6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
I didn’t expect this whole goal of storming up a flight of stairs without losing my breath was going to end with me lying in my bed like a starfish groaning. My muscles ached, and any movement needled the individual fibers. A hot shower and a fistful of ibuprofen down the gullet ensured my body system was in survival mode, but I limped my way through work, stretching and craning my limbs. No satisfying clicks of my joints brought relief.
I returned home after a stop at the drugstore for some topical pain reliever. The mentholated goop stung my nostrils and eyes, but I smeared it everywhere, making careful work around my sensitive areas. Soon after applying it, I washed my hands to remove the burning layer of cream. The tingling of my skin served more as a distraction from my achy muscles rather than any healing of them.
A quick internet search suggested I alternate ice and heat. I dug some frozen vegetables and fruit out from the recesses of my freezer. I knew those good intentioned purchases would come in handy someday. Bonus! I uncovered some frozen waffles with only the slightest degree of freezer burn.
With frozen peas under my calves, green beans resting against my hamstrings, the unfinished bags of mango chunks and okra plopped on my quads, I lay in my bra and underwear on the floor of my living room. Maybe when these things thawed, I should eat them—when I gathered enough energy to make dinner.
Then the tingling rose from my stressed quadriceps, creeping to my groin. No worries, it needed relief too. But then, then, then !
My pussy was on fire! Oh, for the love of God and all that was holy! The nettle-like deep burns attacked my vulva.
I waddled to my bathroom and desperately scooped handfuls of water from the faucet to splash on my stinging crotch. Water only reignited the burn.
I scoured my medicine cabinet for relief. Huh, allergy medicine, the drowsy formula. Not exactly a fix, but it was at least something.
After I popped a dose of the allergy pills, I drifted off to sleep while eating a waffle. Hopefully, the muscle cream wouldn’t singe my genitals off by morning.
Boy was I due for a rest day.
Despite the aches and stiffness from five days of training, like the degenerate I was, I craved more. So, I ditched my weekend uniform of PJs for leggings and a T-shirt of a squirrel holding a pile of acorns. It read, My Nuts are Often Ignored.
I geared up for Beau’s core class. This studio room was empty of spin bikes. Instead, rows of thick rubber mats were surrounded by random piles of exercise bands, a small ball, a weight, and a disc. I located my pile of workout junk in the back corner, where I could sweat and fail in peace. Settled in, I proudly put on my red shades.
The earlier boot camp class finally filed in. The room became noticeably stinkier as the perspiring pain-addicts found their spots at the mounds of plastic exercise doodads. Beau entered, still with his headset on but his body glowing like a god from sweat. He eyed me in the corner. “I see we gained some people in addition to our wild boot campers.”
I wiggled my red sunglasses, using the arms at my ears like a lever. Hey! Beau! Look at our inside joke! At least I smiled. Beau didn’t even react. A familiar shame rose within me. The dinner parties where Chris winced and shook his head at my pithy quip. Moments in which I attempted to enter conversations with the other wives like a game of skipping rope and missed my chance. I slipped the glasses off and set them by my mat.
Some of his perspiring fangirls interjected a woo! Seriously, they couldn’t help themselves. Dogs barked. Birds chirped. Over-exuberant suburban women wooed.
The background music was relatively inoffensive. The brand of secretary pop rock that moms across the United States tolerated on their top forty like Coldplay, Lady Gaga, and some one-hit wonders who aped the Dad Rock of the 1980s.
We started off holding a plank. He studied the class in the mirror. “Beth, keep your bum down. If this is new to you, feel free to do the modification.” I looked around as I held my breath, attempting to stay up on my arms and toes. No one in the room did the modification, and I wasn't ready to look like the asshole who needed to do something on her knees. My lungs glitched. I forgot how to breathe as my abs tensed and a muscle in my lower back pinged. The longest minute of my life passed.
“A good round of planks, team. Let’s move to our hands and knees.”
