tell me I’m doing great, to keep it up, and someday I’ll have the body I’ve always wished for.

I opened up the wrinkled page. And I’m not kidding … in fact here’s proof. It read:

For real? Stuff like that does not happen to me. I’m not “that” girl.

But let me just tell you. I smiled through my entire run. I couldn’t help it. And I never smile when I run; I mostly look like I want to kill someone. But he seriously made my night. My life!

There was some serious swagger followin’ me around as I walked out of the gym last night. In fact–I can’t seem to shake it.

That little note is now pinned to my bulletin board to remind me–I am that girl. The one who gets hit on at the gym (the gym! me!). I’m the girl who is cute enough. The one who is enough, period.

Groove? Oh yeah. Check & check.

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