Fit To Love Part I

I have another novel on Twitter that has been going for months.  There’s no end in sight.  It is the tale of a love-starved young man, who thinks there is a close relationship between fitness and romance. 

Just for info’s sake, Twitter is social media that allows postings of up to 140 characters.  That 140 character limit includes not only letters and punctuation, but also spaces.  This imposes a structure on the author that requires different skills and techniques than other sorts of composition.

I’m including the first two or three, in their Twitter format, and, then, I go narrative on you.

Fit To Love

I admit it. I was looking for love. And, if not love, something similar and, possibly, less complicated. I thought I was prepared for this. 8:32 PM Jul 22nd, 2009 from twhirl

I was romantic. At least, I looked it. Eyes - piercing. Eyebrows – devilishly wiggly. Teeth – lasered, a possible interrogation tool. 12:51 PM Jul 23rd, 2009 from twhirl

To some, I was hot. To myself, incandescent. I felt I looked best under effort. It could be working out, rocking out, or in the sack. 8:44 AM Jul 24th, 2009 from twhirl

In the sack. I know that’s kind of crude, but try to picture it.

Okay, don’t. But I joined this health club for a reason. And, it wasn’t to lose weight, improve my circulatory system, or the cheap dues.

That’s right. As I said, it was love. This was where the babes were. My sister told me so, though she called them ‘the cute girls.’

I am not a sexist pig. I’m not a pig, at all. I’m anxious. I talk like this when I’m nervous and who wouldn’t be? This was Babe Central.

They were everywhere. Athletes, models, girlfriends, wives. I just hoped they wanted love as much as I did.

They called it their routine, yet it was anything but routine, to me. I kept blinking and shaking the sweat out of my eyes. I was amazed.

Shortly, I began to get the looks. A girl in blue shorts and a tank top came over and asked if I was having a seizure. I couldn’t speak.

When I only stared, I thought she took it as a sign. But, she turned, muttering, “Creep.” Crushed, I mouthed, “I’ll wait for you.”

I could have waited forever, but I didn’t. I had my own routine. I knew I needed practice. I grabbed a dumbbell and faced the mirror.

I was lop-sided. I grabbed the other dumbbell and brought it to my chin. A bit too enthusiastically. I recovered and wiggled my eyebrows.

My head tilted to one side, I practiced, “Hi, doll.” No. No. Calm down, Eddie, I told myself. “Ma’am, I like you.” Ma’am?

Okay, I was nervous. Here, in a heaven created by the changing ideals of a culture gone whacko, we were all supposed to be beautiful.

I’m not only romantic, I’m a philosopher. My philosophy is: we’re young, we’re in shape, let’s fall in love. Is that too esoteric?

I’m also practical and I knew that I needed to live up to the same standards I was holding other people to. I kept the elliptical churning.