Crazy what happens when you put something out in the universe.
The morning was filthy with firemen.
“Yeah, truck!” I exclaim, happily clapping like a little girl at the site of Fire Engine 6 in the gym parking lot. Thing about real-deal gym goers, most aren’t there for anything more than the workout. Staring too much or too long is frowned upon. Forget John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis circa Perfect, the feeling at my gym is mutual sweaty respect. I scan my card at the front desk and complete a quick, covert once over, casual and without a break in step to the cardio room in the back - perfectly incognito.
Just as colorful plumage and bubble gum pink baboon bottoms draw a mate in the wild, the firemen are easy to spot in navy tees, “Westminster Fire” emblazed on the back in big white letters. Long shorts, big radios. “Hmmm…I could always just do the elliptical out here,” I offer myself, “Be bold and ballsy and rotate in at the weight stations,” No, not what I came for. I’m here to work too. Head back to the step class, chock full of women. Sigh.
Then, magic happens. The heat to the group fitness room had been turned off in the night, resulting in arctic breezes and cold hard woods. To warm and circulate air, the instructor leaves the usually full coverage doors open wide. I'm in full door frame when, about 10 minutes in, one wanders from the pack. The navy tee I’d spotted earlier on a treadmill. I glance out for a moment, glowy and still sexy-sweaty (before the blotchy pink flushing and extreme pit sweat). He looks straight at me, so I smile. And he smiles back.
“Yeah, me!” I exclaim.
About 50 minutes of hard cardio and sopping up in the locker room later, I did a quick once-around-the-gym, but he was gone.
Morning errands after had me driving by the grocery, perfect since I was in need of spinach, distilled water, Cherry Chapstick. Maneuvering past the bakery, bringing up the rear, a familiar navy tee paired with yellow puffy, flame-retardant pants passes. He’s older, the iconic image you’d see in an Easter Seals ad or on a cable-network drama. Old school, he sports a gray handlebar mustache and olive skin that looks like it smells of ash. Since they rarely travel solo, a loop back to produce for butter lettuce reveals the younger, dark haired and freshly scrubbed of the pair. Ran into him buggy first, close enough to hear, “Yes, cantaloupe. We need a lot of cantaloupe.” He returned the smile I gave him too. They’re friendly like that, the firemen.
Cantaloupe, FYI, is the sexiest of the melon family, its sweet, mellow taste similar to another found when exploring a woman. You know.
Why didn’t I say something pithy yet safe? “Hey, I just saw a bunch of you at my gym!” Cute, quick and explains the lack of makeup and heels. Plus calling out my fitness quest alongside a cart of crunchy beta carotene says healthy as well as luscious and juicy. But no. I merely admire.
I’m not a fire stalker. Really. My affinity and affection for all men (well, those men who turn on my mind as much as anything else) is well documented, regardless the profession or situation. Yet just as some gentlemen prefer blondes, short stature, fake tits or old-man scrotum shade of tan, I go for dark, tall, broad shoulders, fair skin and more often than not holding an axe of some sort. Guitar players and firemen (as well as Mr. Cusack, any era) are my "thing"; they need do little more than show up and I’m half way to theirs. There are risks; the guitar player prefers the company of pros and porn stars. In fairness he told me and I didn’t listen, and I dodged a probable Chlamydia bullet. But I found who he was overrode what he was. Pity he wants nothing of me.
There was a time early in my corporate career where men in suits did it, something in those molded shoulder pads no doubt.
Hockey players, rugged, unshaved and often missing teeth. I can bandage that up, rub that out, make it all better. Bookworms and poets, sensitive listeners who rub your feet. Men who can cook.
Perhaps the better blog is what doesn’t do it.