The Trailer Park Princess
In
Mud, Sweat, and Tears
Had I not given up cursing for Lent, every bad word I knew would have been spewing from my mouth. But we were one day from Easter morning – much too close for me to give up now. So all I could do was think very, very bad thoughts about Trisha. It was her fault I was currently hanging upside down from Maniac Mountain, one leg hooked over the top while I tried – and failed – to swing the other leg hard enough to leverage myself into a sitting position on top of the wall.
I felt like a turtle stuck on its back. All around me, “encouragers” were chanting rather aggressively: “Go! You can do it! Go! Go! Go!”
Jerks.
Trisha. I didn’t even feel bad for not calling her Patrice, as she insisted now that she was a big shot news anchor. I might not be hard core fit, but I was hard core mad!
Here’s how it was Trisha’s fault that I was in this mortifying predicament at the Mud Sweat and Tears Race: Trisha lost weight. We’d started out at Fat Fighters together (basically the same level of fatness) and she proceeded to lose weight. I did not. Or at least not as much as Trisha did. Suddenly I found myself losing a competition I didn’t know we were having.
Then she convinced me that joining her gym would help me lose as much as she was.
The gym was where I met Christy and the torture chamber known as The Spin Room. Spinning. You think it’s going to be like riding your bike when you were a kid. It is so not like that. Spinning is crazy hard. Sweat drips off you onto your bike. Your legs scream in pain and eventually go numb.
I couldn’t believe how much I loved it.
I mean, spinning itself was awful. The room was dark, and the music throbbed. It would have been like going to a nightclub, except now that I didn’t drink, there was no alcohol buzz to take the edge off. The workouts were brutal. Every single class, I was certain I was going to die. Seriously. My heart pounded out of my chest, and every few minutes I considered the best way to bring attention to the fact that I was seeing spots and couldn’t feel my legs.
But when the class was over, I felt triumphant. Each class was like miniature version of each day of sobriety: I’m not gonna make it. I’m not gonna make it. Oh, look! I made it!
One evening Patrice (I wasn’t furious with her then) and I got to class, and there was a sub. Christy was gone for some thing or other with her kids, and she’d gotten a sub. The sub was okay. She played halfway decent music. She was upbeat and enthusiastic.
She was no Christy.
Christy was not just enthusiastic – she was infectious. She was excited about being there and excited that all of us were there, too. I don’t know how she did it, but she made me feel like I could do anything I set out to do.
So maybe it wasn’t so much spin class that I loved, but Christy’s spin class. And that was probably why I nodded like an idiot when she said she wanted the entire class to sign up for the Mud Sweat and Tears Race.
“You guys, I did it last year and it was so much fun! It’s crazy and kind of scary, but it was like one big party. A party with mud and cargo nets!”
Trisha was all for it. Trisha was all for pretty much anything. She did spinning and step aerobics, Zumba, and yoga on Saturdays . At 18 pounds lighter, she was suddenly full-on fitness geek.
Of course, I could not let her get all ripped while I sat on the sofa, eating Doritos and watching “The Voice.” That would be too easy. If Trisha could run the Mud Sweat and Tears Race, so could I.
As soon as I put my name on the dotted line, though, I knew it was a mistake. Spinning was one thing. I took comfort from knowing the spin room was too dark for anyone to see how hard I was working. The race was out in the open, through Mackenzie Park and over to the Wind Museum (that’s an actual thing here in West Texas – a museum for wind.) It would be in broad daylight. When I sagged from effort and my face turned a nice splotchy red, the entire world would be able to see.
I immediately decided to find a way to get out of the race. There was always the handy “stomach bug” of course. Or I could sprain my ankle on my way to the track. That one was kind of risky because there would probably be medical people on hand to treat emergencies, and they might be able to spot a faker.
But if I went as far as showing up at the actual race, I could get a little extra sympathy for having come so close to following through. Plus I’d probably still get the Mud Sweat and Tears t-shirt. Those things were selling on Ebay for around $50.
