by Lisa Ferrari
I’m disgusted with myself. I text Denise.
Did you watch GoT?
No.
WTF? Why not?
I don’t understand how Denise can not watch that show.
That show’s lame.
Wow. I’ll concede that the show is violent and bloody and underhanded in its storytelling tactics. And it’s fantasy, which a lot of people simply can’t get in to. But to say it’s lame is just plain wrong. They don’t award a gazillion Emmys to shows which are lame. There certainly is no accounting for taste.
I decide to ignore her smear of what I and millions like me consider groundbreaking entertainment. I change the subject.
So whatcha doin now?
My toes. U???
Not using question marks in unnecessary triplicate, I want to text back but don’t.
Nothing. I want to puke from the bacon and ice cream.
That’s understandable.
I feel so fat.
You could go to the gym.
What? I was just at the gym. I was just laughed at while at the stupid gym. I should cancel my membership. But then I remember for the millionth time that I signed a contract and there is a $200 cancellation fee and the everpresent threat of asshole collection agencies if I simply quit paying. Fuckers. Gym contracts should be illegal.
How many calories did you just eat???
Uh-oh. That’s not a question I want to answer. I quickly do the math. The ice cream is about 1500. The bacon?
I go to the kitchen and dig the empty greasy plastic package out of the garbage. 80 calories per serving, eight servings per package. That’s 640 calories. Combined with the ice cream it’s 2150ish.
Oh God.
Now I really feel fat.
Fine, I’m going back to the gym. To hell with that guy, too. I am a paying customer.
I go to my closet and root around for a tee shirt.
At last I find it and put it on. It’s yellow and says CHUNKEY MONKEY on the front, with a drawing of a cute brown monkey. I got it at Walmart. I snap a selfie.
I dive into my closet once more, searching for another tee shirt. Clothes fly everywhere.
Ah ha! Got it.
I remove the CHUNKY MONKEY shirt and reach for my sports bra. I take a second to inspect my huge milk maid breasts and fat disgusting stomach rolls. Then I don the sports bra and slip on the IRON BORN shirt. It’s off-white and simply says IRON BORN across the front. I bought it a while ago off ebay during last season because I had the hots for Theon Greyjoy. But then he turned out to be a total dickless dick so I never wore it. It’s tight. Tighter than I remember it. I snap a selfie and send both pics to Denise, asking which looks better.
The second one. Fo sho.
Denise and her ebonics.
Really? It’s not too tight?
It makes your boobs look awesome.
Cool.
THE GYM PARKING lot is pretty much empty. Thank God. What a difference a few hours can make. I’m able to park close and go inside, forgoing the five-minute hike from the Mexican joint.
The front desk guy swipes my little keycard again.
“Your second time here today,” he states. “Good job.”
Despite the creepy fact that they track everyone’s visits to the gym, his compliment makes me feel a little better. I definitely catch him staring at my chest. Maybe he’s just reading my shirt. But his eyes do seem to linger.
I go back to the cardio area. I step awkwardly onto an elliptical machine, careful of the swinging foot plate cross-country ski things that always threaten catastrophe to the neophyte exerciser. Which I, sadly, certainly am.
I press the green Start button but nothing happens. The display panel doesn’t light up. I gingerly step onto another machine but with the same result.
I suspect that I’m doing something wrong. It’s unlikely both machines are malfunctioning. I step off and go to a stationary bike. Perhaps you have to move your feet before the elliptical will turn on. I’ll look stupid going back, so I climb onto the bike seat. But my feet don’t reach the pedals. I hop off and pull the knob under the seat to lower it but it won’t move. I pull, I push, I twist. It still won’t move.
Panic starts to set in. There’s nobody here, just the front desk guy, three teenagers across the gym doing bench press things, and some guy in a hoodie doing abs nearby. Nevertheless, I feel completely stupid and embarrassed. I scurry over to the same treadmill I was on earlier today. The Kardashians are still on the big TVs hanging from the ceiling. Kim seems to be shopping for scented body oil. Perhaps to grease up her butt for another attempt to break the Internet.
