These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

by Melody Carlson

  “Let's go to bed, Felix,” I say, bending down to hoist my cat. As I trudge upstairs, I know I should feel relieved to be here, back in the old family home. This place should feel like a refuge, especially after all the crud in my life lately. A great little escape. Even Eric doesn't know I'm here. Not that he'd care. And, hey, it's free rent, no pressured I can take time to figure out my life without worrying about things like going to work or buying groceries or stopping by the dry cleaners. It's like a paid minivacation, right?

  Even so, I am seriously worried. Maybe I've made another dumb mistake. Maybe I really did just leap from the frying pan into the blazes. Or maybe I'm just tired and beat-up. Hopefully it'll all make sense in the morning. I yawn as I flop onto my old twin bed, not even bothering to change into pajamas. Everything that's happened in the past few weeks feels like a really bad dream. If only I could wake up, be back in my old life, go to my old job, see my old boyfriend, I would be ever so thankful. Why didn't I see how good I had it while everything was still in place? I close my eyes and pretend that I've been stuck in a nightmare. When I wake up, all will be well.

  But when I get up the next day, my back aching from the hard mattress that my dad always claimed was designed for good posture, I know that nothing has changed. My whole life is a living, waking nightmare.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” my mom sings from the kitchen. “I'm fixing us both some high-fiber hot cereal for breakfast.”

  I sit down at the island, lean on my elbows, and frown at her. “When did you become such a health-food freak?”

  She laughs. “It was my New Years resolution, the first one I've ever kept.”

  “So is that how you lost the weight? Eating nothing but health food?”

  “That combined with yoga and spinning and walking.” She hands me a bowl of some brown muck. “I try to work out every day.”

  “Everyday?”

  She nods. “Spinning on Mondays and Wednesdays. Yoga on Tuesdays and Fridays. And I walk for an hour on the other days.”

  I stick in my spoon and take a tentative bite, then make a face. “You really eat this stuff?”

  “I actually like it.”

  I try another bite, suppressing my gag reflex.

  “Want some blueberries to sweeten it?” She goes to the fridge. “They're loaded with antioxidants, you know.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I know you're really surprised by the changes in me,” she says as she shakes some frozen berries onto my brown muck. “The heat should soften those berries right up.”

  I try another bite and attempt to look as if I like it this time. Hot brown muck with crunchy, icy blueberries. Yum, yum.

  “Anyway, I was hoping to surprise you girls at Thanksgiving,” she continues between bites. “I still have a couple of pounds to lose.”

  “A couple of pounds?” I stare at her already-thin body. “You're not becoming anorexic, are you?”

  She laughs. “Not at all. I eat all the time. I just watch what I eat, and as I said, I exercise.” She studies me now. “You could do it too, sweetie.”

  I shove the bowl away. “Thanks.”

  “I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, Cassie, but sometimes when life kicks you in the teeth, the best way to respond is to kick back. After several months of wallowing in self-pity, I realized I needed to pick myself up off the couch and kick myself down to the gym.” She smiles and puts her hands on her slim hips. She's wearing this fitted brown jacket that shows off her trim figure. “And you can do it too.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “You can, Cassie. I know you can.”

  I just shake my head. “I don't think you really know me at all, Mom.” My voice is breaking. “And I don't think I really know you either.” Then I lower my head and try not to make ugly crying noises. I don't think I've ever felt so alone.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Mom comes over to my side of the island and puts her arms around me. “It always seems darkest before the dawn. Believe me, I know this personally. I've been there too.”

  I look up at her with tears running down my cheeks. “It just feels like my life is over. Like, why try?”

  She nods, then glances at her watch. “But it's not over. You're only thirty-one. Your life has barely begun. Now, I hate to leave you, but I need to get some things done around here. Then I promised to meet a prospective buyer at the office at ten. But spinning class starts at noon, and I want you to come. Okay?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Please, Cassie, I want you to try it. Meet me there a little before noon. I want to treat you to a minimembership, just to see if you like it.”

