The Family lives on a swank little swathe of country club land. This means they belong to a very swank little resort. The resort has become the site of Kiddo's first individually-compelled effort at toning her muscles.
That's right. When Short Round and Smoothie get up for school mornings, I get up too, dress in various combinations of super tight clothes and super baggy clothes in an effort to look like I know what I'm doing at the gym.
What I do varies. Super Sister tells me, and has shown on every occasion she visits, that this is how it should be. Mixin it up not only keeps you from exquisite bordom, but also allows muscles to heal in the time when you rip up the others. Also, says Super Sister, you don't want to wake up three days in a row after an ass kicking, bar raising work out and need to stay in bed.
Luckily this stint of working out is less about rebelling against my own determination, and more about hanging out in the spa section of the resort. The gym is near the * * * * restaurant and Starbucks. Down the end of the hall though, are a pool, hot tub, sauna, showers with rock bottoms, ambient music, no other people – it's what I'd design my own bathroom to be like if I had a place to live and money to spruce it up.
As it is though, I just try to avoid the other people traipsing through my dream, and get my body to look better naked. Kevin Spacey said it first, jogging and weight lifting is just to be hotter, don't let anyone fool you.
The couple who show up at Magical Gym Land most often try to keep me from this magical zen mindset. They don't do it on purpose, but do it, they do. I don't know if they are there just to look better naked themselves, or if they just wanna spy on me and the other machine pushing fools.
Our interactions, between 7am grimaces at my smiles, boil down to two incidents.
We arrive at the same time. The day my key card loses it's magnetism. I've actually already had it demagnetized by the time we collide at the gym door. It doesn't take on the first try though. Bugger. I smile. “Why don't you let me try, honey.” the lady says without even a silghtest bit of friendliness in the phrase that begs for a mothering sort of tone. The man glares at me.
Whatever. We all get in, and we have a treadmill each. I take the most exposed one, near the door. I see this as a gift to them. If any judgemental dicks walk through the hall, it's going to be my undefined cankles that receive derision.I'm walking back from the pool, and just about to pass the gym on my way out when who should finish? The Man and The Lady. They aren't too red or sweaty, but they have Resort Towels around their necks. I think they look like the aging characters of Tender is the Night.
The Lady sees me and tightens her mouth. “I wonder where,” The Man starts, “that girl --” He doesn't finish. Lady rips his arm down and points violently back at the gym door “Oh! Honey! I think I left something!” and she runs off. The Man continues not seeing me, but walks after her “what? What did you leave, honey?”
I smile, knowing I've made it into their life sitcom. I see them again outside, they are getting into the Lexus sedan which they have parked in the 15 Minute Parking spot right under the awning of the resort. You know, that place where valets would be standing if it were a party night.
Yep. It's a fun time. Super Sister is proud of me though. That may be a first. I'm glad to have a trainer like her, and soon I'll be able to chat with her like an intelligent human being – I found The Complete Book of Running for Women in a closet somewhere in the house while scouring for orphan socks.
Who knew.
2 comments:
Book you need to read: "Born to Run," by Christopher McDougall, or something like that. It's pretty blatantly sensationalized, but if even half of it is exaggeration it's still a damn entertaining read. Plus reading it will get you so excited about life you'll probably go out and tame a lion AFTER you run a marathon.
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