I get the treadmill up to speed: 3.5.
I increase the incline to 1.5.
That’s something. I put in my earbuds and get my music going. It’s all about that bass, no treble!
Sometime later, I’m in my groove, trying my best not to sing along out loud to the chandelier song, that one with the video of the young girl going friggin berserk in the apartment. I wish I had a treadmill in my apartment. Then I could work out naked, in front of a mirror for extra motivation, and I could sing out loud as loudly as I like.
Someone taps me on my shoulder and I jump. I stumble and grab the handrails to pull myself up.
The guy in the hoodie is on the treadmill next to mine. He’s just standing there. His lips are moving but I can’t hear him. He’s holding a towel. I pull out my earbuds.
“You dropped this.”
Oh. It’s my towel.
“I found it by the elliptical machine.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He cranks up his treadmill to 4.5. “You have to get your feet going to get it started, by the way. The elliptical machine?”
Where were you ten minutes ago? “Oh. Okay.”
We walk along in silence awhile. He’s staring straight ahead, neither up at the TVs nor down at his control panel.
Is he going to speak again…?
Can I put my earbuds back in…?
Finally, he speaks again. “You think Bruce Jenner got kinda jealous or envious of all the attention the ladies were getting, so he wanted to be a glamorous woman, too? Or do you think he always wanted to transform?”
That’s an interesting point. But I have no idea. “I don’t know.”
Hoodie-ab-guy shrugs. “Oh, well. It’s his life. As long as he’s happy. She.” He looks my way and flashes me a gorgeous smile.
Wow, he has immaculate teeth.
And his eyes! Holy cannoli. The most amazing cornflower blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Like, Paul-Newman-eat-your-heart-out, holy-shit-Frank-Sinatra-and-Kurt-Russell, are-you-wearing-colored-contacts blue. Like, do-me-for-a-year-nonstop-just-so-I-can-gaze-into-those-eyes blue. OMG OMG OMG. I want to marry him and live with him forever. I want to have his babies. I have the most incredible urge to text Denise.
The hood of his sweatshirt falls off his head as he walks briskly on the treadmill. His hair is long and brown and flowing and a bit wavy.
That’s when I recognize him.
He’s the muscle guy everyone was here to see earlier. The dick who laughed at me.
Son of a bitch. What are the odds?
My vagina turns to sand. Like the deserts of Dorn. Is there an ‘e’ on ‘Dorn’?
He stops walking and pulls his sweatshirt off entirely.
Whoa.
He’s huge.
Muscles upon muscles inside his stringy red tank top.
I’ve never been up close to anyone who looks like him. He almost looks like a professional bodybuilder. Except, not all gross and veiny.
I finally pull my eyes away from his friggin perfect body and focus on those blue eyes again.
They make me forget that I hate him.
“I saw you here earlier,” he says. He has a nice voice. That doesn’t help. It’s difficult to loathe someone so… perfect. So gorgeous and dreamy….
Wait! No! He’s a judgmental asshole who laughed at me openly.
&n
bsp; “Back for a double, eh?” he asks. “Good for you.”
Unlike Denise’s text from earlier this evening in which she said the same three words, his don’t feel condescending. He sounds almost… proud. And sincere.
“Listen,” he says, taking a drink from his one-gallon jug of water, which, I’m sorry, would take me a year to drink, “I, um, I hope you didn’t think I was laughing at you earlier.”
Oh, Jesus.
I want to curl up and die.
It’s like he’s reading my mind.
He continues, “It’s just that I saw you over on the treadmill and I was like Damn, who’s that? And then you looked at me and I looked at you and our eyes kept meeting, you know? We kept looking at each other at the same time. It was so funny because I was trying to say hi to people at the same time. So, I guess I was trying to flirt but I didn’t do a very good job. Sorry.”
Um… W.T.F.?
