'M' Is For 'Mortified'

So there's this smoking hot dude who works out at the gym where I meet with my trainer. I've been drooling over him for quite some time but never talk to him. (The famous City Elf bravado works better when I'm not dressed in a baggy t-shirt and yoga pants, soaked in my own sweat.)

Anyhow, today my trainer decided to "help" me out by starting a conversation with him when I went to grab some water. I came back as she was asking him what he does and why he drives such a big truck, a fact I had mentioned to her earlier.

"When did you see my truck?" he asked, looking surprised.

"Oh, um, I saw it in the parking lot. Well, really, she saw it and told me," she said, pointing at me as I melted into a humiliated little puddle on the floor.

"It, uh, looks like a big truck for one person," I mumbled.

He was all, "Thanks, Al Gore." Okay, not really. He said something about snowboarding and surfing (hella hot) and then I sort of turned around to get back to my workout while giving my trainer a half-hearted stinkeye.

Please, please, Melody, I beg of you: no more dating help. I don't think I can take the stress or the embarassment.