My Gym Crush is Married AND a Doctor So I Hate Him Now.

My life is officially over.

Thinking (in French) about the utter meaninglessness of life. Photo by Jason Vrolijk

Yesterday I was at the gym and my Number One Gym Crush, Trevor, worked out next to me. I was doing chest exercises using a pull-down thingy. I have no fucking clue what anything at the gym is called and honestly I don’t know if I’m doing the movement right half the time. I learned how to lift weights mostly from ogling hot guys while they worked out and from my fitness app, Jetfit (which is great btw). Trevor was already on a contraption adjacent to my contraption and I hesitated before I walked over because I didn’t want to seem stalkery, but the machine I was about to use is always occupied so I figured I should jump on it before someone else did, even if doing so made it look like I was just trying to be near Trevor because of his intense and overwhelming beauty.

I workout at a gym that’s branded as being high-end and minimal, filled with celebrities and the hottest men you’ve ever seen in your whole life. And Jodie Foster, who I’m convinced thinks I’m cute even though she’s gay because she checks me out from time to time and I think she likes my Thick Gay Thighs and my Mayonnaise Bubble Butt. I ignore her because I believe she deserves privacy but I am also obsessed with the fact she’s there because it’s JODY FUCKING FOSTER and I love her so much I could die.

While I was doing my chest pull-down thing (technical term), I let my eyes wander over to Trevor, and we locked eyes for Three Full Seconds. He has beautiful blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and large-yet-not-tacky muscles. He looks like a grown up teen werewolf who graduated from The Harvard-Werewolf School, Werewolf University in the City of New York, The School of Medicine at The University of Werewolfsylvania, and did his residency at Cornell-Werewolf Medicine in New York City. Like he could turn into a dog or whatever at any moment and you’d still be like “he’s hot.”

I’ve had a crush on Trevor for maybe a year. A while back he asked me for a spot on the chest press bench and to me that was essentially a marriage proposal. So I’ve been fantasizing about our life together ever since. We’d live in a tasteful house in the hills, not too big but with really good surfaces (rough-hewn wide plank flooring, wood shingles, stone, sort of Cape Cod style). He’s really good at cooking so we’d throw dinner parties from time to time where he’d make dinner and I’d set a really pretty-yet-understated table with freshly-pressed (by someone else) French linen napkins, a chunky linen tablecloth in a neutral color (oatmeal or flax), and a giant branch I cut off our cherry blossom tree in a simple vase because the tree produces enough branches I can cut them off whenever I want (or just send someone to the flower market downtown in a pinch). I knew at that moment our life together would be perfect and I’ve known that ever since.

So yesterday as I stared into his beautiful eyes, blue like the lakes of Michigan where I’m sure he’s from, I thought to myself:

“You fucking married ass doctor motherfucker I fucking hate you and your sexy ass husband!”

It’s true. He’s married. I pointed him out to a friend of mine at the gym and he said “Oh yeah, he’s married and a doctor.”

I was like FUCK THAT. I have never been so wronged!

It’s like, fine, be married. But don’t be a doctor, too. FUCK YOU, TREVOR!

What was supposed to happen was this:

I’m at the gym, a music agent barges in the door and somehow gets past the front desk where you check in without having to show his membership card. The agent walks right over to me and says, “Universal Music or Whatever has just signed you (even though you have no musical talent whatsoever) to a ten hundred thousand million dollar recording contract! You’re rich forever now and can have whatever you want because money buys happiness!”

After that proclamation I’d faint immediately. Trevor would catch me and as soon as I came to he’d be like “I thought you were gone forever, PLEASE MARRY ME OR I WILL DIE!” and then we’d get married in an EXTREMELY EXPENSIVE WEDDING. The kind you can’t really tell is expensive because it’s the kind of expensive only extremely rich and sophisticated people can tell is expensive because it’s so understated and mostly about tiny minute details, materials, finishes, and things imported from places so obscure you’re the only one who’s ever heard of them because you’re so much smarter than everyone else.

Instead, Trevor and his hot husband sit at home laughing about how hot and married and doctory they are while I sit at home staring out the window thinking about how I’ll die alone in this house, choking to death on a chunk of tuna as I eat it straight out of the can.

There’s another hot guy who works out at my gym who I’m now convinced is Trevor’s husband because I see them talking from time to time. I’m not sure it’s him but in my fantasy of their life it’s him. Like if it can’t be me it should def be Buzz Cut Calves, who is really cute and has really good calves and also has pretty eyes like Trevor. In my fantasy of their life the only thing bad about them is that they have a designer dog (problematic) but it’s not that problematic because it’s a Labradoodle (cute!) and it’s because Trevor is allergic and he had one as a kid and so there’s some rational reason they didn’t adopt a dog like I did, which is clearly the superior thing to do and the one way in which I am better than them so just let me have that, K?

Buzz Cut Calves is a bit shorter than Trevor which is really cute so I bet they looked cute in their wedding photos and their families probably get along really well because they’re both from down-to-earth-yet-affluent midwestern families, the type where all the kids go to an Ivy or Michigan and eventually end up in New York City before they settle not in the midwest as adults. They go back to visit their families and their mother-in-laws are obsessed with them and take them shopping for sweaters whenever they visit because they just can’t get over how handsome their sons and their sons’ husbands are.

Clearly, I hate Trevor now because he’s married and because he’s a doctor. What am I supposed to do BE HAPPY SOME HOT GUY WITH GREAT CALVES TOOK WHAT WAS RIGHTFULLY MINE???

Whatever, I’m moving on to Angry Bubble Butt, who was previously ranked number nine in my official Hot Guys at the Gym Rankings but rose to number one the second I found out Trevor was off the list because it’s just less fun ogling guys who are taken.

Fuck you, Trevor! It’s so rude to be married and a doctor!

Goodbye forever!*

*Until I see you at the gym this afternoon.