During spin class, Christy got the crowd pumped up. “You think this is hard,” she yelled as we turned our bike resistance all the way up and stood up on the bike in a slow climb, “Just think about the Crosswalk of Doom! Think about Maniac Mountain! You’re a maniac yourself! Your legs are so strong! They can do this!”
“I can do this,” I whispered with what little breath I had, while my body and 85% of my brain said, “No. No, you cannot.”
The day before the race, we entered the spin room with our water bottles and towels to Christy’s customary greeting.
“Hi! I’m glad you’re here.”
“Hey there! Those braids look cute on you.”
“Hey Bill, you’re back! How’s the new knee?”
Tri-Patrice and I found bikes near the back and climbed on to warm up. “Did you hear about the football?” Trisha asked as she adjusted the dial and began peddling.
“Football?”
“The one for the silent auction. It was stolen.”
“Silent auction?”
Trisha gave me a look and tied her do-rag around her head. “Salem, do you ever watch the news?”
“Of course,” I said. She was an anchor on the nightly Channel 11 news. It would have been insulting to admit I only watched when I happened to drive past a bad car accident and then rushed home to see if I could see my car on TV.
“You do know this Mud Sweat and Tears thing is part of fund raiser for the Diabetes Association.”
“Of course I know that.” Christy talked about that every time she mentioned the race. Diabetes prevention was her passion.
“And there’s a big dinner and silent auction tomorrow night after the race?”
I had heard about that part but didn’t pay much attention. The tickets to the dinner were $125, so my contribution was limited to my MST entry fee. Plus, I was too busy worrying about the Ground Crawl to think about silent auctions. I wondered if my butt would be so big that it would poke through the net above me. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that my butt would end up looking like a giant cartoon water balloon pressed against a chain link fence. I had actually checked the MST website to see how tall it was (there was an entire “Tears” page dedicated to failed contestants, which made my blood run cold) and then practiced crawling under the coffee table in my living room just to see what kind of clearance I needed.
“So, Garrett West donated the winning football from the Superbowl to the silent auction. Signed by the entire team. You do know who Garrett West is? And the Superbowl? You’ve heard of that?”
“Shut up,” I said. Of course, I knew who Garrett West was. He’d been the star running back for the Texas Tech Red Raiders and was instrumental in us winning a bowl game three years ago, during his senior year. He was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys, and last year finally saw some play time. This past year had been a stellar one for him, culminating in a tense playoff season and then a very close Superbowl game. With three seconds on the clock, he’d intercepted the ball and run it in for the winning touchdown. During his post-game interview he’d thanked his teammates, and then thanked his Texas Tech coach and all his college team
mates for helping him be prepared for that moment.
At that moment, every citizen of Lubbock would have voted for him for President of the World. Had that been an actual thing. It was as if we’d won the Superbowl.
I remembered now that I had heard about him making a donation for the fund raiser. Garrett’s little sister was diabetic, and she appeared on the commercial with him to publicize the event. But I hadn’t realized his donation was the game-winning football. That would have fetched a very nice price.
“All right, let’s get started,” Christy called from her bike up on the riser at the front of the room. She turned up the music and adjusted her microphone. “Are y’all ready to get warmed up?”
We all peddled to the rhythm of the warm-up music and I adjusted the tension on my bike.
“Are you ready to get pumped for tomorrow? I’m sure you probably all heard about the football being stolen. I still can’t believe it, to be honest. I can’t believe someone would do that. But now it’s more important than ever that we all show up tomorrow and put every ounce of energy we can into making this event a huge success for the Diabetes Association. I talked to some of the people over there, and they are just heartbroken. That football was going to raise a huge amount of money for them. So they’ve lost that money, and they’re also afraid people won’t show up for the dinner now. I told them, Lubbock people aren’t like that. We’ll be there. Right?”
