Year of the Chick (5 page)

So why did that bitch-blonde instructor say “keep on pushing”?

By now I was free of any pain in the posterior region, so I held up my shiny membership card, comparing the photo to my image in the mirror.

I wanted the photo to be ugly, and I was fairly certain I’d hit the mark. I could barely even look directly at it, what with the greasy matted hair, fresh uncovered acne, and noticeably chapped lips.

Of course it wasn’t my own inventiveness that led to a nasty photo. That’s just how they did it in the ads for losing weight: ugly before and beautiful after. Often times the woman hadn’t even lost a lot of weight, but her “After” shot looked fabulous (with the help of bridal make-up and a spray tan). My goal was a similar one. I still intended to lose my fifteen pounds, but no matter where I stood with my goal, I would always look better than the membership card (thanks to the mascara and bronzer I applied before each workout).

The bigger goal of course, was to have a sexy gym attendant swipe my card. He’d be repelled by the photo, but then he’d raise his eyes to see my face: “Wow, is that really you?” he’d say. “Looks like you’ve been making some progress!”

A few visits later, maybe he’d ask me for a date.

And that’s how a quest for romance begins.

I put down the card and focused on my image in the mirror. My hair was only half tied up, with enough wisps falling down to conceal my “monkey left ear.”
 
I’d never figured out if it was better to have two symmetrical monkey ears, or instead one perfectly normal ear, and another one modeled after monkey DNA. All I knew was that slicked-back ponytails were a no-no.

Next I examined my body in these brand new gym clothes. At five-foot-seven and a hundred and fifty pounds, my fat was only pronounced in particular areas of wrongness. The worst right now was the jiggling upper-arm effect. I was only a child when I’d first seen a woman with the “upper arm jiggs.” It happened on a hot summer day, when our tank-top-wearing teacher started writing on the chalkboard. As she wrote the assignment in her swift and sweeping cursive, her upper arms went wild. This way and that they rocked, swinging like a hammock in the wind. Call me superficial but I didn’t want to be a human hammock.

Besides my upper arms I was struggling to hide my back fat.

And those love handle things.

For all of these reasons I had chosen a roomy T-shirt.

On the bottom were my black and slutty workout pants. I had purchased these a week ago at Bebe Sport, and though I may not have looked like the Eva Longoria poster that was modeling the extra-extra-small-sized version, I loved what they did for my butt.

I wasn’t sure what special ingredient they’d injected into the spandex, but my butt looked rather slappable in these pants. It made me wonder if the women who shopped at Bebe Sport were more interested in wearing these pants on their leisurely strolls in the city, than for actually working out. Well whatever they did, I’d be wearing them for sure in non-workout situations.

Despite the creative clothing there was serious work to be done, and being home for the weekend meant my parents would be quick to remind me.

“Romi! Are you going to the gym today?”

From my mother’s voice upstairs to my asymmetrical ears, I now had my first reminder.

When I made it to the kitchen my parents were positively beaming.

“Do you want me to come so you’re not alone? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone.” My father was becoming more and more worried by the second, as he always did when one of his daughters was anywhere away from the house.

“It’s Saturday morning and I’m going to a gym full of people. I think I’ll be okay.”

My parents didn’t seem too convinced, so my dad proceeded with his over-protective checklist:

“Do you have your cell phone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How long does it take you to drive there?”

“Six minutes.”

“How long will you be exercising for?”

“Probably an hour.”

“So when will you be back?”

“In an hour and a half.”

“Okay, well call us if you’re running late or we’ll start to worry.” It was the most repeated song on the over-protective soundtrack, and I left with its aggravating chorus ringing loudly in my ears.

***

When I walked into the gym I was hit with a flurry of sounds. The hum of machines whizzing back and forth, the laboured coughs of people on the brink of vomit, and the “pump you up” music of Britney Spears.

As the gym attendant swiped my membership card I slumped my shoulders and frowned.

Who had let a woman man the desk?
Thank you “gym,” for wasting this layer of lip-gloss.

My first destination was the locker room, a place I hadn’t been in since the days of high school gym class. I had no intention of doing the naked “shower with your classmates” thing.
 
Not when I was only a six-minute drive from my private shower at home.

Apparently I wasn’t alone in this, as a throng of sweaty women came into the room, grabbed their coats from their respective green lockers, and quickly got the hell out.
 

As I tried to find a locker for my puffy winter coat, a woman tapped my shoulder from behind.

“Excuse me, do you know how this works?”

I turned to see a late-thirties chick, with frizzy red hair and expensive-looking Lulu Lemon workout gear.

Standing on top of the giant scale to my right, she scratched her head like a baffled chimp.

I’d never been one to deny a chimp in need, so I pressed the button titled “Lbs.”
 

“Try stepping on it again,” I instructed.

She did, and her weight began to process while I quickly looked away, as I was painfully familiar with the shame of public weigh-ins.

“Thank you,” she said, sounding noticeably disappointed. I guess she wasn’t happy with the number on the scale.
Join the club, lady.

At last I made it out to the workout scene, and quickly discovered that the gym wasn’t all that big. There was one main area of machines, surrounded by a burgundy running track.
 

The track seemed a good place to start, but I stayed in the walking lane, since vomit tended to happen when I ran for any longer than three minutes.

While I walked along briskly I noticed something very intriguing. The guys near the weights were checking out the girls on the track. In fact whenever a hot girl approached the bend, three guys would let each other know, through a system of complicated head nods. Then they’d take turns stretching out their arms to impress her. This was especially enthralling since the men were quite attractive. I felt a sudden urge to join the women’s showcase, but I didn’t really have any sweetness to deliver. At least not from the waist up.