On all fours, I kept my gaze on the front part of my mat, to avoid studying the too-good-to-be-true curve of Beau’s ass. He did a move called cat and cow. On cow, his butt flexed up, and I decided to add that to Ole Reliable’s orgasmic memory bank. Still on our hands and knees, he guided the class through some single arm and leg lifts. Honestly, this core class was just my speed. We finished with some crunches, and for once, I didn’t feel like the learning curve left me behind.
“Excellent warm-up, friends. We’re now going to do some Russian twists. If you feel you need it, use the exercise ball to prop your back as you twist. ”
No one in the room used anything to prop up their back.
“Lean farther back and squeeze your shoulder blades together, Sir. Your upper back is curving.”
The A-student in me looked in the mirror and adjusted my spine just so. And—wowee—that set my abs on fire. I tried to twist and floundered.
“Don’t be afraid to use the exercise ball. It is better to have good form than try something that isn’t working out for you today.” He ordered us to take a fifteen second break to sip water and recover. I already threw my head to the ground in child’s pose to give my tight core a stretch. My shoulders creaked and snapped as if my bones were a haunted Victorian-era building.
“Next we'll do some single-leg V-ups followed by a hollow body hold.”
I took a moment to lie down and look at the others. Fun part of the core class was how much lying down could be camouflaged by some core workout. I attempted a V-up. I had never felt my abs give this much of a shit about anything. I collapsed on the floor and sighed.
“Breathe with the exercise. Breathe in as you lower, out as you contract your abs.”
I had been holding my breath. How are these other people breathing while also “activating their cores”? Then I ended up doing the opposite. I breathed out as I lowered and in as I reached for my feet.
“Remember to sync your breath to your movement.”
All of Beau’s corrections were coming for me. Dude, didn’t beginners get some kind of break?
From the cockles of Hell came the hollow body hold. The squad of matching Lycra women held their bodies in perfect V’s and smiled.
“Awesome work team,” Beau said as he, too, seemed to have an Olympian set of abs.
I sputtered and rocked, trying to keep my arms overhead, my legs straight, and my lower back from yelling “No bitch!” and giving up entirely. I breathed like I was about ready to birth a baby. I moved my arms to support my thighs.
“Keep your arms overhead!”
That fucker. Did he know it was easier said than done?
Finally, I earned another break. I flopped down on the mat and stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights glowed and formed star-like optical illusions in my vision.
“Back to V-ups. Right now!”
My abs hurt. I didn’t have it in me to touch my toes. Flat on my back, I raised my legs at a forty-five-degree angle and weakly reached up with one arm.
“To get the benefit, you really need to lift your shoulders off the mat. Way to go, Liz, you’re getting it.”
I wished I were Liz. Instead, I looked like a cockroach, my limbs weakly reaching toward the ceiling.
“Alright, we made it through our first set. Two more to go!”
This had to be a joke. My effort in the second set dwindled considerably. How was everyone else in the room armed with abs of steel? I thought America had a fitness problem. Not in the gyms of Gorda Vista.
When I couldn’t feel more incompetent, Beau announced, “We’re going to hold a shoulder stand. Remember to lift with your abs and flex your gluteal muscles.”
Beth swung her legs up above her head as if she were light as a feather. Oh, the benefit of having one of those narrow heart-shaped asses. In contrast, my ass had heft. I swung my legs up, but my ass was still grounded, and my boobs were now trying to smother me to death.
“Shoulder stands are difficult. To modify them, you need a couple of bolsters.” He disappeared into a closet for a moment and brought out two giant pillows. He plopped one next to me and the other at his station. “If you place a bolster at the small of your back, you’ll still get the workout.” He demonstrated the pose with the pillow underneath his back.
But there was Beth, her tits not trying to prevent her breathing. Her matching Lycra-clad tiny ass defied gravity.
“There is no shame in using the modification. We are all built differently,” Beau announced to the class, but it was definitely directed at me and my ugly, grunting face.
I started from the bottom and then rocked my legs all the way back. I held my breath as all I saw was my T-shirt in my face.
“If you swing your legs, you’re not practicing good form.”
Jesus, Beau, I got it. I was Shitty Shitterstein of Shitonia. I would never taint the progress of this core class with my presence ever again. I would’ve walked out had Beau not announced we were about to complete our final set.
