Year of the Chick

by Romi Moondi

  When I made it to the kitchen my parents were positively beaming.

  “Do you want me to come so you’re not alone? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone.” My father was becoming more and more worried by the second, as he always did when one of his daughters was anywhere away from the house.

  “It’s Saturday morning and I’m going to a gym full of people. I think I’ll be okay.”

  My parents didn’t seem too convinced, so my dad proceeded with his over-protective checklist:

  “Do you have your cell phone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How long does it take you to drive there?”

  “Six minutes.”

  “How long will you be exercising for?”

  “Probably an hour.”

  “So when will you be back?”

  “In an hour and a half.”

  “Okay, well call us if you’re running late or we’ll start to worry.” It was the most repeated song on the over-protective soundtrack, and I left with its aggravating chorus ringing loudly in my ears.

  ***

  When I strolled into the gym I was hit with a flurry of sounds. The hum of machines whizzing back and forth, the laboured coughs of people on the brink of vomit, and the “pump you up” music of Britney Spears.

  As the gym attendant swiped my membership card I slumped my shoulders and frowned.

  Who had let a woman man the desk? Thank you “gym,” for wasting this layer of lip-gloss.

  My first destination was the locker room, a place I hadn’t been in since the days of high school gym class. I had no intention of doing the naked “shower with your classmates” thing. Not when I was only a six-minute drive from my private shower at home.

  Apparently I wasn’t alone in this, as a throng of sweaty women came into the room, grabbed their coats from their respective green lockers, and quickly got the hell out.

  As I tried to find a locker for my puffy winter coat, a woman tapped my shoulder from behind.

  “Excuse me, do you know how this works?”

  I turned to see a late-thirties chick, with frizzy red hair and expensive-looking Lulu Lemon workout gear.

  Standing on top of the giant scale to my right, she scratched her head like a baffled chimp.

  I’d never been one to deny a chimp in need, so I pressed the button titled “Lbs.”

  “Try stepping on it again,” I instructed.

  She did, and her weight began to process while I quickly looked away, as I was painfully familiar with the shame of public weigh-ins.

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding noticeably disappointed. I guess she wasn’t happy with the number on the scale. Join the club, lady.

  At last I made it out to the workout scene, and quickly discovered that the gym wasn’t all that big. There was one main area of machines, surrounded by a burgundy running track.

  The track seemed a good place to start, but I stayed in the walking lane, since vomit tended to happen when I ran for any longer than three minutes.

  While I walked along briskly I noticed something very intriguing. The guys near the weights were checking out the girls on the track. In fact whenever a hot girl approached the bend, three guys would let each other know, through a system of complicated head nods. Then they’d take turns stretching out their arms to impress her. This was especially enthralling since the men were quite attractive. I felt a sudden urge to join the women’s showcase, but I didn’t really have any sweetness to deliver. At least not from the waist up.

  So instead I switched to the elliptical machine.

  I programmed the machine to level five. I had no idea if five was a respectable pace, but it was better than one to four.

  Before I could develop any sweat beads, the very same woman from the locker room approached me. Her baffled chimp-face was gone, now replaced with a vicious sneer.

  “Excuse me, do you have this machine signed out for eleven a.m.?”

  I was puzzled. “Signed out?”

  “You can’t use machines on Saturday unless you sign them out. This is MY machine.”

  Oops.

  My face turned red and I felt a little guilty. “Oh, I didn’t know that. Where do you sign them out?”

  “On that GIANT whiteboard?” She pointed to the far end of the workout zone.”Now please get off and wipe the machine. You’ve already wasted two minutes of my time!”

  Where was the calm demeanour of a woman too stupid to use a scale? I had helped her with that scale, hadn’t we formed a bond? I decided to repair our friendship with a plea of ignorance.

  “Oh okay, I’m really sorry. It’s my first time here and I hadn’t even heard of the sign-up sheet. I guess there’s a lot more to gyms than just working out! Right?” I finished it off with a friendly smile.

  The woman simply grunted as I stepped off the machine. And here I had thought that helping those in need was a no-fail policy. Maybe it was more of a chimp-eat-chimp world.

  I walked away embarrassed, enraged, and getting nowhere on my quest to burn some fat.

  So I turned right back towards the locker room.

  I give up.

  Before I could officially quit on the gym, I spotted a schedule of classes. I raised my eyebrow as I read about a session of hour-long “Cardio Groove,” which was slated to begin in ten minutes. There was a cartoon smiley-face next to the class, which meant that it was fine for beginners.

  Hmm...

  ***

  The room was complete with mirrored walls and beige hardwood floors. It was filled with an eclectic group of women who were busy with some pre-class chatter. From teenage girls with ridiculously tight bodies, to women in their fifties and sixties, it was truly a mix.

