October
It
'd probably be a lot easier to do a decent deadlift without the whole gym watching me.
The whole gym wasn't watching. To the best of my ability to tell, nobody was.
But it was a new gym in a new city, full of unfamiliar faces. You could forgive a guy for getting that chilly, exposed feeling that accompanies strange new environments.
I hadn't seen the inside of a gym in nearly two years, and felt like it showed, whether or not it actually did. My gym clothes had faded from one wash too many and were a few years out of style. My joints were stiff and my deadlifts were jerky. Perfect time for a back spasm, I thought.
That ought to draw attention.
I didn't want any attention. I had only moved into town about a month prior, fortunate enough to find a decent state job with good benefits and a future. My wife and I had endured two years of marriage that began with a job loss, an immediate pregnancy, and quickly led into financial straits and simmering resentment... but this story isn't really about that.
Suffice it to say, I was still smarting from the forced sale of our house and our move to a new town, about whose charms I had considerable doubts.
For a city, it seemed strangely sparse, even barren. The pedestrians on the street seemed disinterested in the world; pasty, khaki-clad commuters, diabetic retirees, and meth heads in Carhartt jackets all passed each other without looking anywhere but straight ahead. The place had no life, no hum to it. It wasn't, and likely wouldn't be, home..
The gym, nestled into a corner of the downtown mall a brisk five-minute walk from the office, was the best safe haven I could ask for. I'd spent the past two years working a pretty physical job, twelve hours a day, six days a week, yet my body screamed for more regular exercise. A daily endorphin release seemed like the perfect remedy for combatting malaise.
Another creaky deadlift and the bar went back on the rack. I panned for a few seconds and took the moment to study my surroundings. About twenty or so other patrons were working out, roughly half of whom were about my age, if slightly older.
By the location, I knew that most were state employees like me, and a number of those were cops and security types. Some of these guys made a dozen pull-ups look like no sweat, an intimidating fact I took pains to ignore.
Then there were the women. Several were on the upper edge of middle age, but two or three periodically appeared who I judged to be in their early-to-mid thirties. One tanned, wiry girl with a sharp, no-bullshit expression made a daily habit of balancing herself on an incline bench, her arms and legs stretched out in a Superman pose, to the embarrassment of numerous other patrons who thought they were in good shape.
Another young woman, whose lower body almost suggested powerlifting, but whose plastic-framed glasses and neck-length bob gave her a bookish appearance, occupied a yoga pad near the entrance, holding a glute bridge with her pelvis jutting toward the ceiling.
I turned my attention back to the remains of my workout. I had no designs on meeting a woman for a number of reasons, not the least of them being that I was married and barely recovered from being flat broke. It also hardly helped that—although I wasn't
out of shape
exactly—I wasn't in fighting form, and my gym shorts called undue attention to the fact that my pale, thin calves had barely seen the sun in two years.
Mopping sweat from my forehead and neck, I headed for the locker room. I had to shower in a hurry and double-time it back to the office before my lunch hour ended. As I passed, the shapely yogi I'd spotted earlier was now on a treadmill, warming down. Without stopping, I gave her a small greeting nod, which she seemed not to notice.
As I opened the locker room door, I noticed peripherally that she glanced over, without really turning her head, and gave a quick, somewhat impish smile in reply. A smirk, almost, that immediately made me reassess my initial impression of her.
So there
's some life here after all, I thought as the locker room door swung shut.
December
After two months, that stiff, achy feeling had gone away.
The new job, the new living situation, the new city had all become familiar by now. I'd actually found a few spots I enjoyed visiting in the small pockets of free time I had. Likewise, the realities of our new home life had become tolerable.
The gym had gotten easier too. I invested in some new workout clothes and made a point of keeping disciplined in my routine. A buddy from the office had begun accompanying me to the gym during lunch hour. A retired Marine and ex-cop, Ron was a good workout partner, kept us accountable, and was good company besides.
Trying to shed weight, Ron was around the corner working the heavy-bag, while I worked on goblet squats. As I set down the kettlebells, I noticed a figure sauntering toward my end of the room. The yoga girl had been drawing my attention a lot the past few weeks.
It almost felt like she was adapting to the environment herself. She'd ditched the glasses and her workout attire had migrated toward flattering yoga pants, barebacked sports bras, and cutoff t-shirts.
Today she'd taken a break from her contortions and was distinguishing herself doing assisted weight workouts. She occasionally partnered up with one of the regulars, a bald, biker-type guy. The kind of guy who benchpresses 250 pounds in his jeans and boots. Their rapport seemed loose and platonic.
"Hey, Rocky."
I looked up and pulled an amused face. My features are undeniably Italian, but no one would ever mistake me for a guy who ended the Cold War by going twelve rounds with a Soviet super-soldier.
"Hey yourself. No yoga today?"
"Nah, I like to change it up." Yoga girl broke stride and stopped about three feet from me. Talking to her up close, it dawned on me that I was literally seeing her in a different light. She stood confidently, feet planted flat, hands on her hips, her chest forward. Though only shorter than me by two or three inches, she held eye contact with her chin up, almost defiantly, with an open, game-for-anything smile.
She's no shy librarian, I noted. Today, a pair of turquoise yoga pants—the kind with the sheer racing stripe that runs diagonally down each leg—hugged the broad, rounded hips, muscular thighs, and ample bottom that all testified to frequent glute and quad exercises. She'd matched it with a severe black sports bra. Fingerless gloves added a dash of punk rock to the outfit.
I guessed that she wasn't a strict dieter or teetotaler: a thin layer of baby fat tried and failed to hide her strong core, and her impressive tri's jiggled slightly when she moved her arms. Her flushed skin glimmered with sweat.
We chatted for a few minutes about our respective jobs: she too was a state worker at a different agency. I couldn't help noticing her hair, which was straight, naturally auburn, and cut off at mid-neck, with bangs that ended above mirthful blue-grey eyes. It would normally have seemed like an older woman's style; by contrast, it gave her a transgressive, almost naughty edge.
Job talk naturally led to a discussion of where we lived. I explained that I lived in the bland suburbs across the river; she lived a few exits northbound in more rural environs.
"Oh Christ," I chuckled, "Near that stretch with all the strip joints and adult toy stores?" Her town was a two-stoplight kind of place, and those were its main attractions.
She didn't so much as blush. "Yup. Exactly there."
"Don't the neon palm trees keep you awake at night?"
"No, I live a ways off the highway. Spend a lot of time up there, do you?" Her eyebrows danced, and I momentarily felt pins-and-needles.
"No, I only ever passed by it. I haven't been in the area that long. You originally from around here?"
"Northern Virginia, originally," she said. "Been up here about five years."
"I just got here this fall. Moved down from the Philly area." Was this just friendly chit-chat? She wasn't shy about personal space—I had just noticed that she now stood merely a couple feet away, gloved hands still on her hips—and still flashing that winning grin. It felt like flirting.
I decided to take it for a short test drive. "You know what always cracks me up about your area? The billboard with the flames and the big REPENT! ADULTERY IS A SIN! that's right behind the porn shop. You gotta appreciate the sense of humor there."
It was true. This area of the state was pretty conservative. I idly wondered where her sympathies lay...