So instead I switched to the elliptical machine.

I programmed the machine to level five. I had no idea if five was a respectable pace, but it was better than one to four.

Before I could develop any sweat beads, the very same woman from the locker room approached me. Her baffled chimp-face was gone, now replaced with a vicious sneer.

“Excuse me, do you have this machine signed out for eleven a.m.?”

I was puzzled. “Signed out?”

“You can’t use machines on Saturday unless you sign them out. This is MY machine.”

Oops.

My face turned red and I felt a little guilty. “Oh, I didn’t know that. Where do you sign them out?”

“On that GIANT whiteboard?” She pointed to the far end of the workout zone.”Now please get off and wipe the machine. You’ve already wasted two minutes of my time!”
 

Where was the calm demeanour of a woman too stupid to use a scale? I had helped her with that scale, hadn’t we formed a bond? I decided to repair our friendship with a plea of ignorance.

“Oh okay, I’m really sorry. It’s my first time here and I hadn’t even heard of the sign-up sheet. I guess there’s a lot more to gyms than just working out! Right?” I finished it off with a friendly smile.

The woman simply grunted as I stepped off the machine. And here I had thought that helping those in need was a no-fail policy. Maybe it was more of a chimp-eat-chimp world.

I walked away embarrassed, enraged, and getting nowhere on my quest to burn some fat.

So I turned right back towards the locker room.

I give up.

Before I could officially quit on the gym, I spotted a schedule of classes. I raised my eyebrow as I read about a session of hour-long “Cardio Groove,” which was slated to begin in ten minutes. There was a cartoon smiley-face next to the class, which meant that it was fine for beginners.

Hmm...

***

The room was complete with mirrored walls and beige hardwood floors. It was filled with an eclectic group of women who were busy with some pre-class chatter.
 
From teenage girls with ridiculously tight bodies, to women in their fifties and sixties, it was truly a mix.

There was only one man in the class, and one that could not be ignored by a human with a pulse and a vagina. I could only describe him as an edifice of tanned and glowing muscles.

He was having quite a chat with the twenty-something ponytailed instructor. Suddenly she turned to face the class.

“Hi everyone! Today we’ll be joined by a very special friend of mine. This is Steve Jacobs, a receiver in the CFL. He won’t be playing for a while since he hurt his knee, which means our class could be a perfect form of re-hab! Alright Steve, do you think you can handle all these ladies?”

Though Canadian football wasn’t what you’d call a glamourous league, there was an automatic “Woo!” from all the women.

“Well I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve been playing football for years but you all seem pretty tough. Can I ask for some help if I get lost?” He offered up a dazzling smile to seal the deal.

“Don’t worry honey, whatever you need, I am right here to show you EVERYTHING.” We all turned to face a forty-something woman with a hunger in her eyes and drool dripping down her chin.

“Yeah, what?” she said, in response to all the stares. “I might be married but I’m not DEAD.”

An uproar of laughter filled the room but I was not amused.

I was even less amused when she took the spot behind him in the class.

Since I was all out of luck in observing Steve’s butt as he performed the groovy dance moves, I found myself a spot in the back left corner of the room. It was right near the exit, in case I felt the need to quit.

The instructor gave the class a beaming smile. “So how many here are first-time attendants?”

In addition to myself, ten other women raised their hands.

I sighed with relief, knowing that we’d all get through this together.

Right?

The first half hour of the class was a hot and uncoordinated mess. I didn’t vomit, but whenever my eyes made contact with someone in the class, I mouthed the phrase “
Oh my god this instructor is a crazy bitch!
” Much to my surprise, it didn’t yield as many friendly smiles as I’d imagined.

We were only allowed one tiny two-minute break, which was generally used to hyperventilate and chug lots of water. After setting down my bottle and wiping the drops of water from my chin, I looked back up to find that Steve was only inches away.
 

He was chugging something purple in a clear plastic bottle. I would’ve never tried flirting with a guy this hot, if I wasn’t so jacked on endorphins.

I sauntered over with a crooked smile. “So Steve…is that what you drink when you score all those touchdowns?” I hadn’t watched Canadian football before, and I hated the sport with a passion. But Steve didn’t need to know that.

His green eyes sparkled bright as he laughed, and his dirty blond hair was damp, with sweat trickling down his forehead. Meanwhile his nipples waved hello from behind his tight shirt, as he turned his torso right and left for a stretch.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Romi.” I always hated saying my name out loud. To me it was a graceless name, full of gender-ambiguity and roughness.

“Romi eh? I like that. And to answer your question I DO always drink this, during the game and during every workout.”

“Alright everybody break’s over!” the instructor yelled. “Back to your spots, let’s PUMP IT UP!”

Steve turned to leave, but not before whispering: “Why don’t you give me your e-mail address after the class?” He added a sexy wink and returned to his spot.

I was overcome with feelings, both emotional and physical. Never had I spoken to such a muscular man, let alone a professional athlete. And had he actually asked me for my contact information?

I felt like I was high on caffeine pills, and for the rest of the class I didn’t feel an ounce of fatigue. I kicked, swiveled and hopped with the best of ‘em.

As we stretched out the kinks at the end of class, I closed my eyes to the soothing sounds of some music I couldn’t really place. It reminded me of the Elfin hymns from “Lord of the Rings,” and it made me forget that Steve would be waiting when the class was over.