“Outstanding!”
“Except I don’t know how to say all of that on a Post-it note.”
“Oh.”
“How about I just write ‘Jen Lancaster—ass kick,’ and have Tim call you?”
I smile and nod. “That’ll work.”
When I reviewed the wall of framed trainer photographs yesterday, I assumed I’d be assigned to Steve, a former Mr. Arizona. He’s definitely the most buff trainer on staff—his neck alone is the size of a California redwood! Sure, I prefer my neck less of a tree trunk rather than more, but I imagine he’ll know how to do that and I’m confident he’d be the best guy to navigate the tricky waters of my quest for physical fitness.
I park right next to the door again and enter, swiping my membership card at the check-in desk. After stowing my bag and coat, I exit the locker room, expecting to find Steve, who’ll be eager to kick my soon-to-be-smaller ass, but there’s no sign of him. Where is he? I wonder. A slip of a girl in one of my gym’s logo sweatshirts is milling around the desk, so I decide to ask her.
“Hi, I’m looking—” But before I can finish my sentence, she holds out a tiny mitt and delicately shakes my hand.
“Hi! You must be Jen! I’m Polly and we’ll be training together today!” I take in Polly’s slender neck and bandy arms. She’s got an itty bitty, would look like a sheet of paper if she turned sideways torso and toothpick-variety legs. She’s built less like the brick shithouse I was expecting and more like a ten-year-old Olympic figure skater. I don’t fear her so much as I want to babysit her. I groan inwardly. Oh, great, I think, I asked for the Marquis de Sade and instead I got an Olsen twin.
I follow Polly9 to the juice bar to go through a health assessment. After a quick discussion of my medical history10 she asks about my fitness goals. Naturally I answer, “To not look tubby in the national media.” We move on to discuss diet, and touch briefly on the Holiday Eating and Drinking Orgy. I watch her squirm when I mention the sheer caloric input, but even without her reaction I have a hard time taking her seriously. Shoot, this little gal probably hasn’t had anything but lemon water and air-popped corn in all of her fourteen years on this earth, so how can I expect her to appreciate the virtues of a buttercream cupcake?
I follow along behind her to a mirrored training room, where we warm up doing stretches with small weights. I first have to watch her whip and twirl dumbbells around as though they’re made of Styrofoam. Fantabulous, I think while rolling my eyes, her effortless execution of these stupid exercises further disappoints me because I came here to exercise, not dance.
Before I continue, I should mention that thirty-eight years’ worth of red meat and gin have formed such a layer of blubber on my brain that it’s incapable of comprehending anything not at face value. A mind not swimming in cholesterol and noncomedogenic wrinkle cream might have deduced that just because a trainer is wee doesn’t mean she can’t and won’t completely kick my fat ass.
I huff and wheeze through the warm-up, and at the end of ten minutes my heart hammers and I’ve already sweated out every snickerdoodle I’ve ever consumed. An anomaly, my stupid, lardy brain tells me. Surely the real workout won’t be so hard—that bit was just to get the blood flowing. Little Mary-Kate’s probably exhausted, too. I bet she suggests we blow off the session, grab our enormous hobo bags, and get skim lattes at Starbucks! She’ll drive so we can smoke in the car and then we’ll go buy big plastic jewelry to wear with our shawls before we post a bunch of smack about Ashley on all the fan sites!
We walk11 to a larger training room that is filled with a bunch of innocuous-looking items. There are no heavy objects or scary machines, only harmless stuff like little traffic cones, jump ropes, and big, bouncy balls that remind me of my favorite childhood toy, the Hoppity Hop. Whee!, the gray matter in my head cheers. Hoppity Hops! Happ-ity, hopp-ity fun! “Hey, Mary—I mean Polly, when can we do stuff on those?” I ask, gesturing to the wall of brightly colored orbs.
“We’ll get there,” she replies.
I lurch through four circuits of exercises, each specifically designed to show how the past six months, during which I’ve been almost a daily visitor to this gym, have had absolutely no effect on my endurance, balance, or strength.12
I’m cowed, whipped, and dripping Alfredo sauce from each of my pores, and Mary-Kate chirps, “Okay! You asked for it! It’s ball time!” Two things to note here: (a) my corpulent cerebral cortex gasping with glee because it is incapable of learning, and (b) that “perky” is the new “sadomasochistic.”
