How Much Is Too Much?

Photo courtesy of Google

I have a confession: When I walk down the street or down the hallway at the gym, sometimes I think people are talking about me. Seriously... when I feel cute, I could swear every guy around is giving me a second glance. So yesterday evening, when this man walked up to his friend and said, "Here's your chance, go get your girl", I thought uh-oh. Immediately, I realized how silly I was being. Very rarely when I think someone is talking about me is he actually talking about me. Keeping my head held high, I began to walk up the ramp toward my classroom.

"Hey, are those the new shoes," a loud, masculine voice called from behind me.

I continued walking. He was definitely not talking to me. I was wearing my disgustingly dirty Brooks. The white ones with salmon ridging that I demanded Nick special order for me. No longer are they white. I never wanted a pair of white shoes anyway. Wyoming caked dirt, bacon grease and who-knows-what-else all over them and there is no possible way in the history of possible ways that someone could think this shoe was new.

"They are, aren't they? Those are that new shoe that just came out!" The voice was closer now and definitely was directed towards me.

I turned around, expecting the man to realize he had been wrong and walk away. He looked down on me from his 6'4 or 5" frame. His ears had diamonds in them, which were the size of bling only a woman should sport. Around his arm was a sweatband (I've never understood the point of those) and he was dressed in fancy basketball clothes with expensive court shoes. Really?

"Damn, those are the new shoes, aren't they? Check you out," he said.

"Oh, haha. No," I said, cheerfully. "Just really, really dirty."

"Oh, they look like this new shoe that has paint splattered all over it."

"Nope, just mud!" I started to turn because obviously this conversation was done... in my book. But Mr. I-sport-big-muscles-and-spend-all-my-free-time-hitting-on-ladies-at-the-gym had more to say.

"I'm Brian."

"Ashlee." We shook hands. It was not magical. In fact, it was sweaty and wet.

"So, uh, you work here, don't you? Yeah, I always see you teaching those classes and yelling at people and I was like, 'She must work here'."

Oooo... you're smart, aren't you, Brian?

"Yeah, your classes look hard," he continued.

"Hey, Ash," a familiar voice called.

"Joey!!!! Hi, are you coming tonight," I asked excitedly.

"Yeah, see you there!"

"What is tonight," Brian asked. "Didn't you just teach cycle?"

"Yes, but now I am teaching Pure Awesomeness. You are welcome to come. It's just weight lifting and plyometric drills. It's really fun. Everyone is welcome," I informed him like every good instructor should.

"Yeah, I'll be there." Of course you will. "Hey, why don't you take my number. I mean, I see you working out all the time and I would love to get together and work out with you." Really, dude? "Here, you've got your phone right there. Call me. Could we grab Starbucks sometime?"

"Hey, Brian," I said as kindly as I could. "I'm a competitive triathlete and runner and I'm not really looking to go out and meet new guys. I'm flattered, but I'm really not interested in anything. I don't have the time or commitment right now." I should have told him I was married...

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I got the impression that you're a hard worker and an athlete. So am I! That's why I approached you. You seem like somebody I can hang out with and someone who would be up for helping me work out and I would love that! I hope that's okay with you. Is it?"

What do I say? Grrrrr.... "Sure."

"Awesome. Of course I would like to hang out with you and get to at least know you. Is that okay? I'm just looking forward to having fun."

"Yeah, if I have any spare time. I kinda work a lot. But you should come to class! Okay, bye!"

UGHGHGHHGHGHGH! Don't get me wrong; it is flattering to have men notice you and say nice things, but there is a point when you realize that only men you would never go for hit on you. Like the man downtown today who asked me if I liked Eminem or Dr. Dre more.

"Uhmm," I responded.

"Or Tupac, you know, whoever," he tried to help me out.

"Well, I guess Eminem. I don't really listen to rap."

"Oh, really? And here my buddy and I thought you were going to say Dr. Dre. Hey, could I get a quarter for the bus?"

"I don't have any money, sorry."

"Well, how about your number?"

"Nope," I snapped as I walked away.

Then there was the fat little guy at Blenders. He was so cheerful and stoked to be helping me. Then he had to end it with, "So do you come around here often? Do you think I'll get to see you again?"

It's so nice to get that attention in the beginning. I'll admit, I've led many a guy on just so I could hear him tell me how pretty I am and all the great things he likes about me, but without having to waste any kisses on them. But things add up and soon I find myself deleting too many unwanted text messages and ignoring too many calls. Wow, I'm a jerk, aren't I? But seriously, when will they stop? Will someone please make me a sign that says, "Please don't hit on me unless you are tall, skinny, ruggedly handsome, rock climb, backpack and wear flannel?"

Courtesy of Google