by M. E. Carter
“You’re so full of shit,” he says before I can respond. “I can already tell you’ve decided to give it a go.”
My jaw drops, mimicking my hands falling to my sides. “I’ve already lost my manipulation techniques? I’ve worked out twice. I shouldn’t be a better person already!”
“You aren’t.”
“Aw, thanks. I think.”
“You just remind me of my sister.”
Batting my eyelashes, I continue to banter. “She’s beautiful and voluptuous, too, huh?”
“No. She’s a bullshitter like you.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and guides me away from the death machines, toward a room filled with—oh, shit. Those aren’t just death machines. I think those came straight out of a torture chamber and are complete with buckles and straps and other things I have no idea what to do with. “Welcome to Weightlifting for Beginners.”
Abel walks away to greet some other women who appear to be as apprehensive as I am. No, that’s not right. They look like they’ve resolved themselves to their fate. While they chat, I look around the room, eyes wide.
The room is a giant square with ceilings that are at least forty feet high. The second floor isn’t closed in. Instead there is a track going around the perimeter of the room. Awesome. So there will be witnesses. Oh, please don’t let Carlos see this.
Not that it matters.
Because he’s weird and I don’t like him.
No. No, I don’t.
Anyway, on one side of the wall, someone is holding a very heavy looking bar, squatting low to the floor. Nope. Not gonna do that.
On the other side of the room, people are dangling from some sort of contraption with their hands on the floor, pulling their knees to their chest. HA! Joke’s on Abel. I can’t even dangle.
In yet another area, there are people on row machines. Those I recognize. What I don’t see is the beautiful outdoors and a placid lake to row on. Seriously, why would you row in a gym when you could be having a picnic on the water? People are weird.
Then I look to my right and have to force myself not to run away. I’m not sure what those things are called, but last time I went to Cirque du Soleil, some skinny girl in a fancy leotard was showing off her flexibility while hanging from one of those contraptions.
“There’s no way you can get bored in here, right?” Of course, Abel is smiling. He’s in his element and thinks this is “fun”.
I point to the dangling contraptions. “I am not putting on sequins and hanging from that rope.”
Abel throws his head back and lets out a belly laugh. “Don’t worry, Rian. We’re starting you out slow. We won’t use the suspension bands today.”
“Or ever.”
“Or for a few weeks.”
“I will strangle myself so fast and then where will you be, huh? Sitting in a courtroom, tremendous biceps restricted by a suit coat, with me suing your ass off.”
He gives me that look I tend to get when I’m being ridiculous. Which I know I’m being but seriously. Who wants to twist themselves up in that thing only to fall and slam their head into the floor? Not me.
“You can’t sue me if you’re dead, so I’m not worried.” He ignores me when I scoff. “Besides, you stay on the floor when you use them. But we don’t have time for explanations. Let me introduce you to the others.”
There are others? Just what I need. More people watching while I work out. I wonder if Bambi still needs a treadmill partner…
“Ladies, I want to introduce you to Rian. She’s going to be joining us for the first time today.” Drat. He’s faster than me. Now that they know my name, I’m stuck here for the next hour. “Rian this is Dee and Morgan. They’re my regulars.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, despite feeling a tremendous amount of dread. Neither of them responds, just give me sort of a nod hello. I’m not sure if they’ve already decided they don’t like me or if they’re out of breath. The panting should be a giveaway, but frankly, there is a literal Bambi galloping on a treadmill right now. Anything is possible in this place.
“Have you already done your cardio warm up?” They both nod at Abel, still not saying anything but confirming my more logical suspicion. “Okay. Then let’s do one set of front lunges down and back followed by side lunges. Each side, for a totally of six laps.”
That doesn’t seem too hard. Lunges are just bending your knees a little more than normal when you walk, right?
Wrong.
So wrong.
So, so wrong.
I’ve taken one step and I’m already having a hard time getting back up. My new workout partners are already halfway across the room and I’m stuck one step in. Literally stuck. It’s like my muscles have thrown themselves down imitating my childhood dog, Barry, when he was done on his walk. He would just plop himself down wherever we were and refused to get up. We had to carry him home every time. German Shepherds are heavy when they’re dead weight.
That’s what my legs are doing right now. They’ve called it quits and are refusing to move like my dead weight dog. Except there’s no picking myself up and carrying me the rest of the way. Nope. I’m just going to fall over and lie on this floor, pretending I passed out while I wait for my humiliation subside.
Suddenly, a warm, strong hand grips my arm. Damn that Abel for being hot and married.
“Don’t lunge so low. We’re just trying to get your muscles warmed up, not workout yet.”
“I’m not sure six laps is realistic for me.”
He shoots me a smile as he watches my not-quite-as-lungy walk, just in case I try to fall over again. “I believe in you. Even if those six laps take you all hour.”
I stick my tongue out at him because I know he’s telling the truth. Damn his sister for making him immune to my half-hearted attempts at quitting before I begin.
