Her boobs are perky. Her hair glimmers in the light...highlights, long, newly brushed. She smiles, a little too eagerly. She wants too much from me. I am immediately uncomfortable.
As we stand here, in the lobby, with so many people coming and going, I search for something, anything to keep me from bolting to the door. Then, in a--I am, like, in, like, the 7th grade--obnoxious high pitched voice, perky boobs says, "Um, so, like, what are your goals here?"
What are my goals here?! Did she really just say this?
"I am here to exercise, to check out your classes, and get an opportunity to have some much needed time for myself." I say, quietly, and somewhat sternly, in that only-a-mommy-teacher-can-say-it kind of way. I am trying to be polite, as I desperately try to remember what it felt like to have perky boobs, time to brush my hair and exude that much positive energy. My mind wanders...searching...
Obnoxious squeak again..."No, um, I mean, uh, your weight loss goals...you know, cuz, like, we are here to help you achieve anything you want."
Hmmm...does that mean you can make you go away? Wow. Do people just come into this gym and discuss these private things with perky boobs here in the lobby? Am I really that old and that much of a prude already?
With any kind of dignity I can manage to scrape off the bottom of her perfect athletic shoes, I say, "Frankly, my weight loss is not something that we will be discussing here, right now. Thank you."
Oh, did I see a little less inflate in that chest? Pop. I snicker...well, in my head, at least.
We tour the gym. Her boobs were the only good part. And even that was over done.
My husband and I converse in the car, while our little man whines for a snack. A snack I forgot to bring. I scavenge for anything...oh...a granola bar...doesn't matter how long this is in the car...it's always good. I toss it back to him, and he is grateful. You'd think I starve him or something. Poor guy.
As I digress into, how could I forget a snack, I am a terrible Mommy mantra, my husband wants to know the next place. I tell him it's the one we will want but we cannot afford.
We pull in the parking spot. I am nervous. Sigh. My husband, looks endearingly, says, "Sweetie, I am just looking at them as a bunch of pretentious ass-wipes, let's just go in and check it out. It will be okay." He forgets that we were once those ass-wipes...those ass-wipes that could afford a place like this...could justify a place like this...could buy into a place like this. I am even more anxious.
From the back seat, we hear, between crunches, "Daddy, what's an ass-wipe?" I secretly hide my laugh. It's the only reason I have the courage to check out gym number two.
This is the first posting in a three post series that
exposes enlightens my journey to find a place for body movement and time for myself...a series that will make you laugh, wish you never knew about, and embrace, wholeheartedly, with me. I hope you enjoy. I am laughing, even now, even after all of it...so check in again tomorrow...