Mary-Kate chooses a large pink ball and sits on it. She lies back and shows me how to do a crunch, legs out and bent at the knee, butt balanced on the ball, and arms crossed in front like an Egyptian mummy. With deft fluidity, she demonstrates how very, very easy it is to rise to a forty-five-degree angle. She cuts through the air again and again with ballerina-like grace until she’s sure I grasp the exercise’s proper form.13
“Your turn,” she sings, rolling the ball toward me. I arrange myself on it per her instructions. Pfft, boasts my chunky cerebellum, ball not hard! Ball fun! Bouncy! Woo!
And then I try to sit up.
Ha.
“I think it’s broken,” I tell her.
With a wintry smile she replies, “Hmm. I’m waiting.”
I grunt and strain and tighten and clench and…nothing happens. I don’t even move a millimeter. I’m in the exact same position.
Mary-Kate tosses her hair and tilts her head to the side and tells me through narrowed lips, “Push it.”
I muster all the strength I have and haul and heave and…nada.
Her voice drops an octave. “Are you even trying? I said push it.”
Huh. That almost sounded like she, like she…growled at me.
I try again.
I am wholly unsuccessful.
She clears her throat with a delicate little cough. “I said push it. Now! Go! Go! Go! Do you want people to think you’re the girl who swallowed Jessica Simpson? No? Then do it, do it, do it!!”
Her sudden personality turn terrifies me. Why, she’s not Mary-Kate, she’s Sybil! And she’s screaming her wee little schizophrenic head off at me!
With all the fight and pride I have left in me, I strain and pull until it feels like vomit is going to shoot out of every one of my orifices. I bear down with all my might, clenching said orifices closed in case I accidentally give birth to an eight-pound rib roast. Finally, I manage to lift myself up for a microsecond before collapsing again. “I did it! I did it!” I hoot, face shiny with the glow that only comes from conquering true adversity.
“That’s great,” she replies. “But you’re not getting up until you do it eleven more times.”
The session dissolves in a blur of sweat and tears, although I end up blacking most of it out as a coping mechanism. Through the scrim of perspiration and pain, I swear I see her whip out a cat-o’-nine-tails and smack it against her bare palm. Fearing the alternative, I struggle through the litany of torture until she finally allows me to crawl back to my car. When I arrive home, I’m so sore I can’t even make it up the stairs. Fletch finds me a short time later, clinging to a banister and muttering what I think sounds like, “Michelle Tanner hurted me.” He fireman-carries me up to the tub, where I spend the rest of the day in a hot bath chewing ibuprofen and slathering myself liberally with Bengay.14 I swear to myself I will never, ever see that devil woman again. And for good measure, I won’t even go near people named Ashley.
I awake today to pain in places I didn’t know could hurt. My armpits ache and my butt feels like two clenched fists, which is nothing compared to all the stabbing in my legs and abs. I could prattle on about all the places that are sore but it’s quicker to describe those parts that aren’t throbbing: my fingers, eyelids, and teeth.
I settle on the couch for a day of TiVo and nursing my wounds when Mary Ann, my publicist, calls. She tells me yet another celebrity magazine has committed to a spread on me and the book. My celebration is
short-lived as I quickly calculate the odds of my photo appearing beside Nicole Richie’s in a tragically hilarious before-and-after manner. My vanity trumps my sloth, and I huff and cry my way back up the stairs to don my exercise clothes.
I’m whimpering my way through five miles on the treadmill when Mary-Kate strolls by.
“Hey, how are you doing today? Did I work you hard enough?” she asks, the hint of an evil glint in her big, lashy doe eyes.
“To properly reply to that question, I’d need to punch you. Unfortunately, I can’t lift my arms.”15
She laughs but I’m telling the truth. I didn’t apply makeup and I threw on another do-rag rather than have to hold my incredibly heavy blow dryer and round brush. Then she poses the most difficult question I’ve ever been asked. “So, Jen, see you next week?”
My mental Rolodex spins though all the things I would rather do than spend one more second in this pint-sized sadomasochist’s presence. I think of paper-covered tables and ice-cold stirrups…of arguing with deranged passengers on the number 56 bus…of Hair Cutterys and dull scissors…of seeing strangers’ bungholes…and finally, of Jessica Simpson in Daisy Duke shorts standing right next to me.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and wipe my hand on my shorts. And then I look this hateful woman straight in the eye and say, “I’ll be there.”
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: just so we’re clear
Aarrggh.
Apparently listing “No pedophiles or stalkers” on the “Who I’d Like to Meet” portion of my stupid, publicist-required MySpace profile isn’t enough. I think I need to amend it to include “No fucking weirdos.”
A couple of days ago I received the following e-mail:
“Would u consider having me be ur slave?”
Um…no.
