by Eliza Gordon
* love my l*fe.
See you soon,
Georg*e
P.S. St*ck w*th goldf*sh.
FOURTEEN
By the time I pull up to the curb in front of Hollywood Fitness, I’m shaking so hard I forget to put the car in park. Thankfully, I realize this before I get out and the car rolls down Sandy Boulevard.
God, I stink already, and I haven’t even done a single sit-up.
What am I doing here?
My phone buzzes: It’s 6:20 PM. U’d better be at H’wood Fitness or I’m firing U as a client.
My reply: What if I fail miserably?
Lady Macbeth: U will. And then U’ll get up and try again. THE ROCK DOES NOT QUIT. NEITHER WILL DANIELLE STEELE.
I grab my shiny new water bottle and gym bag and step out into yet another chilly spring cloudburst. My heart leaps into my throat the second I open the front door, a heady cocktail of sweat and feet and air freshener washing over me. Marco the trainer is standing at the counter, talking to a shiny-faced middle-aged woman, and she’s smiling and chuckling at whatever he’s saying. This is good. No one in here, at least that I can see, is crying. Solid start. Unless they have a separate room with the crying people.
Marco lifts a pleasantly sculpted arm, bare to the shoulder in his white-and-black tank top, and waves hello. I’m not sure what to do—do I grab a locker, or do I wait, now that he’s seen me?
He makes the decision for me. “Excellent to see you again, Ms. Steele,” he says.
“Please. Dani.” I offer a clammy hand to shake.
“Excellent. All right, well, go and pop your things in a locker, and I’ll meet you back here. Janice explained a little about your unique goals, so I’ll show you the fitness plan I propose and we can discuss. As I understand, you have a rather short time line?”
I nod, because my voice box is now quaking with fear behind my tonsils.
“Not a problem. We’re going to jump right in and get you fit as a fiddle. Meet me back here in two minutes, yes?”
He offers his fist for a bump, and I try not to notice how his chin-length, naturally curly dark brown hair is sort of perfect, and how when he smiles it is a full-mouth smile revealing really nice white teeth, despite the old saying about British people having shoddy dental care, and I just can’t help but wonder how this pretty man who speaks the Queen’s English ended up in rainy Portland, Oregon, helping insecure, over-BMI almost-thirtysomethings chase unreasonable fitness goals that really have nothing to do with fitness, or where that little scar above his right eyebrow came from. Probably from playing polo with Princes William and Henry and—
“You all right, Dani?”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m just sorta freaked out. And embarrassed. About last night—”
“Not another word about it.” He leans closer. “It might not be the last time it happens, but we’re going to work on that.”
“Great. Awesome. I didn’t have kale tonight, so that’s good.”
He smiles and turns to the sweaty lady who has sidled up beside him. “A new victim for you, Marco?” she says, winking at me. “Don’t worry, kiddo. You’re in good hands. Except for the part where he makes you cry, but you’ll thank him later.”
She pats Marco’s arm and moves toward the exit. I swear she’s limping.
I move toward the women’s locker room before Marco can see how nervous I am. Against the painted cinder block wall, a guy in silky, loose-fitting, blue-and-white shorts that almost reveal too much, his tank top shoved into their front and his silvery hair succumbing to gravity, is doing a handstand—though not well. He almost crumples into a heap as he smiles at me when I pass. I’m not sure if he’s being friendly or if he’s in pain.
I almost collide with Trish with Muscles, a basket of used towels under one impossibly perfect arm. “Hey, glad to see you came back!” she says.
On wobbly legs, I walk out of the locker room and look over my shoulder to see if Handstand Man is still there. He is. Only he’s managed to get his legs against the wall this time, his eyes looking at the floor, his skinny, wrinkly arms quaking with the task of supporting his body weight. This does not look at all safe.
I find the way back to the treadmills, where Marco stands with a clipboard in hand; he points to a bench he’s pulled up. “Have a seat. We’re going to chat a bit first, if that’s all right with you.”