  “Mom.” I can hear the whine in my voice.

  “Come on. You'll be glad if you do this, Cassie. Really, it makes you feel so good. It's energizing, and it's not hard at all. You just sit on the bike and ride—-burning lots of calories.”

  “That's all there is to it?”

  “Yes!” She smiles happily. “You know where the fitness center is, don't you? Same place as before, but they've totally remodeled, and it's really uptown. You're going to love it.”

  “What do I wear?”

  “Just sweats.” She looks at the grubby things I'm wearing and appears to have a revelation. “I happen to have a brand-new set of sweats that I'm sure will fit you. Callie gave them to me for my birthday last summer. They're very nice but a little big.”

  I nod knowingly. “Right.”

  “I'll set them in your room before I leave. And don't forget to bring a bag with a fresh change of clothes. Maybe we can have lunch afterward.”

  And, like a skinny whirlwind of energy, she does about twenty-seven quick chores and then is out of there, driving down the street in her new car like a silver flash.

  I, on the other hand, am moving at the speed of a constipated tortoise on Xanax. And, oh yeah, I feel like sleeping for about a year.

  On the way back to my room to escape, I remember the promise I made to Will. Even if I feel unable to help myself at the moment, I think perhaps I can help him. I don't want to dig out my laptop, so I go into Mom's office, turn on her computer, and attempt to write a letter of recommendation. After several feeble attempts, which assure me that a fiction writer I am not, I come up with a fairly decent letter that is mostly true. I may be stretching it a bit when I compare Will to Emeril Lagasse, but he's the only chef I know. Anyway, it's done. I put it in an envelope and will drop it in the mail later today. Right after my nap.

  sleep for about thirty minutes, until Felix leaps onto my stomach, punching me back to my senses. I sit up in bed, feeling skanky and foul. I briefly consider taking a shower, but why bother if I'm just going to get all sweaty anyway? That is, if I go to spinning class. I'd rather just go back to sleep. Well, after I eat something. I crawl out of bed and go poking around Moms healthy-choice kitchen. I wish I'd thought to put some of the leftover pizza in the fridge last night. Obviously, Mom found my little mess and disposed of the contraband before I got up. I'll have to be smarter next time. Maybe I can sneak food into my room. Dad used to get furious if any of us girls ate in our room. It might be a nice way to get back at him. Ha! Who am I fooling here? Dad couldn't care less about his daughters—least of all me. He has Michelle to play daddy to now.

  I pick up the sweats that Mom set neady at the foot of my still-unmade bed earlier this morning. They're a little rumpled after having been kicked onto the floor, and it looks like Felix might've taken a nap on them. I shake traces of his fur from the dark periwinkle blue velour, noting the neat white stripes down the sides of the sleeves and legs that are probably supposed to be slimming. The sweats look like something Callie would pick out. The tag says Elisabeth, as in Liz Claiborne, but obviously from her plus-size line. I read the size, which is printed in large letters as if Liz thinks that large women must need large letters in order to read. But seeing the number twenty there in big, bold print makes me feel slightly lightheaded. I have never worn a twenty anything in my life. Okay,
sure, I had some challenges zipping my fourteens and recendy upgraded my jeans to sixteens. But that's where it ends. Of course, it was the pockets of my sixteens that my hands couldn't fit into yesterday.

  Anyway, I decide to try on the sweats just to see what they look like. To my surprise they feel pretty comfortable. And a little roomy, which makes me feel slimmer. I check myself out in the mirror, standing up straight and sucking in my cheeks, and I actually think something about this design works. I think those slender white stripes really do elongate.

  Maybe Mom's right. Maybe I do need a fitness routine to help get me into shape and out of my slump. I move around my bedroom, putting clothes and things away, and I start to think that I can already feel a little spring in my step. It's so springy that I nearly step on poor Felix, and I decide that perhaps it's time to set the beastie free to explore the greater world of Mom's house. So I move his cat box and things down to the laundry room, and while I'm there, I even do a load of clothes. This is real progress.

