To Trim Or Not To Trim

It had been over four years since I had last seen Stan and could only recall classifying him into the ‘random druggie’ category of my Jersey public high school. He sat in front of me during twelfth grade English class, alternating between complete silences and napping. He was neither sexy nor unattractive and his dilated pupils served as a constant reminder of the Ecstasy he had a habit of ingesting. In my mind Stan had become a vague, distant memory not unlike my first pair of Keds.

A few weeks ago I was working out at my local New York Sports Club. I was on the elliptical and in the middle of watching “Date My Mom”, when I suddenly felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Stan. He was sporting a black Personal Trainer tee-shirt, hunk-like muscles and looking 1,200 times hotter then I can ever remember. I, on the other hand, was not at my finest. My hair was a combination of dirt, sweat and frizz which I paired nicely with exposed, unshaven legs and a major set of pit stains.

It must have been my lucky day, because Stan was flirting. Normally this goes against my rules. Usually, I’m drawn to guys whose daily physical activity entails binge drinking. Upon leaving the gym, I agreed to a free personal training session. While it sounded like a fantastic idea in the moment, several concerns dawned on me the day of.

1. All of my gym shirts have pit stains, in shades ranging from yellow to brown.
2. Is he going to weigh me?
3. Aerobic activity gives me gas.

I tried to ignore these daunting thoughts and instead concentrated on looking like a Jewish version of Suzanne Somers. I made a quick stop at Target to pick up some stain-free Hanes v-necks, straightened my curly-fro, and squeezed into a pair of surprisingly flattering black spandex. I did a last minute check for camel toe and made my way over to the gym.

I worked out with Stan for over an hour. He made me laugh, and thankfully this didn’t make me fart. He said we should go out for sushi sometime. I thought we should start planning our honeymoon. I left the gym on Cloud 9. Stan had asked for my phone number. Maybe living in Old Bridge wouldn’t be so bad after all. Besides, doesn’t dating a personal trainer guarantee my future eligibility for a size 2?

When I got home, I immediately signed into MySpace.com to see if I could stalk my future-husband-to-be. I checked the yearbook for the spelling of his crazy Russian last name and Tada, found him. What’s this picture of a hot male model doing here? Why is his comment wall signed by guys with overly shaped eyebrows named ‘Hot Naught-E Boy’ and ‘JohnnyBigShlong’? Oh, look at that. There’s a photo of Stan half-naked in the shower posing with a fluffy, pink loofah. This was more unsettling then the time in high school when my mom told me and my boyfriend to “keep it down in there”.

I never saw it coming. Is Stan gay?! I pondered his webpage as I shoveled a bowl of Turkey Hill Moose Tracks into my mouth like I had just escaped from a summer at fat camp. I couldn’t even fathom the possibility that Stan might actually like boys. He seemed so…so straight.

I avoided the gym for two weeks. Instead, I purchased a stepper and a Kathy Smith work-out DVD. While ‘Kathy’s Basic Step’ was made just a few short years ago, I loved it because it looked as though it was made in 1985. All of the steppers, the big ‘K’ included, wore neon colored leotards over contrasting neon colored spandex shorts. Even the men. Although I originally intended on using the video for calorie-burning purposes, I found myself watching it just for the ridiculous ensembles.

I finally made my big comeback to the gym last Thursday. I had rejoined Weight Watchers, which is something I like to do every other Monday after a weekend filled with beer, barbecue chicken pizza and Bloomin’ Onion. God, how I love the Bloomin’ Onion.

I had to burn at least three points in order to make up for my overage of fat-free sugar-free pudding pie, and Kathy just wasn’t cutting it. Before I hopped onto the leg press I looked both ways to see if I could spot Stan. I prayed it was his night off and let out a sigh of relief when he didn’t show up in my radar.

Not even two minutes into my workout, he found me.

“Hey, Jess! I haven’t seen ya in while!”

Ohhhhh no!

“Hey. Yeah I know. I’ve been like, so busy with work and class and everything.”

‘Everything’ meaning clomping around in my sister’s bedroom to a forty year old aerobics instructor, eating Malomars and scanning JDate for guys who earned over $100,000 per year and whose noses didn’t resemble the Titanic. This was no easy task.

“Oh. Well that’s cool. I’ve been real busy, too.”

Doing what? Humping men?

“I was wondering, do you want to go out with me and some friends on Saturday? We’re going to this bar Ashes in Red Bank… should be a good time”

Am I hearing this correctly? Oh, I get it. Maybe he wants me to be his fag hag. Get in line, buddy.

I took him up on the offer anyway. My inner detective just had to know the truth. Besides, alcohol was involved. How could I resist? I decided on a steady diet of broccoli and baby carrots, as to maximize my alcohol-points intake on the big day. I would certainly need them.
When Saturday rolled around, I started to panic. What does one even wear when going on a date with an attractive, yet possibly gay male? I did a mental scan of my wardrobe, and decided that nothing I owned was appropriate for such an occasion. This called for a trip to the Freehold Mall.
I needed to look cute in case he was straight, but I couldn’t dress slutty if it turned out he wasn’t. I also didn’t want to spend more then twenty dollars, in case his gayness meant I would be buying my own drinks.