Over the next half hour or so, Marco’s affable nature calms the storm raging in my guts. He asks about everything—from dietary habits to my exercise routine (he doesn’t even laugh when I tell him it involves running the stairs to the Dunkin’ Donuts as fast as I can) to food allergies and preexisting medical conditions. He has me complete a health inventory that covers everything he hasn’t asked—from medications to my last period to if I think I could be pregnant.
“Question: Do I have to do handstands?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That guy over there—by the women’s locker room. Handstand Man?”
Marco laughs. “You do not have to do handstands. That’s Walter. And he gets all his fitness advice from YouTube. He claims it’s good for circulation.”
I look over at Walter just as he smiles at two other women walking past to go change. “Mm-hmm. Which is why he’s doing it near the women’s locker room? I think it has more to do with those very fancy, very loose silk shorts.”
“It’s the only brick wall that isn’t covered with a mirror. He already broke one. That wall was our compromise,” Marco says. “But if you need to know anything about American history, and I mean anything, Walter’s your guy.”
He again turns to his trusty clipboard. Once the formalities are out of the way—to cover the club’s liability in case I drop dead of a cardiac event on the elliptical—he invites me onto the treadmill.
“Slow and steady. You walk, I’ll talk.”
“Okay.” I mostly know how to do that.
“Before we get started, Dani, you should know everyone in this gym is here for a different reason. No one is staring at you. No one is laughing at you. We’re all just happy you’re here. This is a safe place. We all lift each other up. All right?”
I nod. Although this sounds a little airy-fairy, my eyes sting.
“So”—he clicks the treadmill up another notch—“Janice tells me you’re looking to enter a competition that involves a range of athletic tasks.” He reads from his clipboard. “You will be completing an obstacle course with crawling and scaling, balance beam, hurdles, stairs, and a sandbag carry, followed by a hundred-meter swim in a five-foot-deep pool and two full laps around a track, which is the equivalent of approximately one-half mile.”
I’m already short of breath at 0.12 treadmill miles, at level 2 incline on walking speed. How the hell am I going to do all that stuff he just listed?
“Is it too late to admit . . . that I didn’t really . . . look at everything involved?” I ask, sheepish grin firmly affixed.
“Well, if I’m going to get you in shape to be the victor, we’ve got our work cut out for us, haven’t we?” He smiles again. “Janice says the winner gets to be in a film with Dwayne Johnson, who I understand you might fancy a bit.” He nods at my T-shirt. Which has The Rock’s face on it.
I blush. “You could say I’m a fan.”
“Whatever it takes to motivate you. And he seems like a decent fellow, though I was more partial to John Cena myself,” he says.
“Blasphemer!” I say a little too loudly.
“When you’re done walking, we can address any concerns you might have before I take you through the beginner’s program I’ve designed.”
Once I’ve finished the ten-minute treadmill warm-up, I follow like a drunk lemming with broken legs as he walks me through the gym, demonstrating the exercises on each piece of equipment.
Rowing machine for extra cardio to burn fat. Squats on a thing called the Smith Machine, great for legs and buns. Cables for glutes, hamstrings, triceps, and back muscles. Medicine balls for should
ers and upper back. Lunges for hamstrings and glutes. Dumbbells versus barbells and the fun things we can do with both to benefit multiple muscle groups. Four different kinds of sit-ups.
Marco demonstrates—his very fit body putting on quite a show and making all this shit look super easy—and then has me do the specific exercise once through for five or six repetitions, and I realize that I could very well die in here.
INT. HOLLYWOOD FITNESS - EVENING
Miraculously Beautiful Marco, his luscious brown locks just dusting his jawbone, stands beside a quiet treadmill, phone in hand, other arm draped deliciously over the treadmill’s handrail.
MIRACULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL MARCO
Hello, yes, my name is Marco and I’m phoning from Hollywood Fitness. It has unfortunately become necessary for me to contact the next of kin for Danielle Steele with an e. Have I reached an appropriate number?
ANY MEMBER OF MY CIRCLE OF FAMILY OR FRIENDS
Uh, where did you say you’re calling from?
MIRACULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL MARCO
Hollywood Fitness, on Sandy Boulevard. We’ve had an unfortunate evening, and Danielle is, in fact, dead. It was the treadmill that got her.
ANY MEMBER OF MY CIRCLE OF FAMILY OR FRIENDS
Well, the Danielle that I know wouldn’t be caught dead in a gym.
MIRACULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL MARCO
Sadly, that is exactly what has happened. We will need someone to collect the body. There’s quite a queue for the treadmill.
“Though we will be meeting once a week, when you’re on your own, the idea will be to work up to four sets, with at least eight to ten repetitions for each exercise. That will take some time, so for now, one to two sets with four to six repetitions for each. Ten minutes on the treadmill to warm up, two minutes on the rowing machine to cool down at the end of your workout.”
When he points us to a vacant bench, I almost sob with gratitude. My muscle fibers are already weeping such copious quantities of lactic acid that I fear my legs will burst open and I will have to be wrapped in a giant maxi pad to soak up all the pain.
“I’m going to give you this,” he says, handing me a journal-size, spiral-bound notebook, “and in it I want you to record everything you eat. I mean every little thing. I’ve included a printed list of foods you’ll want to phase out of your diet, as well as a list of complex carbohydrates, proteins, good fats versus bad fats, and how much of each you should be consuming based on your height and weight—even if weight loss is a goal, we want to focus on exchanging fat for muscle. Strong, not skinny. To be successful in this competition, we need to make you a powerhouse.”
I’m nodding my head, even though I’m barely surfing above this tsunami of panic as I look through his food recommendations. Pretty much everything on the this-is-bad-for-you list is a staple of my daily or weekly diet.
“The look on your face tells me you might have a question or concern.”
“Um . . . no. Well, a little. I have a lot of dietary issues, it seems.”
“Think of it as flexible dieting. Don’t allow yourself to get into a trap where, if you have a pastry or latte, you need to be punished by spending extra time on the treadmill. As I tell all my clients, visualize your goal. See yourself taking each small step to get there, and by the time you look up again, you’ve reached that first milestone.”
“Really? You think I can do this?”
“Absolutely. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
I smirk. “You sound like one of those motivational posters they put in conference rooms, with soaring eagles or majestic landscapes.”
“Only if I get to be the soaring eagle,” he says. That million-watt grin competes with the glaring fluorescents overhead. “I absolutely believe that if this competition means that much to you—and according to your T-shirt it does—then we can get you ready. It’s going to be hard—I’m not gonna lie to you. We are working with a short time frame, and there will be loads of folks who’ll have a leg up with their training. But that doesn’t mean you can’t throw yourself into your own program. Be here five days a week, six if you can swing it.
“We can modify your workouts so you’re not overdoing it, as that too is counterproductive. Your body requires rest days for sure. But follow the diet. Make the changes. And if you win, I will take the photograph of you and The Rock at the finish line so I can brag to all my future clients that I trained you—you know, when you’re rich and famous and you dust this town off your sleeve like yesterday’s crumbs.”
“And then will you forswear your allegiance to John Cena and come into the light?”
Marco’s rich brown eyes squint with his laugh, a confident sound that echoes off the high ceiling. “I will consider it, Ms. Steele with an e.”
I look over his list of exercises once again, knowing I will likely have to ask a dozen more times how to do each of these things. “I’m really gonna do this, huh . . .”
“You really are.” He offers his hand to shake. “Your fans are counting on you.”
FIFTEEN
March 27, 2016
Dear Dwayne Johnson,
FIRST OF ALL: OWWWWWW. Ow. Just so much ow. Dear gods, the pain.
Second: I am the worst daughter and sister ever. I have the texts and voicemails to prove it. Jerky Jackie is probably going to have her secretary transcribe a scathing letter, and once Georgette regains use of the letter “I,” there will be emails. Did I mention this “intervention” they wanted to do? Because Mommy is trying to sell these ridiculous healing wands to her retired neighbors whose primary income is Social Security? I probably didn’t tell you. I know I’m behind with entries . . .
