by Angela Terry
“Ah. Golden handcuffs.” Jordan nods sympathetically.
“Also, getting dressed every day and having somewhere to go with a purpose was nice. You really miss it when it’s gone. But I think my favorite parts were coming up with community outreach programs, and I liked when there were kids involved. There was always this feel-good factor and, I don’t know, it just felt more like I was actually doing something.”
“Yeah. You were like that in college too. So what’s the plan then? Are you joining the Peace Corps? Going off to build houses for Habitat for Humanity? Something with orphans in Africa?”
“Not so fast.” I hold up an unsteady finger to make an important point. “And I warn you this is the ugly part. The other realization was that I like doing good so long as I can still afford my highlights and my nice, door-manned condo.”
Jordan barks out a laugh and clinks her glass against mine on the table. “To thine own self be true.”
“Ha!” I giggle. “So basically that means that I need another corporate job. Probably another accounts manager job either at an advertising, marketing, PR firm or maybe in-house for a company. Pretty much the same old, same old.”
“That’s not much of a reinvention plan.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not like I hated my job.”
“True. You never really complained other than the general work grind gripes; unlike me, who complains every waking moment.” I raise a don’t-I-know-it eyebrow at her. In response, she rolls her eyes at me and says, “Sorry, but litigation sucks. You work for unhappy clients who are either suing or being sued, which makes everyone at work unhappy and under pressure. And at the end of the day, it’s just all about the money. Nobody’s saving lives here.”
“Maybe you should go in-house? Isn’t that the lawyer dream?”
“And be bored out of my mind? Hell, no. Also, then what would I have to complain about? Or more like, what would I have to talk about? And then all the extra free time in my life? I’d have to come up with a new excuse for not working out, or find a hobby … like knitting or something.” She shudders.
“Ha-ha. So you’ll keep your high-pressured job that’s pretty much killing you, and I’ll continue to look for a job in a field that doesn’t excite me but doesn’t annoy me either.” I nod mock sagely. “I think we’ve made a lot of progress here tonight and deserve a third round.”
Jordan mock nods along with me. “Agreed. And I think we also deserve some dinner to soak up some of this ‘insight.’” She taps her glass referring to its contents. “Nothing like a couple of drinks to make everything seem much clearer.”
While meeting friends for drinks over the weekend isn’t exactly a new activity for me, the amount of alcohol consumed has been. But I still stick to my Saturday-long-run-morning schedule and head to Lincoln Park to ruminate on last night’s conversation with Jordan. Even though I want to think about my future, my mind this morning is on Neil. I didn’t need Jordan to point out that perhaps I smother my relationships a bit. Last night’s more sobering truth was that I pretty much give up who I am in order to keep a relationship.
Although I’m out here doing my long run—a generous term since it’s mostly walking interspersed with some light jogging—the last event I trained for was the Chicago marathon four years ago. I had just met Neil and had already signed up for the marathon as I did every year. During that first year of dating, those Saturday mornings were rough. I didn’t completely abandon them since I had already committed to the race, but I did take a couple training shortcuts, such as missing a long run here and there with the intention of rescheduling it during the week, which never happened. But I’d run the marathon before, so I felt confident I’d be able to do it again. On race day, when my knees started hurting around mile seventeen, I blamed it on my now thirty-something knees. While maybe a little of that factored in, the truth was that I had slacked off on my training and was paying the price.
Being that it was our first year together and we were newly in love, when Neil met me at the finish line, I could see the pride beaming from his eyes as he kept saying, “You did it! You really did it!” But the next year when I signed up and got tendonitis early on in training, I decided to drop out. Even though it had been great to see Neil happy for me at the end, overall I felt like I had inconvenienced him. I had made him get up with me at an ungodly hour to make sure I got to my start corral early. Later he admitted how frustrated he got jumping on the El trying to see me at the various mile markers, and then finding it too crowded and never being sure if he was too early or if he just missed me. So finally he gave up and decided to wait at the finish line for three hours. When I dropped out the following year, it was nice having my weekend mornings back. Plus, I could drink again on Friday nights and stay out later. Then later on, I used the excuses of work, moving in together, and the engagement to stop doing something that was a huge part of who I was. Wait, was? Am!