It came to me as I chewed my grizzly-Chinese-chicken sample from the food court. I would pop my ‘Forever 21’ cherry. I pushed through the crowds of pre-teen girls and the moms who tried to dress like them, and found the perfect top. It was a flattering green and white striped tank top, which I planned on pairing with a short, frayed denim skirt over a pair of grey spandex leggings. I must have been spending a little too much quality time with Kathy.

It was getting late and I raced home to shower and get ready. I washed my hair, shaved my armpits and then I looked down. To trim or not to trim? As I was not about to chance razor-burn on an unreliable suitor, I decided to go au naturale. I changed into my tank top and sucked in. Not bad, I thought. I threw my curls up into a messy pony tail, put on some makeup and at the advice of my mother, poured a strong cocktail while I sat at the kitchen table and waited for Stan. He was twenty minutes late, and tardiness doesn’t fly with Mom.. “Even if he is straight, I don’t like him already!” she protested as I ran out the door.

Then, something unexpected happened. Stan got out of his shiny, new Beamer and opened the door for me. Okay, he might be straight. Or maybe folks from the U.S.S.R are just really polite. He looked good, but for some reason my attraction just wasn’t as strong outside of the gym. Why couldn’t he have worn his personal trainer tee shirt and carried some free weights? I would have even settled for one of those huge, bouncy balance balls. I guess my personal trainer fantasy had gotten the best of me, but I figured a few drinks and he would be Hulk Hogan.

We made a quick pit stop at Wawa to meet up with a car full of his alleged ‘guy friends’, and Stan went inside to purchase some Trident strawberry-kiwi gum. Fruity gum for a fruity guy? Perhaps. Conversation flowed easily as we made the twenty-six minute journey down to Red Bank. Stan talked about the health benefits of egg whites and Creatine shakes, while I tried to decide whether I would start with a Martini or a Gin and Tonic.

When we got to Ashes, I saddled right up to the bar to scan the drink list. Stan stood behind me, and told me to order two of whatever I was getting. I bravely chose a $12 Gloria Estefan, an orange-flavored Mojito, in hopes that I would not be the one paying. Two votes for straight, as he whipped out his MasterCard. I took the next few minutes to analyze his buddies. Three were checking out the girls. The forth was bordering on ambiguously homosexual, while I was bordering on extreme paranoia. What are those statistics again? Is it two out of every five guys are gay? I forget.

The drinks kept coming. I downed one more Gloria, three Coronas and two shots of Soco and lime. I was wasted, stumbling and praying that I would not pee my spandex. Stan was doing the white-boy shuffle. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to quit the Ecstasy. While the details are fuzzy, I do recall him holding my hand. Or maybe he was just holding me up so I didn’t have to crawl to the bathroom. Either way, there was some definite flirtation. At some point Stan stopped drinking. As I had no intentions of being the designated driver, I kept on chugging.

The next thing I can remember is waking up in his car, my ass on fire from the heated seats. We were back in Old Bridge, in front of my house to be exact. I said a quick, sloppy “I’ll see you at the gym” and staggered down my driveway. He didn’t hold the door open, try to kiss me, or even put his hand down my pants. Gay! I knew it, but I didn’t care. I was completely hammered, famished and more concerned about what leftovers would be in the fridge.

Rock bottom, I thought to myself as I stood in front of the open refrigerator door stuffing my face with cold, chopped steak and mac and cheese. At least points don’t count when you’re drunk! After the binge, I struggled up the stairs, threw my shirt on the floor and fell into bed. I desperately wanted to brush the meaty feast out of my teeth, but I thought that throwing the flavor of Colgate into the mix might have caused me to vomit. I closed my eyes and drifted into a comatose sleep.

“Be my lover. Got to be my lover! Da-da-da-dee-da-da-da-da.” Ugh. What the? Oh, text message. It was from Stan.

“Thanks for the compliments and the good time. Had a blast. I must say I wanted to kiss you, but hate when alcohol is involved”

Why are you blaming your unclear sexuality on alcohol? And compliments? What compliments? I certainly did not tell him he was a good dancer. And he’s not gay? Lord help me. I proceeded to the toilet to throw up and figure out how my life had come down to determining other people’s sexual preferences.

I woke up and felt so awful I convinced myself that I miscarried in my sleep. My hair resembled Krusty the Clown, mascara ran down my face and my gut protruded ever so nicely over my too-tight leggings. I put on a shirt and stumbled downstairs for a cup of coffee.

My mom looked up from the Wedding Section of the Sunday Times.

“So, is he gay?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe he’s bi?”