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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