With some newfound determination, I find the energy to break my sad jogging into actual running on the way home. Since it’s already May, the Chicago marathon in October is sold out, but perhaps I can find a half-marathon coming up. Better yet, maybe I can find one I can travel to. Perhaps I should be using this enforced time off to take a trip. Maybe I can even convince Jordan to go with me. These thoughts spur me into a sprint. I can’t wait to get onto my computer to start researching races and trips.
THE CAULDRON IS bustling this afternoon, as I guess others in the neighborhood have discovered it now too. After assessing the line when I walk in, I spot an empty table near the window and set myself up at it before ordering. I do the “will you watch my stuff” exchange with the guy at the next table over who smiles and says, “Of course.” The interaction immediately makes me self-conscious. After being in a relationship for five years and with a ring on my finger for the last six months, what would normally pass as friendly chitchat between strangers now makes me unsure. Lately, every communication with a single man my age is fraught with am I flirting anxiety. I know I need to get over myself and hope this phase passes soon.
It’s the new “usual” guy at the register. I don’t see Eric, but I assume he’s in the back. There are also two baristas working today. Business must be picking up—good for them. I order my large almond milk latte and notice in the bakery case there are the vegan, gluten-free scones I taste tested. “And one of the scones,” I say, acknowledging Eric’s healthy menu effort with a sale.
As I carry my scone over to my table, the guy watching my stuff says, “Be careful of the scone. I saw they were vegan and gluten-free.” He makes an expression of mock horror.
“That rumor is true, but they also happen to be very delicious,” I volley back.
“Is that so?” He leans back a little in his chair and gives me a not-so-subtle once-over. “I take it you’re a healthy eater.”
“I do my best.” Ugh. I don’t really want to get into a conversation with him except to thank him for watching my laptop bag.
“There’s this vegan place in my hood—”
“Sorry to interrupt. Here’s your latte, Allison.” Eric sets down the oversized mug and saucer on my table. He smiles and nods at the guy next to me, as if to acknowledge that he knows he’s interrupting, but doesn’t seem that sorry about it.
“Thanks! I didn’t realize you were here,” I say, smiling up at him.
“Yep.” He points to my plate. “And I see you ordered a scone. So you were telling the truth when you said you liked it.” His tone is teasing.
“Of course I was.” I laugh. “So how are you?”
He gives a low chuckle. “A little tired. Mind if I sit down and join you for a minute?”
“Not at all.”
As Eric sits in the empty chair opposite me, my minder seems to mind a bit, but he must know he’s been beat because he turns back to his book.
“Why so tired? Late night last night?” I ask.
“Nah. More like an early morning. Had to get up early and make the scones
.” He grins, and then he shrugs one shoulder as if getting the kinks out. “And a hard CrossFit session last night. My shoulders are a little tight.”
I note that they’re also rather broad. “How long have you been doing CrossFit?”
“A few years now. I started getting into it when I was working in finance. It changed my body and eating habits, and I guess in a way it changed my life.”
“So, is it as cultish as I hear it is?” I tease him.
He laughs. “Yes. But it’s also an amazing workout. It covers everything—strength, cardio, mobility. But what I really like is its focus on community.”
“What do you mean?”
“I assume you belong to a gym.” I nod and he continues, “Okay, so how many people have you met there who know your name?”
“The people who work there, I guess. The front desk person, some of the instructors.”
“Fair enough. But do you know the names of the people in your classes? Do you talk to them?”