  By eleven, I'm still moving, and by eleven thirty, I decide that I'm going to do this thing. I'm going to the fitness club to work out! This also means I must walk to town to get there. Mom must've known this. But then I consider all the additional calories the walk might burn, and I figure maybe Mom's onto something. Besides, I think as I pull my hair back into a tidy ponytail and put on some lip gloss and mascara, I don't feel that worried about seeing someone I know today, because I really don't look too bad in these new sweats, which I've decided are rather sporty. The color's not bad on me either. I've also decided that they have been mistakenly sized. Really, they must be smaller. So I dig an old gym bag out of my closet, stuff a change of clothes in it, put on my sunglasses, tell Felix to be a good kitty, and head out the door. I can do this!

  I'm a little winded by the time I get there, but then I was walking pretty fast. I'm surprised to see the changes to the fitness club, which used to be fairly Podunk. I'm also surprised that I made it here a couple of minutes before noon. I go inside and look around a bit, and I realize that someone has sunk some serious bucks into this place. For Black Bear it really does look uptown. I feel a little self-conscious as I hang out in the lobby, which is cozy with a large stone fountain and a rock fireplace. But I'm not really sure what to do now. I hope Mom hasn't already gone to her class without me.

  “Cassidy Cantrell?” says a woman's voice. I turn to see a slim brunette with big brown eyes. Okay, something about her is familiar, but I can't quite place her.

  “Yes?” I say curiously. “Do I know you?”

  She laughs and comes closer. “Penny Grant.”

  I blink, then stare at this petite woman in her form-fitting pants and tank top. “Penny Grant?” I repeat like a dummy as I remember my plump friend from high school. “No way.”

  She laughs harder now. “I know, I know. I get that all the time. But its me. I just shed a few pounds these past few years. Our ten-year reunion was hard on me. It seemed like everyone else had gotten better looking, and I was so, well…” She stops talking and looks more closely at me, then seems uncomfortable. “So, Cassidy, what are you doing in town?”

  I sort of shrug, wondering how much I want to tell her. “I just thought I'd come home for a while. I wanted to spend time with my mom.”

  “Oh, I just saw Audra; she was heading to spinning.”

  “That's where I'm going,” I say.

  “Me too.” She glances at the front desk, then at her watch. “You're supposed to sign in, but that'll take too long. Let's just go to class, and you can do it later.”

  So I follow Penny to the locker room, and she shows me where to put my stuff. Then we both get little white towels and head down a hallway.

  “You didn't bring water,” she observes as she pushes open a door that leads to a room filled with stationary bikes.

  “Water?”

  “Yeah, to replace your fluids.”

  “Oh.” I force a smile. “I'm sure I'll be okay.” Or not. I notice the people already in the room. Some are on their bikes, pedaling and visiting with others. Some seem to be making adjustments to the mechanics of the bikes. Its a mix of men and women and ages, but the one thing they all have in common is that they look fit. Whereas I am immediately aware that I do not. We're still standing by the door, and I'm ready to turn around and walk out.

  “Have you spun before?” asks Penny.

  “Well, no.”

  “Cassie!” says Mom happily. She's already seated on a bike and immediately calls out to the instructor, Gretchen, telling her that I'm her daughter and new to class and might need some help. The instructor, a buff-looking blonde in very tight sweats, tells me to come down to the front of the room so she can set me up on a bike. The bike she chooses, of course, is in the very front row where everyone else can watch. Great. But finally I'm on the bike, and everything seems to be working okay. It sort of reminds me of being a kid, and I think maybe it's not so bad.

  “Now let's get going,” says Gretchen as she turns up some fast-paced music.

  No problem. You just sit here and pedal. No big deal. But then Gretchen tells us to tighten the resistance on our bikes, and even though I don't do the full turns that she dictates, I can feel my thighs now, and I'm having a hard time keeping up with the beat. Still, I think I can do this, and I remind myself that I am burning calories. Lots and lots of calories.