All I can think to say is, “Okay.”
“Too bad you missed my guest posing. We gave away a buttload of my new signature protein powder. I’m not sure if people came to see me or to get a free half-pound tub of whey protein worth a dollar-fifty, even though it retails for $14.95. But don’t tell anyone I told you that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’m Kellan, by the way.” He reaches across his body and extends his hand.
I shake it.
His hand is huge. Warm and soft. He has nice nails.
He stands there, staring at me, even after I let go of his hand.
“And your name is…?”
“Oh! Sorry. Um, Claire.”
“That’s a pretty name. Nice to meet you, Claire.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
He smiles and takes another long drink from his gallon jug. It has orange liquid in it.
“What is that you’re drinking?”
“Preworkout.”
“What’s that?”
“A powder I add to water to drink before and during my workout. Technically I guess that also makes it an intraworkout as well.”
The fact that he seems to know the difference between inter and intra is hot.
“What’s in it?”
“Oh Gosh, all kinds of good stuff. L-Arginine, Beta-Alanine, Taurine, Creatine, Salicilin, caffeine, L-citrulline. A bunch of other stuff.”
“What does it do?”
“Gives you energy, gives you a pump, helps with blood flow, helps with endurance, helps rid the body of waste products like ammonia.”
“Does it work?”
“You bet your sweet ass it works. I formulated it myself. No artificial sweeteners, either. No cancer-causing Aspartame, no diarrhea-inducing sucralose. No artificial colors. None of that. Been there, done that. You want to taste it?” He offers me the jug.
“That’s okay.”
“Go on, taste it. I don’t have cooties. You know you want to.”
I take the jug and taste it. “It’s good. Tastes like orange juice.”
“This is orange flavor. I also have pineapple and blueberry.”
I’m thinking about having this gorgeous guy’s saliva on my lips. It’s almost as good as kissing him. My earlier pique has melted away after his apology. God, he’s gorgeous. He rests his left hand lightly atop the display panel. There’s no wedding ring on his finger.
A girl can dream.
“So what’s your split?” he asks.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Excuse me?”
“What’s your split? You’re here twice in one day. You doing cardio in the morning and training at night?”
“Um, no.” I feel stupid. But for some reason I also feel compelled to be honest. So I spill my guts. “Actually, I haven’t been to the gym in a month.”
“Coming back after an injury?”
“Um, no.”
“Trying to make up for lost time?”
“Trying to work off the pound of bacon I ate for dinner.”
Kellan laughs. “Yeah, that wasn’t conducive to sexiness.”
He keeps glancing at my breasts. I suddenly regret wearing this shirt.
“Bacon buddy?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, bacon isn’t your buddy. If you love bacon and you want to have a couple pieces with breakfast on Sunday morning or you go to Denny’s for a Grand Slam Breakfast boost meal complete with eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes, and that’s one meal a week, fine. But these people who think they’re going to go on Atkins and eat nothing but bacon and butter and meat and cheese are high off their asses. Know what I mean?”
“Totally.” I totally have no idea what he means.
He slaps the red stop button on his treadmill. “Want to come do chest with me?”
“I’m a girl.” And I really have no idea what “doing chest” means.
“So?”
“So why do I need to train chest?”
“You need to train your whole body. To prevent muscle imbalances.”
He rides his treadmill to a stop and hops off.
“Coming?”
I hesitate. This is so weird. So unexpected.
“If you want results,” he says, “real, lasting results, you can’t just be a cardio bunny. You have to be an Iron Palace Princess.”
He points up at the massive Iron Palace logo high up on the wall of the gym.
When I look back at him, he’s looking at my chest again.
“You have to want to be queen of the Iron Palace,” he says. He glances at my chest again. OMG that’s like the third time.
“You must lift weights,” he says. “Almost every day. You have to work your whole body. Every body part once every four to five days. Abs and calves every other day. Fasted cardio every morning. And you have to eat right. No more bacon.”