“Hmm … sort of?” I think back to the mid-morning weekday yoga class I recently took, and I’m not sure if it was friendly chitchat so much as sizing up the new person—me. “But I tend to go early in the morning. So it’s more of a let’s-get-this-over-with-so-we-can-get-to-work-on-time crowd.”
Eric nods knowingly. “I went to my gym for years and I couldn’t tell you the name of the person on the spin bike next to me. But at my box, everyone introduces themselves before the WOD and you cheer each other on. It’s very motivating and encouraging. A totally different scene. I don’t think I could go back to the globo-gyms.”
“Box? WOD? Globo-gyms?” I laugh. “Yes, it definitely sounds like you’ve drunk the Kool-Aid.”
He puts up his hands in surrender. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Mock if you must, but until you’ve tried it, you don’t know how life-changing it is.” He points to my laptop. “Enough about me. What are you up to today?”
“Speaking of exercise, I’m researching upcoming half-marathons.”
“A half-marathon.” He gives a low whistle. “Good for you! I run about six miles and after that I’m done.”
“Six miles is nothing to sneeze at.”
“After I did an Ironman, I was done. My knees can’t take it. In fact, that might be the only thing I don’t like about CrossFit, when we have to sprint.”
“Hold on, there!” I put my hand up and lean forward. “You’ve done an Ironman?”
He laughs. “Well, I haven’t done one in a while.”
“Still.”
He shrugs and smiles at the compliment, but unfortunately our conversation is interrupted by Brian who leans over our table and says, “Hey, Eric. Sheila wants to take her break, but we’re still busy with customers.” Brian looks at me and says, “Sorry.”
Actually, I’m surprised Eric has been sitting with me for so long when the place is the busiest I’ve seen it.
“That’s the end of my break.” Eric slaps his hand on the table. “Duty calls. We’ll catch up later?”
“Sure thing.”
Brian gives me another apologetic smile, and then they head back to the counter. As I open my laptop, to my relief, the guy who had been sitting next to me has left and I can now focus on my research in peace. While it takes a second for the screen to appear, I recall that Eric said he used to work in finance, though he didn’t say when or doing what. And while CrossFit has been around for a while, it hasn’t been that long. I sneak a glance at Eric behind the counter. So what’s he doing here managing this place? Could it be that he also lost a job? I don’t want to pry since I’m sensitive to this issue—much easier to discuss running and workout trends. With that thought, I start researching half-marathons.
There are some upcoming races in the Chicago area, but they all seem to be in the summer. Summer in Chicago is my favorite season because the entire city comes alive. After a brutal winter, Chicagoans emerge from hibernation, and it’s a hundred-day-long party. Everyone is outside picnicking and watching movies in the parks; sunbathing, riding bikes, and running along the lakefront; partying in boats on the lake; and attending festivals that put other cities’ festivals to shame. However, it’s also known for high temperatures and being disgustingly humid, and for my first big comeback race, I’m not sure I want to do one in the middle of August.
Out of curiosity, I research races outside of Chicago and, even more fun, races outside of the Midwest. What if I did a destination race? I’ve always wanted to have that feather in my cap. Perhaps the London marathon is calling. Getting more fired up, I start looking at races overseas. Though all these destination races sound exciting and exotic, the sobering truth hits me—I don’t have anyone to go with. Who would help me back to my hotel? What if I got injured in a foreign country? Who would take me to the doctor and take care of me afterwards? No one. That’s who. My initial euphoria dissipates. Looks like it’s going to be the Chicago half-marathon in August for me.
I must have a disappointed look on my face because when Eric walks by, he asks, “Why so glum?”
“I guess I’m running the Chicago half-marathon in August,” I say without much enthusiasm.
“You don’t have to.” Eric laughs at what he probably thinks is my overreaction. “You don’t have to run thirteen miles in August if you don’t want to. Most sane people would approve of that decision.”
I laugh back at his reaction. “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I got overambitious with my research and thought, ‘Hey, maybe I’ll do a destination race.’”
