The Gym Rat Trap

When I met Chad, I thought I’d finally cracked the dating algorithm. He was funny, ambitious, and had biceps that could probably cradle a small cow. A real gym rat — not just one of those guys who “occasionally hikes” and thinks whey protein is a type of shampoo. He had the full package: personal trainer certification, veins that mapped his forearms like Google Earth, and a way of saying “macronutrients” like it was a poem.

Our first date? Protein smoothies. Cute. Second date? We “casually” ran a 5K. I died, but like, charmingly. And then he kissed my forehead and said, “You’re tougher than you think.” I swooned. Mostly from dehydration.

So, for the third date, I had an idea. What if I planned his perfect day? What if I impressed him with my athletic spirit? I mean, how hard could a leg workout possibly be?

Very. The answer is very.

I told him I wanted him to “train me,” and his eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. He showed up to my apartment in a sleeveless hoodie, carrying a duffle bag that probably had more resistance bands than the entire cast of Cirque du Soleil.

We went to his gym — a place that smelled like sweat, ambition, and just a whisper of Axe body spray. Within ten minutes, I was squatting with a kettlebell heavier than my emotional baggage. Chad was behind me, yelling things like “GO DEEPER!” and “FEEL THE BURN!” I wasn’t sure if I was exercising or being exorcised.

At one point, I blacked out and woke up mid-lunge, praying to the ghost of Jane Fonda. Every time I said “I can’t,” he said “Yes, you CAN.” I wanted to tell him that yes, I can vomit and cry at the same time.

After an hour of pain, we walked (I waddled) back to his place. I’d worn new leggings. They had become one with my skin. We sat on his couch and he gave me a high-five. Not a kiss. A high-five. I had almost lost bladder control doing Bulgarian split squats and this man gave me a platonic slap of the palm.

I tried to flirt, obviously. I said, “So... you wanna come over Friday night?” He said, “Sure! Leg day again?” I laughed, hoping he was joking. He wasn’t.

That Friday, I faked an injury. Told him I had “quad tightness” and a family emergency involving lasagna. He didn’t ask questions. Just sent me a YouTube video on foam rolling.

Three days later, he texted:

“Hey. I think you’re amazing but I need someone who shares the same passion for fitness. No hard feelings.”

Then he posted a story of him doing one-armed pushups while his new girl counted reps. She had visible abs and a ponytail that didn’t frizz. I cried. And ordered cheesy bread.

I learned a few things that week:

• Never compete with a man’s true love if it’s leg day.
• Gym towels are not made for tears.
• There’s no shame in falling for someone who can deadlift your self-esteem.
• And most importantly — if someone only loves you when you're doing squats, they're not worth your stretch marks.

Author's Note:

This story is a tribute to everyone who’s ever tried to impress someone by stepping completely out of their comfort zone — and ended up with sore legs and a bruised ego. Remember: The right one won’t make you earn love with protein bars and burpees. You deserve to be adored — even if you skip leg day.

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