“No more Ben and Jerry’s?”
“That’s up to you and how quickly you want to see results, how closely you stick to your nutrition, and how many boost days you choose to employ.”
“What are boost days?”
“I’ll tell you later. Iron Born, right?” He points at my tee shirt. Maybe he’s not just a Pervy McPervyson. “Come on.”
I grab my towel and follow him over to the benches. Kellan throws a tiny little five-pound weight on each end of a big long bar. He calls it an Olympic bar. He has me lie down and press the weight.
I’m self-conscious when the bar smooshes by boobs.
The teenagers using the bench nearby are clearly scoffing.
Kellan turns to face them. “Hey.”
They all three sober up immediately.
“What’s so funny?”
Kellan waits silently, expecting an answer.
“Um, nothing,” one of them says. “It’s just not that much weight. That’s all.”
“She’s warming up. You always have to warm up. That’s how you prevent injury. Not to mention stretch marks on the front of your shoulders.”
Kellan removes my dinky five-pounders and throws two 45-pound plates on each end. He calls them wheels. He lies down and bangs out 20 reps like it’s nothing. Wow.
He then has me help him pull the plates off and put on a 25-pound plate, the same amount of weight the three teenagers are using.
I look at the weight, and pointedly not at them. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Try.”
I get on the bench.
His hands guide mine into position on the bar. The metal is cold and rough. “Here, feel the difference between rough and smooth?” He points out a smooth ring. “That’s called the knurl.”
Kellan’s hands move over mine. His skin is warm and hard but soft at the same time. He’s gentle but I can feel his calluses.
“Pack your shoulders before you lift. Always pack your shoulders. Squeeze your shoulder blades together. Take a couple of breaths, steady your feet on the floor, flex your abs slightly to engage your core, and when you’re ready, go for it.”
I stare up at him from the bench. He’s staring
down at me. His hair falls around his face. And his eyes. Those blue eyes. I look up at the ceiling fan spinning high overhead. I hear Bruno Mars playing. Suddenly I’m scared. I want to get up and go home.
“Claire.”
Kellan’s voice gets my attention.
“You can do it. Don’t worry, I’ll help you up. Give yourself a three-count and then just go. Don’t over-think it. You’ll psyche yourself out. Your lifts are always better when you don’t think too much. Just get under it and go. Rep it out. Light weight. Get a rhythm. Pump it out.”
Those blue eyes. OMG those blue eyes. I really have to stop saying OMG.
I squeeze my shoulders together, take a breath… and lift!
I bring the bar over my chest. I’ve never done bench press in my life. Ever.
“Down easy then power up hard,” Kellan says.
I lower the bar, then press it back up. It’s surprisingly light.
“Good! Go, see how many you can get.”
I do it 11 more times. On rep number 12, he tells me to stop and helps me rack it. I get up. The skinny teenagers are silent now.
“See?” he says. “Ain’t nothing but a peanut. How as that?”
“Pretty easy, actually.”
“Good. Then we go up. Take the 25 off and put three plates on for me.”
I look at each of the black rubber-coated weights. 5, 10, 25, 35, 45. The 45s are the biggest. One at a time, I slide three 45s onto my side of the bar while Kellan puts three on his side. Wow; I can’t believe he’s actually going to lift that.
Kellan gets under it, sets his shoulders, his feet, takes a few breaths, and lifts it. “Pack your shoulders, control it down, power it up,” he says, somehow, while he’s lifting. “Find the rhythm.” He does 10 more and stands up. “Easy.”
“How much was that?”
“You tell me.”
I do the math. Three 45s on a side. 45 plus 45 is 90, 90 plus 90 is 180, plus one more on each side is another 90, so that’s 270. “How much is the bar?”
“Forty-five.”
I add them together. “315?”
“Very good. Most people take a lot longer to add up their weights. I still do it every single day.”
“So how much did I do?”
“You tell me.”
25 and 25 is 50, plus the bar is 45. “95?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