Surprisingly, six laps don’t take as long as I anticipate. It’s amazing how much faster you can go when you’re not stuck in the downward position. But it also gave me time to look around and observe the other patrons. It kind of surprises me that no one is smiling. Well, unless they’re resting. I’m pretty sure I’ll be happy, too, when I’m in the stop position. But maybe I’m not the only one here because I have to be, not because I want to be.
Except for Bambi, of course. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what her motivation is if she’s not accomplishing something. But then again, I’ve got no room to judge.
Finishing my laps, I watch the other ladies in my class. I’m far enough behind them that they’ve already started with the workout portion of the program. Not that anyone else can tell. Sweat is sweat whether it comes from the warm-up or the actual hard part, so at least I fit in.
“You feel warm? Ready to work?” Once again, Abel has a giant smile on his face.
“Are you always this smiley when you torture people?”
“Always. It makes me happy to see others in pain.”
Crossing my arms over my sweaty chest, I give him my best glare. It’s not easy with sweat in your eyes. Nor while forcing my hands not to lift up each boob and wipe the sweat from underneath, but I give myself an A for effort. “You’re a bit of a masochist.”
“And you’re a bit of a procrastinator. Enough talking. Let’s do this.” I need to up my game around him. He’s too good at bullshitting.
Pointing to the white board attached to the wall, he starts explaining what all the scribble means.
“We’re going to do some circuits today. Nothing fancy. Just some exercises to get your muscles moving. I’ve written everything down so you can refer back to it, but I’ll explain it all. Follow me over here.” I obey, which is so unlike me, but I admit he has me curious. I’ve always been stronger than I look so maybe weights will end up being my thing. A girl can hope anyway.
We stop next to one of the walls. There are several medicine balls sitting on the floor. They look almost identical to the ones we used to use in elementary school P.E. I’ll chalk that up as ego boost
number two… I was the master of medicine balls. They were fun to play with.
Abel scoops one of the balls up like it weighs next to nothing. “This is a really easy exercise once you’ve got the coordination down. But it’s really great for your glutes, your quads, your shoulders, and your core.”
Impressive. No wonder ten-year-old me was stronger than I looked.
Positioning himself facing the wall, Abel squats down and bends his arms. “Keep your legs apart, squat low, and as you come up,” he shoots up and throws the ball against the wall, catching it as it falls, “toss the ball on the wall. Do fifteen reps. This is not a speed exercise so don’t focus on going fast. Just complete them all. Sound good?”
I nod because really. How hard can that be?
“Good. Follow me over here.”
I do as commanded and we walk to a different area. The only thing here is a really ugly stool. Immediately, I lean against it. A sitting exercise sounds right up my alley. Sit and Be Fit is popular for a reason, right? Abel, of course, laughs.
“Nice try. That stool isn’t for sitting.”
“All stools are for sitting.”
“Not this one. Watch.”
I move aside and to my horror, he jumps from the floor to the top of the stool.
“Uhh…” I stutter. “There is no way I’m getting this body off this floor and onto that stool unless we go back to its original purpose, which is sitting.”
He just shakes his head, clearly still amused by me. I’m beginning to think he wasn’t kidding when he said he enjoys people’s pain. “I know. That’s why I have a shorter one for you.” He leans down and pulls over one of those plastic step aerobics benches with a bunch of risers underneath. “The goal is to eventually be able to jump on that stool. It’s there for your motivational purposes.”
I snort a laugh. He has no idea how lack-of-motivated I can be.
“You are going to use this one so we can get your muscles used to the movement. It’s a lot lower but will still have the same effect.”
“But if I miss, the whole thing will fall apart.”
“And then you’ll put it back together.”
“But it’ll be loud, and everyone will know.”
“Then don’t miss.”
I cross my arms again, trying to ignore the boob sweat again. “You’re not very nice.”
“Then I’ve done my job.”
“You sound like my mother when I was a teenager.”
“I have a seven-year-old daughter. I’ve been perfecting my dad lines.”
Sighing, I decide giving up and exercising is less effort than this conversation. “Fine. What’s next?”
His eyes light up. Sadist. “Two more.” He leads me to a couple of yoga mats on the floor. “Crunches. See how Dee is doing them?”
My new workout partner, who I have yet to genuinely work out with, is lying on the mat with a small weight bar above her head. As she brings her upper body to a sitting position, the bar stays over her head.
“I hate to be a buzzkill—" I begin.
“No, you don’t,” he replies.
“You got me. But I don’t know that I can do a crunch without the bar, let alone with one.”
He picks one up off the floor and hands it to me. “That’s the beauty of these. They’re made specifically for this kind of exercise. Use it to help you balance. If you move it just the right way, your core muscles will be working hard, but the bar will help pull you up.”
Sounds hard and potentially disastrous, but I admit I’m curious to try.
“Last but not least—"
Oh, god. There’s still more. There are only three of us. How is there more?
“Battle ropes.”
I look at the long black ropes attached to some weird contraption that appears portable. That makes me a little nervous, but there are so many weights on top of it, it probably won’t go anywhere. I don’t think I have that much strength.
