For years I was one of those people who paid for a gym membership and hardly ever used it. I kept it around for a couple of reasons: It was cheap, thanks to a trainer friend (never let go of a good value, right?), and it came in handy once or twice a year when the weather was too horrendous to go for a run.

I used to be a dedicated outdoor runner — though it’s clear now that I was over-dedicated and over-training. I preferred solo, early morning workouts and rejected the thought that switching up my routine might actually be good for me.

The conditions were perfect for the biggest bachi of them all: an expansive and painful injury that left me no choice but to head to that dreaded warehouse of sweat and skin.

I had never been comfortable working out at the gym. My outfits were well worn and not meant to be seen by people in daylight hours. And I was filled with doubt: What if I didn’t know how to work any of the machines? Or dropped a weight on my foot — and then tripped over the weight? It felt as though disaster lurked around every corner.

I also would be wading into the universe of gym characters, as one of my pals calls them. There are all kinds, both good and bad: the seniors who are determined to stay active, the socialites who never break a sweat, the muscle men who lift incredible weight, the guys who are there primarily to watch the big game.

Still, I soldiered on. Over time I got used to the characters and, as a helpless people-watcher, began to take note of the other gym regulars — but never, my mind said firmly, in a romantic sense.

Finding a mate at the gym is a recipe for disaster, I told myself. Love doesn’t grow in the squat rack; only germs do.

File that under “famous last words.”

He stood out because he was nothing like the gym characters. He cleaned things up, kept to himself and was nice to his fellow gymgoers. I couldn’t help being drawn to him, and the attraction seemed mutual, which made me panic. How would I get to know him? I’m not exactly a social butterfly, and the intimidating gym environment made it even less likely I would strike up a conversation with a stranger.

In a wild stroke of luck, it turned out he knew my pal, which in this era meant they were friends on Facebook. Bingo! After stealthily employing my journalistic investigative skills (well, he calls it stalking), I knew I wanted to get to know him better. The only way to do that was to overcome my nerves.

Long story short, my gamble paid off — and I can boast that I made the first move. One bonus of meeting K. was that he’s helped me get the hang of the gym and how best to use everything it has to offer. Now I look forward to my workouts and to setting fitness goals together.

Postscript: My injury did eventually heal. I started running again — and this time around, I have a partner.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Celia Downes at cdownes@staradvertiser.com.