Especially while I’m using that awkward inner thigh machine. No, I don’t want your number while I’m pressing weight in a similar fashion to having a gynecologist examine me while I have my feet up in the stirrups. I didn’t come here for you to give me workout tips. Just like you, I came here to workout. Let’s leave it that way.
When the club is closing and the lights are up, your last ditch effort of desperation- not a chance. Maybe if you had approached me at the start of the night prior to those 10 tequila shots and my sweaty hair plastered to my forehead, things could be different. Now I’m probably clinging to my girlfriend, carrying my heels and very much wanting a greasy slice of pizza.
Nothing more romantic then a conversation while you pick up some mysterious anti-biotic and I’m buying a super pack of tampons. It was probably meant to just be a quick in and out trip; let’s not make it anything more.
Salesmen, I’m sorry but this is just too much of a grey area here. You’re suave- but that’s your job. I can’t tell whether or not you’re just swooning me to hit your commission sales or if you’re actually interested. When you’re off shift, perhaps we can talk.
This is for real. Even if you’re an adorable nurse, I’m probably not in the state of mind for you to ask me out. As in I’m heavily medicated, rocking a backless gown and waiting for the test results of a broken limb. It is also not appropriate (or legal!!) to take my number off my hospital bracelet.