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The problem here is that it is going way too smoothly, and I can sense something looming on the horizon. No matter what I do I can’t shake it off, and so here I am today, sore and working out like I’m about to enter a real marathon.
Maybe I’m telling a little white lie. Yes, there is no doubt my anxiety is stemming from the fact I feel I have no sense of order in my life, but for the most part, I find the gym surprisingly entertaining.
I have absolutely no life right now, and I’m one step away from joining a pottery class.
The treadmill has become my newfound friend. The running becomes mundane at times, which is why I zone out and pretend to run a marathon or watch others around me in amusement.
Take last week, for example—a man fell off the treadmill as a ridiculously made-up gym bunny walked past.
In my first week, I learned a few things—some treat the gym like a sport, dressed head to toe in spandex, often a little too tight around the groin, and the wannabe Arnies huddle in the weights area, grunting and throwing around the barbells as if they were inflatable balloons. You can smell the steroids and testosterone a mile away.
There are some cute men in the Zumba class, but I suspect those men are eyeing the cute Zumba teacher and his perfectly sculpted ass. Boy, does he know how to shake his bonbon.
Today’s entertainment consists of two ladies attempting to do yoga on the mats in front of me. I grab my towel and wipe myself down before I sit on the floor beside them. One of the women, Trina, works at a marketing firm on level ten. We run into each other often and got to talking one day. She’s a nice enough girl, a little naïve, which is expected since she’s in her early twenties.
“Be honest, I’m hot, right?” Trina asks, looking at the woman beside us. “Oh, Presley, this is Sarah, she works on six.”
I smile at Sarah, and she smiles in return. We then look at each other awkwardly, questioning if we should answer Trina. Perhaps it’s a rhetorical question.
Sarah screws her face into a grimace, yet indulges Trina with a response. “Look, Trina, of course you’re hot. Get over him. Sounds like a douche to me.”
“But… but we had a connection,” she confesses innocently.
Sarah snorts. “The only connection you had was when he stuck his pecker in your bird hole. A dime a dozen, Trina. Let it go.”
In my uncomfortable pose, I try my hardest not to laugh at Sarah’s comment, but I do and attempt to cover it up by leaning forward and stretching my legs to the point they scream in agony.
“It isn’t just about sex, we flirted for weeks. He even mentioned something about visiting his mom.”
“Oh, the mom card. That’s pretty serious,” I admit.
Trina nods in agreement, looking heartbroken.
With a hint of sarcasm, Sarah asks, “Uh-huh and remind me again what happened?”
“He left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye and has avoided me ever since,” Trina mumbles.
“Okay, so put your big-girl panties on and forget about him!”
This time, I agree with Sarah. Only a loser would do that, and the worst part is, this is what I had to look forward to being single.
“I have to agree with Sarah. He doesn’t seem worth it. You’re young, beautiful, and surely can find better fish in the sea.”
“But he’s the prime catch,” she pouts.
Sarah butts in, “And tell Presley who paid for dinner that night, the taxi ride back to the hotel, and the hotel room?”
Trina appears to be agitated at Sarah’s blast of information.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“Right, as was the accidental text he sent to you instead of another woman about how he was going to screw her brains out the night after he left you?”
Ouch.
“Trina, do yourself a favor and seriously grab another fishing rod because he’s so not worth your time.” With my water bottle and towel in hand, I stand to head on out. “Listen, ladies, I have to get to work. Sarah, don’t let her go anywhere near this douchebag.”
Sarah salutes me. “Once a douche, always a douche.”