Although, really? It’s mainly because I loathe when people use ridiculous text message abbreviations in an attempt to express their thoughts. For example, why would you write “LOL” when there are so many better ways to say “funny,” e.g., amusing, blithe, capricious, riotous, risible, waggish, whimsical, etc.? Personally, I want to know the kind of guy or gal who describes a situation as “droll” or “gelastic.” But those who opt for the LOL? I kind of want to punch them in the jimmies.
However, the more I thought about it, the more I reconsidered—maybe having some help around the house would be nice. I’ve been meaning to spend additional quality time with my TiVo—I mean, Fletch—and perhaps an extra pair of hands could be helpful. There’s always laundry to fold, and having a domestic would likely prevent him and me from arm wrestling over whose turn it was to take out the trash. Plus slave equals free in my book, so the price was certainly right. But I had to make sure we could keep our slave happy because I wouldn’t want someone surly moping about the house, stomping off to his bedroom all the time while complaining about the litany of assigned chores. (FYI, this is also why we aren’t having kids.)
So, I responded to the query with, “I guess it depends. How do you feel about picking up rat poop and killing fire ants?”
My potential slave politely declined.
Damn.
Today I received this little missive from a gentleman named John:
“What would you do to make me buy your book?”
I thought long and hard until I came up with the perfect response.
“Write well?”
To which he replied:
“No, I’m going to need to be convinced. Would you consider flashing me your tits?;)”
Okay, seriously? I am old, fat, Republican, and quickly losing the battle with gravity. Believe me, he does not want a piece of this.
And what exactly about me leads someone to believe I’ve got a cache of nekkid photos I’m willing to share with the class? My penchant for pearls and the collected works of Ann Coulter? My love of knee-concealing capri pants? The fact that Mormons think I need to loosen the hell up already?
And even if I did have said boobie shots—which I don’t—the last person I’d send them to was some weirdo who ended his request with a smiley face.
No.
No, no, no.
No freaking way.
Just so we’re clear.
Jen
* * *
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: i suppose a salad would be far too pedestrian
Ladies,
Brace yourselves.
For I have horrible news.
Fletch has taken it upon himself to start cooking again.
By using multiple burners and the oven, he raised the temperature in here from a manageable seventy-six to an unpleasant eighty-six last night. (We have central AC, but it’s no match for hundred-degree temperatures and Fletch’s cooking.)
So, what did he prepare that was worth ten degrees and a portion of my sanity?
BLT pasta.
Mmm-hmm, that’s right.
Bacon, lettuce, and tomato pasta.
And what’s better on a scorching day than a big bowl of hot lettuce and sweaty tomatoes coated in a thin sheen of bacon grease? While discussing our dinner plans for tonight, he mentioned he might use the leftover lettuce to whip up some soup…which neatly answers the question whether there’s anything less appealing than hot lettuce pasta on a sweltering summer day.
Send help.
Or pizza.
Jen
* * *
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: gladys kravitz rides again
’S up, girls?
With my recent no-tree-left-behind pogrom, it’s abundantly clear I’m a yard Nazi. Every year I treat my planting like I’m participating in the Sheffield Garden Walk. Gardening for me is less of a Zen activity and more of a way to thrash my neighbors in a competition they didn’t know they’d entered.
That being said, there’s no way anyone’s yard will be up to my satisfaction. I know this. I accept this. This is my cross to bear. The fact the old, weird hippies next door refuse to do anything so patrician as fix their windows with glass instead of garbage bags or mow their “grass” is essentially none of my business. (BTW, I used to feel sorry for them because I thought they were poor. I’ve since learned they feed their dogs the $40/bag vegan kibble from Whole Foods. Shit, I can’t afford people kibble at Whole Foods.) If they choose to be slovenly, it’s their privilege to do so. And if I don’t like it, I have a fence to hide their three-foot-tall weed patch.
However, when my hose sprays under their fence and the water causes the entire community of mice nesting in their unmown yard to surge at me in a sea of wet gray fur, I have a legitimate gripe.
(Yes, I did have to go upstairs and lie down after all the screaming.)
Once my voice recovered, I called the city and used as few four-letter words as possible under the circumstances to lodge a complaint. I calmly explained that if my dogs eat one of the rabid mice living so comfortably in the neighbors’ overgrown backyard, we’re going to have a real problem after I beat the old hippies with my shovel. The city said something about poisoning the alley again and having Streets and Sanitation talk to the folks next door, but they couldn’t really force my neighbors to do anything, and if they actively chose to harbor mice, so be it.
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 27
