The wiry gas station attendant peered down his nose at me, challenging me to an arm wrestling match for the keys to the restroom.

He pushed up his sleeve and slammed his elbow on the countertop, not allowing me even a second's chance to decline the challenge. I squinted down at his tattooed bicep, perched ready and taught on the counter top and snorted disdainfully.  "Well," I said.  And then paused, allowing my city-girl machismo to fill the space between us.

"I AM a personal trainer, ya know."

And as I said the words, they sort of floated there in front of me, just bobbing and dipping through the air, like bubbles, waiting for a small child to pop them.  It was a sentence I'd never said before.

I stood there, watching my words hover over the head of curly dark hair in front of me, still bowed in concentration, ready for the match to begin.

I cleared my throat.  I could tell he wanted to test the strength of the all-american sweetheart standing in front of him almost as much as she needed to use his bathroom."Which means I might beat you,"I clarified.  

He looked up, finally, a goofy grin spreading across his face.
"And that would just be embarrassing," I teased in my usual manner, a delicate balance of feistiness and flirtation- perfected over the years to make men pause and think before responding. 

"Awhawhaw," he half chuckled, half spoke, waggling his finger at me in a knowing sort of way.
"I LIKE you," he said, the way sometimes people from the country do when they tease us city folk.  He waved his arm at me to follow him, and as he handed me the key to the ladies' room suddenly, just like that, it was true.

I was a personal trainer.