Upon concluding the thrice weekly IVs of the past three months, I relapsed immediately into an addiction I thought gone for good. Within mere hours, I re-upped the old daily habit. Soon, the side effects of my excess were back. I was dripping sweat. I was hyperkinetic. I was in a fervor. I could not stop. Excercising.
Instead of repatriating to my former gym, I decided to make a fresh start. Spread the calories around, so to speak.
It’s okaaay, but already I can tell the new place is never going to feel like my home away from home or even my best and favorite hang. Then again, my old gym only felt like my own personal “Cheers” until a particularly mean mean-girl turned it into my own personal “Jeers”.
Given the cards in hand, I won’t be getting too attached to any person, place, or thing anyway. So I soldier on, this army of one. I quick-step the elliptical. I strong-arm the rower. I keep my iPod shuffled and my big mouth muffled.
Even so, there is a man who chats me everyday. He is very young. He is very fit. He is very handsome. He is very charming. He is very Fernando.
He tells me he is most impressed by my form. He tells me he likes my energy, my attitude. He tells me that my body is like a machine.
Now, Fernando is not the first man to compare my anatomy to a finely tuned apparatus. Back in the day, my boyfriend from graduate school often called me a machine. A sex machine. He was not complaining.
These days, well, the only machine to which my body can claim any real kinship has got to be the Yugo GV, a mid-80s subcompact from the communist bloc. No speed. No power. No stability. No reliability. Literally falls to pieces when put to motion.
But I digress. Back to Fernando and his flatterings. Clearly, he wants to be my gigolo.
After all, I am a woman of a certain age. I live in an exclusive neighborhood. I hit the gym at an hour of leisure. I have that je ne sais “ladies who lunch” vibe. I wear no gold around my finger. I fit the profile.
Hey! Get your mind out of the gutter! Yes, he wants to be my gigolo. My gym gigolo!
See, the fitness employees, they don’t make a lot of money for desk duty and group classes and such the like. Personal training, this is the best way to score some shekels.
Alas, Fernando is not my type. No, my trainer of choice specializes in Pilates and Barre. Core of steel and heart of gold. Her name is Jenny and she is “The Reformer”.
Even though Jenny is on sabbatical, Fernando will not be my trainer. But somehow, I don’t feel any great urgency to tell him the bad news. I should interfere with the right to free suave? I don’t think so!
© 2013 Jaclyn Schrier. All rights reserved.