I never thought I’d be that girl. The one who works up the courage to ask someone out in the most random, awkward setting—only for it to blow up in her face.
But here I am.
Let me paint the scene.
I’m 22. Small. Nerdy. Not the “cute gamer girl” stereotype people fantasize about, but the real deal. The shrimpy, pale, JRPG-obsessed type who spends more time grinding levels on a console than grinding weights at the gym.
And that’s exactly why I started going in the first place. My back hurt. My body ached from sitting too long. My doctor told me, “You need to build core strength.” Translation: Go to the one place you dread the most—THE GYM.
So I picked the least social hour of the day: early mornings. I wanted silence. No crowds. Just me, my water bottle, and a prayer that no one noticed how weak I was.
But then I saw him.
Every morning, same time. He’d walk in like some mythological being, towering, broad, muscles stacked on muscles. The biggest guy I had ever seen in real life. He didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t waste time. Just lifted ungodly amounts of weight, cleaned his equipment, and left.
And somewhere between one rep and another, I developed a crush.
It wasn’t subtle. I started looking forward to seeing him. Started fixing my hair before heading in. Started telling my friends about “the giant gym guy.”
And oh, they loved it.
“Ask him out already.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You’re basically writing fanfiction about him anyway.”
I brushed it off at first. But the teasing kept coming. And slowly, the thought grew roots: Maybe I should. Just once. Just to prove I can.
So last week, I did it.
He was wiping down a barbell, sweat glistening under the fluorescent lights, and I swear my heart was pounding louder than the bass of the gym music. My palms were shaking, my throat dry, but I forced myself to walk over.
“Hi,” I managed, my voice trembling. “This is kind of random, but… I’ve seen you around, and I’d love to get to know you. Do you want to grab a coffee sometime?”
Time froze.
He looked up, surprised. Then he smiled—the kind smile that makes you think, Maybe this isn’t so bad.
But then came the words that sent my stomach straight to the floor.
“Wow. That’s really flattering. But… I’m married. With kids. I’m also forty-one.”
FORTY. ONE.
I’m 22. He looked maybe late twenties, early thirties at most. But no. Twice my age. A wife. A family.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face. I laughed nervously, muttered something like, “Oh my god, I had no idea, no worries,” waved like an idiot, and walked away.
On the outside: casual.
On the inside: DEAD.
The embarrassment hit like a freight train. I skipped the gym the whole next week. I couldn’t even think about walking in there again. Every scenario played in my head—people whispering, him laughing about it with his friends, me forever branded as the foolish girl who hit on the married dad.
Why did I do that?
Why didn’t I just keep my crush to myself?
Why couldn’t I just stay in my comfort zone where I belong?
Because that’s what it was, really. It wasn’t just about being rejected. It was about me—someone who never steps out of line, never risks humiliation—finally taking a leap. And falling flat on my face.
But then, this week, I went back.
I braced myself for the awkwardness, the tension, the silent pity. Instead, when we passed each other near the towels, he smiled.
“Hey, welcome back.”
That’s it. No weird tone. No judgment. Just kindness.
And in that moment, I realized something:
Yes, I embarrassed myself. Yes, I’ll cringe every time I replay the scene in my head. But I did it. I asked. I dared. I lived through it.
And the world didn’t end.
So maybe I won’t ever ask someone out at the gym again. Maybe I’ll never see him as anything more than the man who accidentally starred in the most awkward chapter of my young adult life.
But I’ll keep showing up.
Not just to lift weights. Not just to fix my back. But to remind myself that sometimes, the most humiliating moments are proof that you’re at least trying to live a little braver than before.
And one day, maybe, I’ll laugh about it too.
For now? I’ll just keep lifting. And cringing. And showing up anyway.