A few in the room gave murmurs of agreement.
“You’re still going to show up, right? I mean, this is an obstacle. But that’s what the day is about, right? Overcoming obstacles! That’s what we do. Turn your dial to four and let’s work hard today!”
I turned my dial to three. Because that was obstacle enough for me.
After the class, I wiped my face and tried to stay upright as I followed Tri-Patrice out of the room, the last one out.
Christy spoke to each person as they left the room. “Good job today, guys. Good job. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
She patted Trisha on the back. “Good job today, Patrice. You’re going to be there tomorrow, right?”
“We’re pumped,” Trisha said. “We’re looking forward to it, right, Salem?”
“Can’t wait,” I said. In typical post-spin-class fashion, I was teetering between confidence that I could take on the world, and uncertainty that I would be able to make it to my car, much less manage the clutch on the drive home.
“I have to tell you two, you guys are an inspiration to me. I see how consistent you two have been. You haven’t missed a single class since the year began, have you?”
We were only about twelve weeks into the year, but she was right. We had not missed a class.
“It’s easy in January. Everyone is pumped and excited about their goals. But by the beginning of February, it’s already starting to drop off. You probably noticed there are more free bikes in the room now. People just aren’t able to maintain that consistency. Even for me it’s hard, and it’s my job. I don’t always feel up to the task, you know? But you guys show up every time, and I see you there on your bikes and I tell myself, if they can show up, I can show up. If they can work hard, I can work hard.”
Trisha was nodding and smiling. I nodded, but in my head I was thinking, “I only work hard because you make me.”
“So anyway, I just wanted to take a minute to thank you. We inspire each other, right? That’s how it works. That’s why groups are important, so when one person isn’t feeling it, they can get inspiration from the others. That’s how we all keep making progress.”
“Thank you,” Trisha said. “I know you’ve certainly inspired me, and I love knowing that I’m able to give back to you in return.”
“Y’all get some rest tonight and don’t forget to eat some carbs. We’re going to work hard tomorrow, and it’s going to be a blast.”
On the drive home to my little place in Trailertopia (and through the Spaghetti Hut drive through, because Christy had practically mandated that I do that. Practically.) I felt even more disoriented than usual after a spin class.
I had never been someone’s inspiration before. Cautionary tale, yes. Inspiration. Umm…no. I’d gotten pregnant and married halfway through my senior year of high school. I’d lost the baby and left my husband, and then dove head first into a bottle. The typical life of alcohol addiction followed – DUIs, a string of failed jobs, failed relationships, petty crimes that didn’t land me in real jail, but certainly didn’t do me or anyone else any good.
I’d worked hard over the past year to get my life back on track. But I would probably never be one of those people that others looked at and said, “Look at all she’s been through, and yet she never complains.” Because I basically whined constantly.
Like right now. I was flattered – okay, not flattered, floored would be a more accurate word – that Christy would call me an inspiration. That was so great. But also disastrous. Because it meant that I had to actually do what I said was going to do.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I pulled my car up to the drive-through window. “Did I say one Tour of Tuscany platter? Because I meant two. My husband would sure be upset if I came home without his dinner.” I laughed heartily. Because there was no husband.
No husband, but there was Frank, my next-trailer-neighbor and there was Stump, my dog. Frank was Stump’s doggy-sitter on spin class nights. She’s named Stump because that’s basically what she looks like. Short and stumpy with a wide nose and two bat ears. When she saw the green and white Spaghetti Hut bag in my hand, though, I could swear she grew two inches taller. I was glad to see that, because Stump was holding quite the grudge against me in general. Life BFF (before Fat Fighters) had included a never-ending stream of junk food and marathon TV sessions. Now, I committed unspeakable atrocities such as leaving raisin bran in her food bowl instead of Captain Crunch, and walking briskly around Trailertopia instead of holding her in my lap and rubbing her belly while we watched three solid hours of Gilmore Girls on Netflix. Once (and only once) I had attempted to take her on one of the walks with me – she could stand to lose a few ounces herself – but she pitched such a squawling hissy fit the neighbors thought I was abusing her and I had to explain (again) to Animal Control that Stump was really just Liz Taylor reincarnated in canine form, and there was nothing going on except a bunch of manufactured drama.