At the end of class, we had to put all the supplies back into the closet. The bootcamp crowd talked about how their abs felt activated. I aimed to throw everything in the closet and bolt .
Then Beau, as if he was my damn fifth-grade teacher, said, “Sir, can I talk to you for a second?”
What could a himbo have to tell me about my abs? I sidled over to him. “Yes?”
“Why are you selling yourself short?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Your effort. Don’t you know you’re worth giving one hundred ten percent?”
“One hundred is the maximum. One hundred ten percent does not exist. I couldn’t do those moves. I’m pretty sure this core class isn’t for me.”
“It is foundational to your success to have a strong core. Once you have a strong core, everything else falls into place, cycling, strength training, even walking will improve. Do you get back pain?”
Not often, but now that he mentioned it… “Not all the time.”
“You owe this to yourself. When I see you again on Monday, I want to see a concerted effort.”
“Okay.” Jesus, Dad. I hadn’t had anyone be disappointed in me since the divorce.
Effort? He wanted concerted effort?! I’d show him!
After class, I stormed off to run my errands, needing a few items from the store. In my frothing anger, I did a weird thing. I parked my car at the back of the lot to get more steps in despite my stomach muscles twisting about angrily. How’s that for effort!
Arriving home, I rage-put away my new pack of toilet paper, peanut butter, and box of crackers, slamming my cabinets shut. Now what? My foot tapped; my leg bounced. I wasn’t necessarily demonstrating that I was down for opening a spicy book and putting my feet up.
I kicked open the door to my office, now mainly used for storage. Hands on my hips, I assessed what to do next and shoved unpacked boxes off my drawing table. As soon as I plugged in my digital tablet, I took a deep breath, raised the stylus, and drew. Lines, squiggles, curves all flowed from the electronic pen. In the rush of inspiration, I illustrated a cockatiel riding a bicycle—completely unrelated to recent events. What inane statement captures the aura of a bicycle-riding cockatiel? Free beak rides. Perfect. This was probably the level of satisfaction DaVinci felt painting Mona Lisa’s smile.
I returned to sketching my twisted characters, the ones that polluted my failed business: possum, raccoon, cat, and the new addition of the cockatiel.
By Sunday, I had a new file folder stuffed with images. Yet an energy still sizzled through me. I stepped out for a walk, blasting Britney Spears in my ear buds. I even walked near the EverGreen & Fit Studios, sort of wanting to see the follicular skateboard ramp shadow in the darkened windows. Once I confirmed no classes were in session, I walked right into a post of the map of businesses of our downtown area. On the announcements side, I discovered a neon pink flyer. Preeti Sundaram, a graphic artist who I followed online, was doing a book signing and Q & A session at the cute little indie bookstore, Crooked and Booked at the end of the month. She had completed a graphic novel for kids.
Whenever I had seen an artist succeed the way I never did, my first reaction was “That sonofabitch.” It was in a pleased grandpa way, which challenged the notion that artists didn’t do deluded things like “make a living off our craft.” The me of about seven years ago, freshly thirty, tried to take my goofy art to the next level with silly merchandise. That version of me went to book signings and talks. That version of me handed out postcards of my art with QR codes to my social media accounts. That me was killed with silence and stored in boxes, then two boxes, and finally one box in the corner of my condo. And when I encountered the artists who drew more important things, had better statements to make, I stopped handing out those postcards. I stopped discussing craft and color theory because I wasn’t one of them. I was a desperate dilettante, a hobbyist, a dabbler. I was going to live the rest of my life putting my artist’s eye to use by designing corporate things. How many artists could at least say, “I’m designing something ”?
When I took the photo of Preeti’s flyer, I had no plan to do anything with it. A photo was just a photo, a brief amusement about the success of a fellow artist. Scratch that. For I was neither fellow nor artist.
Finally, the torrent in me calmed down, and I read my book in bed. I flipped the page and heard the whispers of “concerted effort” echoing. A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. I had drawn, walked, taken care of myself. I couldn’t wait to show Beau what one hundred percent—nay 110%—from me looked like.