She keeps on passsssin' me by........

It's just a Pharcyde thing.

On any other evening, between the usual times of 7-9pm, this sight would do little more than invigorate me, give me fuel to bang out an extra set or two. The gym is a place of increased self-esteem, my very own "quantum of solace," but in its own double-edged sword effect on my confidence, Club H Fitness also taunts me. Causes me to question my own backbone. Will you ever work up the nerve to just approach the damn girl? No more gentle pleasantries upon entering and exiting, but actual human conversation? Normally I'm able to just catch a smile, a somewhat-promising glance of "This guy seems cute," but then I go about my elliptical-and-weight-machine buffet of increased mojo.

This day, though, threw me for a loop-tee-loop. Sent my thoughts into maximum overdrive, distracted my focus from locker room unwind straight through water fountain cooldown, 50 minutes later. Walking in, I noticed her, there behind the front desk like any other night. She must've won Employee of the Month a slew of times, because she's there every evening, always with a biscuit-warm smile on face, easing you into the physicality of Club H. There's a nametag on her right bosom, but I've yet been able to get a long enough look at it to acquire her parent-issued label. Gotta work on that. Her usual attire is standard gym-employee garb---generic black Club H tee-shirt that fits her just right, accentuating her slender frame amplified by curves in all of the money-shot areas. Long, straight brown hair. Even a slight bucktooth, a dentist's-wet-dream that's unavoidable. But when she smiles, even the snaggle-chompers fall back, allowing the natural charm to overshadow the slight oral setback. It's an imperfection that gives her an additional sense of down-to-Earth-ness. She can't be sadiddy, snobby like most other beautiful girls, then, right?

Always on front-street broadcast, her bucktooth seemingly reformed Terminator style for this particular encounter. Who would've even noticed, with what she had on? She could've been wearing a dunce-cap with a propeller on top for all I knew, because for the first time since I'd initially noticed her, months earlier, she opted for her own personal wardrobe. And thank the sexy-lady stars for that.

The first thing I noticed were the brown spandex pants; she'd been leaning over the front of the check-in desk, talking to a co-worker as he entered something into the computer. Who gives a fuck what, considering how proper miss thing looked in this outfit. Brown spandex, tucked into some baige Ugg boots right directly between the ankles and knees; a tan turtleneck sweater, loose enough to appear comfortable. My eyes were held captive, my fitness routine that I'd plotted out in-brain sinking in a puddle of mental mush. Then, as if some high power was invested in servicing the "Sensory Overload of Matt Barone," she turned in my direction as I walked past the desk's left side, toward the men's locker room. Showing off her shapely body (think of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in Ghost, his hands over hers, smoothing out that vase-like statue; their hand motions would've ran the course without interruption up and down this girl's body).

Jesus, I knew she was a looker, but I didn't know she had it like that!

Nameless Beauty: "Hi there, back again, I see."

Me: "Yeah, even though for a second I was tempted to walk right past the front door here, right to my apartment, to watch some Family Guy."

Nameless Beauty: [Laughs] "Oh, I love that show! Normally, I'd be against people skipping the gym, but that'd be one time where I'd make an exception."

Me: [Laughs] "Oh good, 'cause I was expecting you to make fun of me or something."

Nameless Beauty: "No way! I've seen you here enough to know that you're not the type to be all lazy. At least I'd hope not...."

Me: "Of course not."

Right here, looking back, I wish I could've had an outer-body experience, because I'd have slapped the piss out of myself for just saying "Okay, see you later," and going about my workout. But that kind of shit only happens in the movies; in reality, I missed my chance. Dropped my one shot-glass, and had no money to buy another. She seemed engaged in our mini-chat, even admitted to loving Family Guy...that was the perfect opportunity, asshole.

Was that my one opp? Did I totally drop the ball, near the endzone, at the four-second mark? Why the fuck did I clam up, and not ask for her name? Not saying it would've led to a first date the next night, but still. Could've opened the door for future, longer convos. Not just the welcoming, friendly smile I've gotten ever since. And even those smiles, are they a sign that she's hoping I'll spark up another random exchange? Maybe one where I'll mention how badly I'm hooked into True Blood, even though I'm sort of ashamed by it, and she'd hesitantly agree and reveal a similar guilty-pleasure-fix?

Or am I just being a loser? Wasting minimal thought on a totally one-sided intrigue? I'm probably just one of about 50 dudes who she small-talks with. It's part of her job description, for Pete's sake? And, really, who the fuck is this "Pete," anyway? She's like a waitress at Hooters, in this respect. They flirt with you, looking all sexy-like, but they're only in it for the tips. This chick at Club H is only it for her paychecks.

The neverending internal struggle. To approach, or not to approach? To keep tail tucked firmly between legs, or to let the tail wag freely, allowing my balls to breathe and do what it do? Those are the questions....