I met my husband in a gym, which is today’s equivalent of a bar. In 1981 a gym didn’t have that sort of stigma, but the story is still sort of funny.
I was a total rookie and it never failed that he would walk past me just when I was gritting and grimacing. He’d always manage to say something really cheerful like, “Work 'em hard!”
Jerk! If he wasn’t so handsome and built like a God I probably woulda decked him.
Eventually I got a name, but that was a cruel joke. I didn’t know anything about ethnicity or European cultures. Where I’m from the closest we ever got to having an ethnic label was you were either a dairy farmer or an apple farmer.
Sheesh.
I could not for the life of me remember his name, which made for some very funny early dialogue. (Kind of like that Seinfield episode years ago, but his name didn’t rhyme with any of his body parts.)
Truth be told, I hustled him. That’s one advantage of being older and wiser. 
Oh, and there was another guy at the gym who looked just like him, so to play it safe I was probably a little too nice to both of them than I’d like to admit. Just to cover my bases, mind you. Today, you’d almost have to punch me right between the eyes to get my attention in a gym.
Ah, she’s grown so cold.
Anyhow, in the fall of 1981 we finally got down to brass tacks.
The story went like this:
His opener: “I’m working on this great Mopar. Do you like Mopars?”
Me: “Sure do!” (I have no idea what a Mopar is. I hope I didn’t just admit to liking something illegal or immoral.)
Him: “Great!”
(Big, huge pause. He’s clearly at a loss for words, which I mistake for nerves. Come to find out, this is actually a genetic glitch in his brain. He’s not a talker.)
Me: “I’d really like to see your Mopar!” (… because … um … I have no idea what a Mopar is! Now I’m REALLY hoping it’s not illegal. Or gym slang for a body part or something.)
Him: “Really?” (Looks at me like he’s just stumbled on the Lost City of Gold.)
Me: “Sure!” (Thinking: OK, now that I’ve thrown caution to the wind you’d better get with the program, buddy. This is your big chance!)
He tells me he’ll bring it to the gym on Friday.
That means it’s probably not a body part or an exercise. Phew!
Friday he walks into the gym all cocky and excited. Tells me he brought the Mopar. He’s not wearing it or carrying it, so I ask where it is?
Outside.
Right!
I’m thinking … motorcycle?
We finish lifting … mysteriously enough, at the exact same time. (That’s a love story for another day) The excitement mounts.
We walk out to the parking lot and there she sits.
The Mopar.
It’s a car, for crying out loud!
In steel gray primer!
Gutted!
“WOW! It’s beautiful” (First lie. Honest!)
“Ya think?”
He thinks so. It’s written all over his face. Proud as punch.
I slowly circle the heap. Peer inside. It’s God-awful. Smells like oil. Milk crate for a passenger seat. Toolbox on the floor. Racing harness seatbelt. (Not a big confidence builder.) Funky looking pistol shifter. No door panels. Is that blue SHAG carpet remnants? Enough gauges on the dash for a lunar landing and stereo speakers that make the ones in my living room look like an Sony Walkman. (Remember those?)
I grope for something nice to say.
I’m smiling so hard, my face actually hurts.
He’s standing there looking so handsome … and the car? It’s a piece of junk! Still, it’s obvious it’s important to him.
So I said the only really slick thing I’ve ever said in my entire life:
“Did you bring her up here just to look at or were you gonna take me for a ride?”
Many months later when he finally decided it was safe to admit he had feelings for me, he told me that he fell in love with me when he saw how much I liked his car.
Cappy
PS. Turns out, that sweet little hemi 'Cuda kicked butt! 