Cake Teeth

I woke up the morning after my 30th birthday, sipping a cup of coffee as I stared into my empty fridge hoping something would magically appear.  I’d been spread pretty thin for the previous 15 days and had nothing of nutritional value left to eat.

Luckily for me, I was given a chocolate birthday cake at work and had taken the leftovers home.  I sighed and cut off a sliver to tide me over until I could buy some lunch somewhere.  I rationalized by telling myself that it was essentially the same as eating a cinnamon roll.  Plus I was now in my third decade:  I did what I wanted.

I walked down to the bus stop, mentally prepping myself to get through the rest of the work week, when a man walked out of the gym and asked me how I was doing.

“Fine, thanks,” I responded.

The man paused, looked at me, and said, “Wait here one minute!” and ran back inside.

I secretly prayed my bus would show up, as I was confident at this point he had me confused for someone else.

He came back out, smiled, and handed me an info card saying, “It’s your lucky day.”

I looked down and saw that the card was for 6 weeks of a free gym membership.

“I was just on my way to get a cup of coffee and I felt like being generous.  I own the gym.  Why don’t you give me your number and we can schedule something for today or tomorrow when you can come in.  I’ll set you up with a personal trainer and everything,” he smiled as if he was handing me a winning lottery ticket.

I, on the other hand, was wondering if I had leftover chocolate cake in my teeth when I spoke to him earlier.  Or could he smell chocolate on my breath?

The cake breakfast compounded with the fact that I turned 30 the day before meant that this was not a good day for him to approach me and tell me to work out.  The joke was on him because the only running I was going to do was if someone was chasing me.  And I had just eaten cake.  For breakfast.

This guy, who was easily in his 50’s, was asking for my number, and I looked at him like he was insane.  Also the last thing I wanted was someone texting me to harass me to go work out all of the time.

It’s like he could sense I only had cheese and wine in my fridge at the moment.

I told the guy thanks, but no way was I giving out my number to him.  He settled for writing his number down which he “never does” and told me to text him, and he would get me all set up.  I got ready to board the bus, when I saw the sign out front that boasted about giving away 6 weeks free to new members.

Needless to say, I shared this story numerous times throughout my day, when a friend of mine texted me back and asked if the guy was hitting on me and trying to get my number.

I told him no, I just figured he was desperate for gym memberships, but it was too soon after my cake breakfast and had struck a nerve.  Besides, what would he want my number for?  Did he have a thing for girls he was trying to “fix” and break me of my wine and cheese habits?

My friend texted back that the gym owner was in over his head if that was his game.  I was already too many years into my wine and cheese addiction for it to turn around at this point.

“Why can’t someone from a wine or cheese family ask for my number?” I griped, wondering if there was an heir to the Sargento family out there on the market somewhere.

I wasn’t joining that gym any time soon.  I did not have the time to shop for groceries, so fitting in a workout was not at the top of my list for the time being.

Besides I’m the girl who inadvertently ate so many Red Vines a few days ago that I brushed my teeth and had a minor freak out when I thought I spit blood into the sink.  But it was really my lack of self-control staring back at me.

And I’m not even mildly ashamed of that as I probably should be.

So I went home, poured myself a glass of wine and cut up some cheese, daydreaming about becoming Mrs. Sargento.

 

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