To Date The Impossible Dream


After spending the past few weeks watching paragons of physical perfection leap, run, swim and slide across my TV screen, I had the thought that many of us did: I am a fat cow and need to go to the gym. Also: athletes are hot. Yes, yes, I know, incredibly insightful revelations. And what about these phenomenal human specimens, who have indeed taken the edict “my body is a temple” to this monumental conclusion? What would it be like to be in their company, to be a VIP member of the elite, who demand strict allegiance to their sport?

Beats me. None of them would date me, I’m pretty sure. “Dive bar from 6PM on” doesn’t usually show up on their workout schedules. And when I have happened to stumble across them in their element, say taking a shortcut through the outdoor track on my way to the dive bar, it feels as if I’ve happened upon a herd of gazelles in their element; they cluster together, their muscles tense and glistening in practically nonexistent running gear, their gaunt faces registering wary stares as they ready themselves to sprint. And as I come lumbering along, like a fat fuck in a Safari jeep, slack-jawed with awe and envy, I hear someone shout, “Hold up, someone’s crossing the track! Can you please move? You, yes you there, YOU – can you please get the hell out of the way?!?”

I did date a semi-pro boxer once. Beautiful, gorgeous abs. Rock-hard, fantastic biceps. And wow, what a fucked-up face. But still cute! I adored him. We would go out to eat, each of us munching on our meager salads with vinegar dressing, talking endlessly about calories, carbs and fat content. It was just like being with a girlfriend. Our dirty talk consisted of mudslides, Big Macs with large fries, and ice cream sundaes. Sure, we could slather it all over each other, blah blah, blah, but man, it would taste sooooo good! I didn’t get to see him much because all he did was train (and he had a live-in girlfriend in NH – didn’t find that out until later) but when we did see each other it was mostly eating salads and talking about food. He couldn’t really go out and drink unless it was after a fight, but I wasn’t invited to those (see live-in girlfriend in NH, above.)

The sex, of course, was awesome. Pretty quick, like jackrabbit/jackhammer quick, but fun. He would look upon it as another training session, or another opportunity to burn off those 6 almonds he had for dinner, so he would really give it his all. Being a human barbell or leg press can be quite entertaining, as long as you’re not required to contort your body in ways God did not intend. Then he’d take a break, roll off and whisper, “your turn, baby – get on top.”

Uhhhhh, OK. I’d gingerly swing a leg over and mount, feeling a bit like Gabby getting on the balance beam, except with 20-pound saddle bags attached to her butt and boobs. All eyes on me (OK, his eyes), I’d start at a slow pace then work up to a fairly manageable rhythm, say three to five thrusts a minute. He’d roll his eyes and urge me on, grabbing my hips and bucking like a bronco – “c’mon baby, I know you can do better than that. Ride me, baby!” And I’d let out a nervous giggle (which sounded like a strangled yelp) and try to go faster, summoning all my strength to RIDE that cowboy and trying to block out the fact that I looked like a lumpy couch cushion with udders. I’d soon collapse with exhaustion (say, 47 seconds later) then gasp, “OK your turn.” I think soon after is when I found out about the live-in GF in NH.

Alas, I think that’s the downfall of sex, especially with aerobically-incompatible partners. Sure, you can look good in that suit or push-up bra or cod piece, but there’s no place to hide when the clothes are removed and the starter gun goes off. You can either keep up or call for a taxi. Something I need to remember next time I’m at the gym, drooling at the weightlifters and runners as I polish off my Big Mac.

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