This is the end of my first week at the gym, and per the aforementioned, I didn’t know I had muscles in the weird places where I have pain. In fact, I woke up in the middle of the night to some pathetic whimpering—I thought maybe there was a kitten stuck in my wall and then I could record myself digging the baby cat out from behind the sheetrock and then the video would go viral because I’m nothing if not an attention whore and saving baby cats IS noble—
But really, the sound was just me. I woke myself up, moaning in my sleep. And not the good kind of moaning that involves you putting your hands on secret places on my body but the kind of moaning where, if anyone were near, they might think a person was actively dying.
ANYWAY. Those first-edition books Mommy had on hold—I raced out Saturday morning and stopped at the two different bookstores (including the one across the damn bridge in Vancouver) and got her dumb books before I hobbled into the gym. I called to let her know I had them, but then she blindsided me: She said she was canceling Saturday dinner AND her sixtieth birthday party because her daughters are “micromanaging and impinging upon her freedoms to exercise her rights as a capitalist,” which is so weird because Mommy hates capitalism, or so she says, and yet here she is, trying to swindle her neighbors out of $69.95 in two easy payments so they can have some useless acrylic tube full of sand and broken dreams to cure their arthritis.
(Although, if the wands really DO work, I could so use one right now. I could come up with two easy payments of $69.95 if it stops the heartbeat in my calves.)
So Mommy nixed dinner, which I was all too glad for because I really just wanted to rub Betty Crocker Whipped fluffy white frosting all over my arms and legs and then roll in sprinkles while rethinking my life choices and sucking back ibuprofen-infused gin and tonics, but nooooooo, Jerky Jackie and Georgette demanded Mommy let them into her house (I’m going to guess that Georgette again threatened to call the cops about the weed Mommy grows among the hothouse tomatoes in her basement), so when I ignored Jerky Jackie’s texts and didn’t pop right over to Mommy’s to join in on the anti–healing-wand smackdown . . .
You get the gist. I’m obviously the worst.
But I’m so tiiiiiiiired. And Trevor showed up last night just before midnight, and he smelled like beer and didn’t have his car, which means one of his Frisbee-golf nerd friends doubli
ng as designated driver dropped him off here, and he was all about making up for the missed Sex Nights this week. So whatever, I went along with it, although again with the moaning—pretty sure he thought I was super into his drunken fumblings, but mostly, my body aches so much, I was just trying to get through it so I could go to sleep and visualize the sinewy fibers in all my major muscle groups stitching themselves back together like good little knitters. Knit one, purl two, knit one, purl two . . .
Side note: When Trevor is drunk, his penis curves funny. I mean, I think it always curves funny when it’s flaccid—but when he’s boozed up and his tumescence is less than 100 percent, his wiener curves to the right, as if it’s leaning over to tell his testicles a secret. Is that normal? I should ask Jerky Jackie about this. Maybe she’s performed penoplasties and will therefore have some excellent firsthand advice. Firsthand . . . get it? Like, her hand and a penis . . . okay, never mind. I’m not funny. I’M DROWNING IN LACTIC ACID, DWAYNE.
(Except: I googled it. It’s not lactic acid at all that is making me wish for death. That’s a myth. Apparently, the soreness is from actual muscle cell damage and elevated amounts of various metabolites in the muscle. I am counteracting this tonight with a maple bar AND a Boston cream. Please do not tell Miraculously Beautiful Marco.)
Trevor was pretty proud of himself this morning, hangover aside, that I was sore. He thought it was his doing. As I haven’t told him about the gym and the competition, et cetera, I let him gloat.
I should tell him—right? I’ll tell him.
Maybe.
I don’t want him to sign up, though. And it’s the kind of thing he might do, not because he particularly cares about meeting you or raising money for the children’s hospital, but because if he wins and I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it. That’s just the way he is—I’m still hearing about his team’s Pictionary victory at the theater Christmas party three months ago. Plus if I tell him, Mr. Frisbee Golf Team Captain will insist on training me himself, even though he’s not a trainer, and if I don’t end up injured, I won’t get in the best shape ever. I need someone with legit skills to show me how to do this stuff—and to motivate without me wanting to punch his lights out.
