What's the single largest grumble from gym-going males? It has nothing to do with feeling the burn, the lack of cardio machines, or the questionable stains on those complimentary shower towels. Surprise! It's how to talk to women who work out.
"When guys are surrounded by women in spandex, it's like their brains turn off," says Michael Laitman, regional director of Equinox Fitness in Chicago. "I've seen 90-pound guys trying to bench press 250 pounds to impress some girl walking by. Then they saunter up later and, without saying hello, ask her out. It's a crash and burn every single time."
What is it about slipping on the sweats that can transform a.normal, confident guy into someone who can't unknot his tongue? "The women are hot, sweaty, and half-dressed," explains Dariusz Garko, a personal trainer at a New York Sports Club. "Sure, they come to the gym to exercise, but most aren't opposed to meeting someone there. Getting them to change their focus to you is quite doable. It just has to be done the right way."
As every good coach knows, the key to scoring is a great playbook. Go in without a game plan and you run the risk of being shot down. The same goes for meeting women at the gym. To help you avoid the pitfalls specific to wooing while working out, I assumed the guise of a super-stud guinea pig at three New York City health clubs, armed only with the wisdom of three distinctly different dating cornermen: a gallant gentleman, a sexually experienced woman, and an over-the-top lothario. Then I donned a white lab coat over my one-piece workout leotard and exercised my love muscles. Read on for the results of my experiment.
The Approach: The Gentleman
The Spot: New York Sports Club, 1601 Broadway, Midtown
Point of Contact: A Kickboxing Class
It's true what they say: Love hurts.
Of course, getting smacked in the face by a woman you just met is no picnic either.
And yet, here I am, gamely attempting small talk while a 5'2", 105-pound mini--Mike Tyson with boobs continues to rain blows about my head and torso in a kickboxing class. It's billed as non-contact, but apparently my sparring partner hasn't read the brochure.
It's not easy to be nice to a lady who has just delivered several illegal shots below your belt, but according to Peter Post, author of Essential Manners for Men, it's a necessity. "Offering a compliment to a woman is a very gentlemanly thing to do," explained Post, great-grandson of manners maven Emily Post. "But in a gym setting, it's inappropriate to refer to her physical appearance. Comment on her abilities, not only to show you're a nice guy who notices things, but also that you're not solely focused on how she looks. If she responds favorably, that's a signal to move forward."
Putting the Post plan to work, I say nothing of how hot my opponent looks in her skin-tight black-and-yellow lycra, and instead casually mention how impressed I am with the swiftness of her footwork as she bobs and weaves around the punching bag. Surprisingly, she stops jabbing long enough to turn and acknowledge the flattering remark. As we circle each other over the next few rounds, I work the praise like a speed bag. By the end of the hour, she accepts my services to act as ring man at her next boxing session. Walking out the door, I'm clutching her phone number. I emerge from the club bruised and beaten but feeling like the Lord of the Ring.
Take My Advice: Nice guys don't finish last.
The Approach: The International Man of Mystery
The Spot: Equinox Fitness, 1633 Broadway, Midtown
Point of Contact: The Juice Bar
I've never really had too many problems initiating contact with a woman at a bar. Slap on the suave James Bond grin, have the bartender send over the vodka martini, and at the very least I've gotten a nod and a name. Mind you, these successes took place at bars where alcohol was being served. When the bar is "juice only" however, and the object of my desire is a raven-haired Katie Holmes look-alike, buying a shot of wheat grass isn't going to have quite the same effect.
Luckily, I have a secret weapon at my disposal: the advice of Men's Fitness columnist and sexpert Sarah Hedley. Ms. Hedley suggested I try to come across as a sophisticated, knowledgeable sort with a hint of Austin Powers--only with better teeth. "Without the social lubrication of alcohol, offering to purchase a lady's drink at the gym may seem a little too forward," advised Hedley. "Instead, mention another juice bar you know, and how that one creates the best health cocktails on the planet. Then simply leave your business card with the offer that, should said lady ever want to try out your juice, you'd be more than happy to arrange it. Just try saying it in a less smutty way."
Oblivious to the contents, benefits, and taste of anything on the menu, I try to select the manliest-sounding drink on tap: the Power Pink Pleasure. (OK, it might not sound manly, but believe me--few fruit drinks do.) The mixologist behind the counter flings strawberries, cider, and peanut butter into a blender as I lean over to engage my toned and taut neighbor. Over the whirring of the blades, I inquire as to the contents of her frothy beverage. She excitedly expounds on the virtues of protein powder, and we begin a debate on the pros and cons of herbal vitamins. As I implement Sarah's advice, my target scribbles down the address of my potion-paradise suggestion.
Seizing the moment, I place my card in front of her and suggest we check out the secret spot together some time. Pocketing my information, she smiles and replies, "I'll give it a try and let you know if it was any good." Then she stands to go and parts by saying, "It was nice talking with you." Was the mission a success? I'll have to wait and see. But sucking down my drink I know one thing: The pleasure's all mine.
Take My Advice: Even if you're broke, you can still have a wealth of information.
The Approach: The Bad Boy
The Spot: Crunch Fitness, 404 Lafayette Street, Greenwich Village
Point of Contact: The Free-Weights Rack The rules governing dating in a gym should be the same as those for going on safari: Stay hydrated, avoid females traveling in packs at all costs, and when moving in for the kill, try not to shoot yourself in the foot.
With these guidelines in mind, I prepare to unleash my inner Hemingway on the cut, willowy blonde who, until recently, was pedaling her wares on the elliptical machine next to me. She's moved over to work the free weights as the vein in her bicep throbs to the beat of Jay-Z pumping from overhead speakers.
I advance warily since, if things go south, the 20-pound barbell she's sporting would make a pretty nifty weapon. The tentative approach isn't one advised by Steve Marmel, co-creator of Spike TV's macho-minded series This Just In. "Don't be a wuss," admonished Marmel, in the guise of his show's opinionated character, Brian Newport. "Be a man and get aggressive. The great thing about women at the gym is that they don't expect to be hit on while they're all sweaty with no makeup, so they appreciate your making the effort. To break the ice, lead off with a hip workout tip that shows you're not just brawn, but brains too. Once the mojo is rolling, move on in."
Ordinarily, it would be difficult for me to muster up the courage to be a total asshole. I'm a sweet guy--ask my mom. But in the interest of science, I switch into jackass mode.
Sliding a barbell off the rack, I vigorously wipe down the bench next to her and stare intently in the mirror facing us. I attempt to engage in some serious eye flirting, but instead only catch the gaze of the six other dudes also scrutinizing my blond bombshell. Plunging ahead, I tilt over to suggest trying another technique for better triceps definition. Her response is silence. Undaunted, I repeat the advice, only louder. Still nothing. The torrent of perspiration now swimming down my face has nothing to do with physical exertion--it's flop sweat.
Finally, she appears to notice my presence and removes a set of iPod earphones hidden under her golden locks. "Were you talking to me?" she asks. I repeat the suggestion for a third time. Pausing, she glances down at the 10-pound weight in my hands. "Are you a trainer?" she inquires witheringly. My lack of an affirmative reply--as well as beach-ready biceps--spells doom. "Listen, if I need help, I'll ask my personal trainer." Turning away, she delivers the kill shot: "Looks like you could use his help, too." My dangerous prey having escaped, I slink off to the showers to wash away the stench of failure.
Take My Advice: It's a jungle out there.
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