This is how it came to pass…
Wendy’s Boy (blathering on about inconsequential matters): Blah blah blah, I like to run, blahdiddty blah blah…
Me (watching Season Three of The O.C., so clearly focused on when they are going to blow Marissa up rather than the telephonic conversation): Uh huh.
Wendy’s Boy (suspiciously perky): Blaaaaahhhhh bladumdeedum blah blah. What time should I pick you up for our Workout Date? Blahblah…
Me (in a full-on HOLY SHIT! Panic): WORKOUT DATE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY “WORKOUT DATE?”
Last night, all annoyingly punctual, Wendy’s Boy arrived at Chez Apartment clad in the snazziest wick-away pants Under Armour manufactures. I was a tad less enthusiastic about the date and still in my Lawyerly Clothes. My brand-new-purchased-in-a-panic-over-lunch workout apparel was heavy on the spandex and frankly, I wasn’t too eager to sausage my Midwestern Sexy bedonadonk into anything black and stretchy.
Wendy’s Boy (totally unaware that his workout pants accentuated the positive, so to speak): I guess you were late getting home from The Place Of Lawyerly Things?
Me (wondering if I could force feed Bionic Kitty my sneakers in the next five minutes): It’s more that I want to give you some disclaimers before I suit up. But first, what’s on the Gym Agenda?
Wendy’s Boy (getting comfortable on the couch): I thought we could do a brisk treadmill run for about an hour, hour and a half. And maybe follow it with some light weights. And for a cool down, I brought my Metal Man Abs DVD.
Me (pretty sure ten minutes of running would necessitate an ER visit to jump start my heart): To be clear, I’ve not been in an athletic facility since 2000. Early ’00. Possibly 1999. Which would mean I’ve not actually exercised this century. You’re going to have to scale back your expectations. Dramatically.
Wendy’s Boy (all smirks and smiles): I was kidding. We’ll easy you back in. Your email outlining the Non-Negotiable Terms And Conditions (Which Must Be Properly Acknowledged And Notarized Proceeding Our Workout Date) did repeatedly mention this was your reintroduction to All Things Gym. By the way, I brought this…
Me (looking at a printout of my email, gussied up with a proper notarial statement and seal): Are you serious?
Wendy’s Boy (trying to suppress the gloat but not really succeeding): I figured if I went to the trouble of finding a notary, you’d feel guilty enough to actually work out. This is my trump card. Now go put on your exercise clothes.
Me (mumbling as I headed to the bedroom to rescue my running shoes from Bionic Kitty): You know me waaaaaaaay too well for the third date.
Wendy’s Boy (shouting after me): I can’t wait to see your ass in lycra!