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Chapter 2

  • Day two of my quest to achieve balance in my life has come.
  • I erred by reading this essay about leading the greatest life possible and the importance of taking care of our body. I roughly run every other day, yet this journalist claims that joining a gym encourages exercise and fosters social interaction.
  • I'm horribly lacking in two areas.
  • I'm perplexed as I stand in front of this machine with two handles next to each other and a chair designed for seating. I suppose you exercise your arms by pulling the grips together.
  • I set my towel on the bench, take a seat, and grab the handles to control them. The grips are immovable, making me appear foolish for even doing this. That is why I avoid working with machines also a gym.
  • I turn away and move toward the cross-trainers, frustrated and barely perspiring. It can't be that hard, can it? Three of the five cross trainers are being used. Unable to find a towel to wipe his drenched forehead, a young man is working hard and perspiring profusely. Next to him is a lovely female shooting photos on her phone while wearing cute gym attire.
  • Grandma is now seated next to me. A white sweatband sitting on her head to hold it back and shorten her gray permed hair. She is dressed in a baby pink, enormous sweatsuit made of the same material used by parachutists.
  • She moves at a nice, steady pace that seems manageable for me to keep up with.
  • I adhere to the directions and press the button to start the machine after throwing my towel over the rail and putting my earbuds in. Okay, walk with your feet moving and swing your arms. Easy. Unwillingly moving too quickly, my body hits the front and forces me to grab tightly to keep from falling off.
  • "Doll, how are you doing?"
  • I'm glad my grandmother feels bad for me.
  • The gym is really awful.
  • "Yeah, sure. Just trying to find my way."
  • "Susan here. You've been absent from my view. ? New to the area?"
  • This time, I gain momentum by moving my feet more slowly as I strive to maintain this discussion.
  • "Charlie, but it's an abbreviation for Charlotte," I explain, coordinating my movements. "This is my first time here. I read this article, and I'm trying to be nicer to my body, especially since I love carbs, donuts, and other death food."
  • Susan agrees with a smile and a nod of her head. "You look stunning, doll. Allow me to tell you a story. I have eight children and fifteen grandchildren. My body has seen it all and even carried a few ten-pounders. But nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for being 72 and chasing small children around. That's why I come here first thing in the morning."
  • Susan, on the other hand, does not appear to be in her seventies, but rather in her early sixties at best.
  • "I've also heard that gyms are great places to socialize. Look, Susan, I'm not desperate to meet a guy, but you know... It's been a while, and I'll be thirty in a few years. I'm not sure where the time has gone. Okay, wait a minute. I lied. I was so preoccupied with my career and the launch of our small firm that I didn't have time for anyone. Look at me, I can't even use a cross-trainer without almost falling off," I ramble, divulging far too much personal information.
  • Susan slows her movements until she comes to a complete halt. She steps away from the machine and grabs her towel and water bottle. "I don't do it all the time, but you strike me as a lady who could use some assistance."
  • "Jesse Junior is my son. He's from out of town and has never been married. I believe he would be a good match. I could give you my phone number."
  • The humiliation never stops. Jesse Junior does not appear to be my type. An out-of-towner is a country boy who expects me to raise his children and bake pies every day.
  • "Wait, what?" I say this while maintaining a friendly demeanor. "If I'm still single the next time you see me, please give me Jesse's phone number."
  • "Jesse Junior, doll," she corrects me. "Jesse is my husband, and Lord knows he'd do anything for me."
  • "Jesse is my husband, and he'd devour you like a hungry wolf." Susan waves goodbye and walks to the restroom, where she disappears behind the red door labeled Ladies.
  • I use the cross trainer for another twenty minutes while listening to Olivia Newton-'Get John's Let's Physical,' hoping to be inspired by my newfound hobby. For the next twenty minutes, all I can think about is whether anyone will judge me if I wear spandex to the gym.
  • I hit stop and stepped off the machine, knees trembling and unbalanced. I'm curious how many Hershey bars I just burned off. I'm in desperate need of chocolate.In an effort to forget about my sweet tooth, I decide to try another workout, casually walking past a man sitting at the machine I had previously attempted to use. He's lifting his arms and grunting, and I realize how stupid I look because I didn't use the machine that way, hence my earlier abandonment.
  • That's it, I'm making the gym my bitch. I refuse to be a pawn in its sick and twisted game.
  • I walk over to another machine by the corner and take a seat, placing my towel on the chair. This one appears to be simple. All I need to do is pull the lever-like device and work on my arms.
  • I'm only five minutes in, and I'm pretty sure my limbs will have to be amputated tomorrow. I grab my towel and stand, accidentally bumping into a man and resting my hands on his chest.
  • "Oh my goodness. I'm truly sorry. I was simply not looking," I apologize, out of breath.
  • He rests his hands on my shoulders, gently and non-offensively pushing me away. His expression is amusing rather than annoying, despite his grin.
  • "Hey, it's fine. It's all my fault. Lost in some Bon Jovi... you know, gym music," he says, pulling out one of his earbuds.
  • "How about 'Livin' on a Prayer?'"
  • He laughs, his perfectly sculpted face adorned with cute dimples. He's absolutely stunning. He reminds me of someone, but I'm not sure who.
  • "'Keep the Faith," he says. "However, I'll occasionally do some sets to 'Livin' on a Prayer.'"
  • My gaze is drawn to his chest, which is framed by his toned arms. His tank is white and dripping with sweat, but not in a gross way that causes you to scrunch your nose. No, more of an I-want-my-milkshake-to-bring-you-to-my-yard kind of sweat.
  • He reaches out his hand. "My name is Julian... Baker, Julian."
  • "Charlie Mason," he says. I shake his hand, savoring how masculine his hands are and why they do something to me that I haven't felt in a long time.
  • "All right, the machine. Are you finished?"
  • Unwillingly, I turn around and realize my unwarranted lust for this man is pathetic because he only wants the machine."Um, sure, go for it. I've wiped it down and everything, so there won't be any sweat or rashes. Is it a sweat rash that we're supposed to wipe down, or can you catch something like herpes?" My temperature rises as a result of sheer embarrassment at the words. "Look, I don't know anything about herpes, so can we just forget about it?" Julian's hazel-colored eyes develop slight creases. His warm and friendly smile breaks into a small laugh.
  • "I trust you, but thanks for the body rash lesson."
  • "I'm mortified," I confess, laughing at my own folly. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Maybe we can do it again... the awkward rash talk. Have a good time."