I've frightened yet another boy at the gym.
Let me explain.
At 8pm each day, I have been in the midst of an imaginary relationship with a sexy kick boxer. In my mind, we were enjoying a whirlwind courtship with steamy sex every morning and a fabulous weekend house in Asbury Park. Of course, this man and I have never spoken, but that isn't the point, is it?
With a touch of extra bronzer and concealer, I would hop on the treadmill and stare at him as he kicked the bag and performed handstands and other assorted athletic maneuvers. My gym buddies would chastise me for my obvious gawking. Now keep in mind, I have no idea what pole this man swings from, but I do know that as of last week, he has changed his gym time. I heard through the grapevine that I was too clinging of a fruit for his tastes. In other words, my imitation of Glenn Close must have scared him.