“Now you’re talking! That sounds fun.”
“Yeah, but it’s not really practical right now,” I say, choosing my words carefully, my glum tone returning.
“That’s too bad. Work?” He tilts his head in a way that looks like he has a question, but isn’t sure whether to ask it.
Once again, his thoughtful gaze makes me want to open up. But since I haven’t been able to admit there is no work, I’m especially not ready to admit there’s no more fiancé either.
“No, it’s not work. It’s just that I don’t have anyone to go with. None of my friends are really runners.”
“What about going with a running group,” he offers helpfully. “I’ve had friends join a training group here that did a race in Napa. So you get your race in as well as a vacation.”
“That’s a great idea! Thanks for the tip. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.” Though I do know why—because I was having a pity party for one over here.
“Maybe check out the Napa one,” he suggests. “My friends had a blast.”
Eric’s phone suddenly rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the number. “Oh, I gotta take this. Good luck!” He answers the phone, “Hey, what’s up?”
After he walks away, I turn back to my computer and type in “Napa Half Marathon.” There are some upcoming races in the fall and my wanderlust returns. Perhaps I can entice Jordan to go with me. Even if she won’t run with me, a girls’ weekend in wine country is pretty enticing on its own. I email Jordan with a link to the upcoming race in Napa and the subject line, Girls Weekend in Napa?
I’m well aware that I’m totally procrastinating on what I should be focused on, which is figuring out my career so I can actually pay for the travel. But with so much being out of my control, having an identifiable goal such as completing a race is motivating. Plus, getting back to being the old Allison feels good, whereas job hunting, not so much. Also, joining a group of strangers might be a good idea. Not to mention that my ex-wedding weekend is approaching. Being here in Chicago then might be too much for me—job or no job, I should probably get the hell outta Dodge.
My phone buzzes interrupting my thoughts.
“Hey,” I answer.
Before I can say anything else, Jordan says, “I’m down for the vino, but you’re insane if you think I’m going to run thirteen miles with you. I don’t care how beautiful the vines are that time of year.”
I laugh. “I figured as much. Though I�
��m impressed you know the mileage.”
“And why would you want to run one of those things? I thought those days were over.”
“That’s why I want to do it. I’m trying to get back to being Allison.”
“Ah, I see. In that case, the Allison I remember also liked spas. So, perhaps a spa weekend with vino? A massage is more my speed than running.”
“Understood. I could do a spa weekend. Although I probably shouldn’t spend the money, I could totally use a time out.”
“Yes!” I can almost hear Jordan clapping her hands. “And don’t worry about money. I was going to spend as much on your bachelorette, so this trip’s on me and don’t give me the ‘no, no, there’s no need’ line,” she admonishes before I can get a word in. “There’s a need. Besides, I already asked for your wedding weekend off.”
“You needed to ask for your weekend off?” I ask.
“Golden handcuffs,” she repeats her usual refrain, and I can hear her shuffling things around. “I’ll let you pick the place and you just let me know.”
“Thank you! You’re a lifesaver, and I owe you big-time. And, hey, where are you?”
She groans. “At work. I wasn’t getting anything done at home so I came in. I’m getting ready to leave though. I still need to run some errands today.”
“Yikes. Okay, in that case, I’ll let you go. I’ll research some spas and email you what I find.”
I grimace and make a mental note that whatever my new career path, hopefully it won’t include having to ask for my weekends off. Unless it turns out to be my dream job … whatever that is.
“One large almond milk latte for my favorite customer.” Eric appears and sets down a drink.
“Aw, thanks. But I didn’t order that.” I smile up at him.
He shrugs and grins. “It’s on the house. We like to take care of our VIPs.”
I laugh. “That’s good to hear since this is my favorite coffeehouse.”
Eric lingers over my table and gestures to my laptop screen that has a picturesque scene of a woman enjoying an outdoor massage with blue skies and hills in the background. “Post-race massage?”