  Soon I'm feeling winded. I think I need to loosen my resistance, but as I reach for the knob, I see that Gretchen has other plans. She wants us to stand and pedal now. For a few brief seconds, this new position is a relief, because my buns were getting seriously sore on that tiny, hard seat. But we keep standing and standing, pedaling and pedaling, and I think maybe I'm going to have a heart attack. I can't help but glance around the room to see if anyone else is in dire need of medical help, but everyone is just smiling and bouncing as they pedal to the music. Do they enjoy this kind of torture? Then it's time for sit and stand, sit and stand, and it feels like my thighs, not to mention my lungs, are going to burst.

  “Breathe in through your nose,” yells Gretchen. “Out through your mouth.”

  I try this technique, but it feels like all I can do is gasp and puff, gasp and puff, and I really don't know which part of my body the air is escaping from!

  Finally we are seated again, doing what she calls “seated sprints,” and we're supposed to have our resistance “way up there/’ But I turn mine to nothing in the hope that maybe I won't need a paramedic quite yet. Just as I can almost breathe, Gretchen changes the game again.

  “Jump!” she yells as if she thinks we're a bunch of trained monkeys. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” I attempt to do these jumps, but my legs are so weak that I'm afraid I may flop to the floor in a big sweaty mess. So I just sit and pedal. The sweat is dripping down my face and trickling down my back. I notice the others taking regular sips from their water botdes, and I am so thirsty I want to swipe the bottle from the gray-haired guy who's happily jumping next to me. I wonder if he'd notice.

  The class is merely half over when I decide that the only thing to do at this point is sit on this rock-hard seat and slowly pedal with absolutely no pressure on the resistance dial. Everyone else is rocking and rolling and even laughing and talking to each other as if this is a walk through the park. I wonder if they're showing off for my benefit or just being their regular selves. Whatever the case, I feel like the class dummy. The fitness failure. At least I'm not giving up completely. It would be so embarrassing to climb off this bike in the front row and slink out of here with my tail between my legs. I so wish I could just vanish now. Really, right off the face of the planet would be perfectly fine with me.

  By the end of the class, which must've lasted at least six and a half hours, my head is throbbing, my legs feel like whipped noodles, and my buns burn so badly that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to sit down again. Plus I am soaking wet with sweat. I can actually smell myself!

  “How'd it go?” asks Mom as she and Penny join me
after the stretching exercises, which I barely pretended to do.

  I wipe my face with my already soaked towel. “Okay,” I mutter.

  “Wow, your face is really red,” observes Penny. “Are you okay?”

  “And your lips are white, Cassie,” says Mom with concern. “That can't be good. Maybe you should sit down.”

  “I'm okay,” I say as I attempt to walk in a straight line toward the door. But my head is actually starting to buzz, and I think I might pass out. That would be so embarrassing. I can do this.

  We're barely outside the door when I start staggering. I feel Mom's hand securely beneath my arm. “Sit down, Cassie,” she insists, leading me to an area with several comfy-looking chairs by a window. I don't resist. I collapse into the closest one and lean back and try to breathe slowly.

  “Get her some water, Penny,” orders Mom.

  Soon they are trying to pour water down me. While that sounded good earlier, now it makes me want to puke.

  “Should we call for help?” asks Penny.

  “No,” I mutter, “I'll be okay.”

  “You don't look good,” says Mom.

  “Thanks.” I close my eyes and wish I were dead. Maybe I will be before long.

  “Go get her one of those fitness drinks,” commands Mom. “You know, the ones with electrolytes and things.”

  “I'll be right back,” yells Penny, taking off running, which amazes me. The building could be going up in blazes, and I couldn't possibly run. I couldn't even crawl out to save myself—not that I'd care at the moment.

  “Breathe in and out slowly,” says Mom. “Just relax.”

  “I'm okay, Mom,” I say slowly without opening my eyes. “I just need to rest.”

  Penny returns with a blue bottle of something slightly sweet, which I do manage to slowly drink. And after a few minutes, I feel'strong enough to walk to the shower room with them. They set me down on a bench, and Penny even retrieves my bag for me.