As had become the custom on spin class nights, Frank was in my recliner when I got home. He and Stump had probably both smelled the good food coming, though. I was kind of mad at myself for not realizing until that moment that I would have to share my Tour of Tuscany with Frank. The only payment he asked for doggy-sitting Stump was the occasional free meal and that I not wake him up if he fell asleep in the recliner.
“I got dinner,” I said as I passed through the living room and into the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter. “Keep your seat, I’ll put it on a plate and bring it in there.”
I carefully scraped a few spoonfuls of Frank’s spaghetti and fettuccini alfredo into a plastic bowl to save for possible middle-of-the-night panic attacks, then filled a plate for each of us with the rest. I studied them. Mine definitely looked fuller than his did. I quickly scarfed down a few bites to make it look more even. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and dropped a breadstick into Stump’s bowl.
She inhaled it and beat me to the living room.
Once I’d ingested enough carbs, I picked up my phone and called Viv. Despite a 50-ish year difference in ages, Viv and I had bonded over our AA meetings and a shared propensity for getting into trouble.
Instead of saying, “Hello,” like a normal person would, Viv answered the phone with, “What do you want? I’m trying to pick my bracket for March Madness. There’s a full day at the Silver Fox at stake.”
Viv lived on the most expensive floor of the Belle Court Retirement Center, thanks to at least two of her many dead husbands having “done well” in life. She could probably afford to buy the Silver Fox Spa (Belle Court’
s in-house pampering center) and get massages and pedicures daily. But for Viv, the prize was beside the point. Winning was what mattered.
“I have to run this Mud Sweat and Tears thing tomorrow.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You’ve talked about nothing else for the past three weeks. I may be old but I do not have dementia.”
“But I actually have to do it now. I had planned on getting a sprained ankle to get out of it.” I didn’t worry about what Viv would think about me. Viv had pretty much seen all my skeletons and wasn’t impressed by any of them. I told her about what Christy had said and how I felt obligated now not to be a big fat liar. “Now I have no choice but to go through with it. Stupid conscience.”
“Oh no,” she said. “You’re gonna have to crawl through the mud on your belly. Ewww.”
“I know,” I said miserably. “It’s all because I’m a frigging inspiration to others.”
“That sucks.” She sounded truly sympathetic. “I try never to do that.”
“I’m not sure what time I’ll get out, but I doubt I’ll be able to drive. Can you pick me up?”
Viv drove a Cadillac and had just noted the fact that I would be covered in mud, but she still agreed immediately. “I’ll put a couple of blankets over the seats.”
And that was why I was friends with Viv.
Frank and I watched the news while we ate our pasta, and I wondered if cheesecake was a carb. Because Spaghetti Hut had cheesecake, and I’d been so focused on pasta procurement that I had forgotten about it. My day was full of regrets.
Trisha (Patrice) came on the news and talked about how there were no leads in the stolen football case. One of the new reporters actually put on a Sherlock Holmes cap and did what was supposed to be, I assumed, a tongue-in-cheek story about the missing ball. So awkward. College reporters sometimes tried too hard to make the news more interesting than it needed to be.
“Thanks, Katelynn,” Tri-Patrice said, “That was cute.”
“Thanks, Patrice.”
“You know, I’m participating in this event tomorrow, and of course we’re all interested in what happens with this silent auction tomorrow. We’re talking about this in a kind of lighthearted way, but this theft is a big problem for the Diabetes Association.”
Mud, Sweat, and Tears (Trailer Park Princess) Page 1