Abel picks up the ropes to demonstrate. “When you grab them, I want you to keep your legs apart and bend your knees. You’re going to be using a lot of back muscles and we don’t want to pull any of them.”
I shrug, not seeing what the big deal is. It’s a rope. How hard can it be?
“I want fluid motions when you lift the rope to eye level,” Abel demonstrates while talking me through the motion, “and then slam it down on the floor.” He goes through the motion several times, making it look easy. And loud. Very, very loud.
As he drops the ropes, he adds, “Got any questions?”
“Yes. Why did you pick an exercise that would draw the most attention to me, in noise alone?”
Without skipping a beat, he says, “If you know people are looking, you’ll hold your form better.”
“Seriously?”
“No. it’s a total coincidence. But I was ready for some sort of complaint, so I’m really on my one-liner game today.”
“Pffft…” I strut toward the ropes, confident in my rope-slamming abilities. “Joke’s on you, mister. I’m gonna hold this form so good, you won’t even know how to make it a real exercise for me.”
I see the look on his face. He doesn’t believe me. “I’m gonna time you. Keep a consistent speed for thirty seconds.”
“Just say when.”
He looks at his watch and presses a button. “Aaaaand….. when.”
Lifting the rope and slamming it down, the first thing I notice is this is not the same kind of rope we used to climb in gym class. It’s much heavier than it looks. I also notice that it doesn’t matter if Abel is timing me—I’m still counting how many times this rope hits the floor.
Six, Seven, Eight…
The numbers continue in my head when Abel yells, “Ten seconds!”
“Left or finished?” My breathing has turned into panting now.
“You have twenty seconds left. Well, fifteen now.”
Internally, I groan. I change my mind. I don’t want to do this one anymore.
I feel the boob sweat sliding down my stomach into places there shouldn’t be liquid. I have decided I pegged Abel correctly. He is well and truly a sociopath. There is no other explanation for this.
“Am I done yet?” I yell, using my last remaining breath.
“Ten more seconds.”
“You need…” pant, “…to get…” pant, “…your watch checked…”
Abel laughs. Laughs! The jerk. But just as I think I’m going to fall over, he yells, “Time!”
I immediately drop the rope and find a wall to lean on, trying desperately to suck in some air.
“See?” Abel says cheerfully. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I. Am going. To die.
Chapter Eight
CARLOS
For years, people asked me if I was sad that I was the last single man among my family and friends. When I told them no, they would get odd looks on their faces. It happened every time. It was a cross between disbelief that I truly felt this way and pity that I would be so torn up about it that I would feel compelled to lie and pretend I was okay.
Not one of them ever cared to understand that I really was fine being the last man standing. My bachelorhood isn’t something I resigned myself to the closer I got to forty because I never found “the one”. No, my relationship status was the result of my own selfless desire to never trick a woman into thinking I’m something I’m not. I’m a gentleman that way.
What I am not, however, is a one-woman man. I have no desire for marriage. No desire to ever have kids. No desire to compromise my vacation plans, stop star-fishing when I sleep, or cook for two.
None.
I like my lifestyle but I also don’t want to disrespect anyone by pretending I can give them what they want. And I don’t want to waste their time on me when who they’re looking for is out there somewhere.
Judging by how many of those friends and family who gave me looks of disbelief and/or pity are now in divorce court and saddled with years of alimony, I’d say I’
m not on the only one who feels this way. I’m just the only one who was honest with myself and everyone else years ago. I knew what I wanted way back then and never tried to convince myself otherwise in the name of “everyone is doing it”. Now, it seems, they wanted the same things, too. They just never had the guts to admit it to anyone, including themselves.
My lack of baggage comes in handy for many reasons. Not the least of which is the edge I have in the dating world. I am a fantastic companion, and I know it. Especially compared to guys like that poor schmuck sitting at the end of the bar. He’s obviously waiting for his rendezvous to begin, probably with someone he met online and hasn’t seen before. The glances around the room and frequent checks of his phone are a dead giveaway.
Unfortunately, whoever he is waiting for is going to have some heavy suitcases to help this poor guy carry. He’s drinking straight tequila, which tells me he’s after self-medication and not enjoying the finer pleasures in life. The bags under his eyes indicate he hasn’t caught up on his sleep after weekend visitation with his kids. And the redness in his eyes tell me those kids aren’t the only reason he has sleepless nights. He probably lies in bed, wide-awake, wondering how he’s going to be able to provide for his children and maintain his shithole apartment.
This is what happens when men lie to themselves about what they really want in life.
On the contrary, I’m sipping on an Old Fashioned because I have no reason to dilute the world around me. My eyes are bright and clear from getting enough rest, exercising regularly, and eating right. My bank account is solidly in the black and growing at a steady rate.
All because I never disillusioned myself into thinking I’m something I’m not. Or that I want things I don’t just because they’re culturally popular. Millennials caught onto the same benefits faster than Gen X ever did. I predict they have much happier futures in store than people I grew up with.