  There was only one man in the class, and one that could not be ignored by a human with a pulse and a vagina. I could only describe him as an edifice of tanned and glowing muscles.

  He was having quite a chat with the twenty-something ponytailed instructor. Suddenly she turned to face the class.

  “Hi everyone! Today we’ll be joined by a very special friend of mine. This is Steve Jacobs, a receiver in the CFL. He won’t be playing for a while since he hurt his knee, which means our class could be a perfect form of re-hab! Alright Steve, do you think you can handle all these ladies?”

  Though Canadian football wasn’t what you’d call a glamourous league, there was an automatic “Woo!” from all the women.

  “Well I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve been playing football for years but you all seem pretty tough. Can I ask for some help if I get lost?” He offered up a dazzling smile to seal the deal.

  “Don’t worry honey, whatever you need, I am right here to show you EVERYTHING.” We all turned to face a forty-something woman with a hunger in her eyes and drool dripping down her chin.

  “Yeah?” she said, in response to all the stares. “I might be married but I’m not DEAD.”

  An uproar of laughter filled the room but I was not amused.

  I was even less amused when she took the spot behind him in the class.

  Since I was all out of luck in observing Steve’s butt as he performed the groovy dance moves, I found myself a spot in the back left corner of the room. It was right near the exit, in case I felt the need to quit.

  The instructor gave the class a beaming smile. “So how many here are first-time attendants?”

  In addition to myself, ten other women raised their hands.

  I sighed with relief, knowing that we’d all get through this together.

  Right?

  The first half hour of the class was a hot and uncoordinated mess. I didn’t vomit, but whenever my eyes made contact with someone in the class, I mouthed the phrase “Oh my god this instructor is a crazy bitch!” Much to my surprise, it didn’t yield as many friendly smiles as I’d imagined. Perhaps their stamina was far more advanced than my level of “can’t walk and talk.”

  We were only allowed one tiny two-minute break, which was generally u
sed to hyperventilate and chug lots of water. After setting down my bottle and wiping the drops of water from my chin, I looked back up to find that Steve was only inches away.

  He was chugging something purple in a clear plastic bottle. I would’ve never tried flirting with a guy this hot, if I wasn’t so jacked on endorphins.

  I sauntered over with a crooked smile. “So Steve…is that what you drink when you score all those touchdowns?” I hadn’t watched Canadian football before, and I hated the sport with a passion. But Steve didn’t need to know that.

  His green eyes sparkled bright as he laughed, and his dirty blond hair was damp, with sweat trickling down his forehead. Meanwhile his nipples waved hello from behind his tight shirt, as he turned his torso right and left for a stretch.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Romi.” I always hated saying my name out loud. To me it was a graceless name, full of gender-ambiguity and roughness.

  “Romi eh? I like that. And to answer your question I DO always drink this, during the game and during every workout.”

  “Alright everybody break’s over!” the instructor yelled. “Back to your spots, let’s PUMP IT UP!”

  Steve turned to leave, but not before whispering: “Why don’t you give me your e-mail address after the class?” He added a sexy wink and returned to his spot.

  I was overcome with feelings, both emotional and physical. Never had I spoken to such a muscular man, let alone a professional athlete. And had he actually asked me for my contact information?

  I felt like I was high on caffeine pills, and for the rest of the class I didn’t feel an ounce of fatigue. I kicked, swiveled and hopped with the best of ‘em.

  As we stretched out the kinks at the end of class, I closed my eyes to the soothing sounds of some music I couldn’t really place. It reminded me of the Elfin hymns from “Lord of the Rings,” and it made me forget that Steve would be waiting when the class was over.

  The Elfin music suddenly came to a halt.

  “Okay everybody, thanks for an amazing class! Now before we dismiss, can we turn our attention to Steve for a couple of minutes? He’s got something he’d like to share.”

  All the ladies shouted “Woo!” again.

  Steve walked up to the front of the class with his bottle of purple beverage. He was also carrying a cardboard box full of grey and purple pouches.

  “Now football is a grueling sport, and a lot of people ask me how I make it. The truth is I’ve got a little something to get me through it, for every game and every workout.”

  This sounded strangely similar to my one-on-one chat with Steve.

  Steve grabbed a pouch from the box and continued. “Inside this pouch is a very special energy mix. We call it Total Thunder, and I developed it with top-notch scientists. With this ONE special drink, you’ll experience more stamina than ever before. And just to prove it, you all get a sample to try for yourselves!”

  Another “Woo!” from the sweaty ladies.

  “I’m going to pass these out, and when I do I’d love to get your all your e-mail addresses,” he paused for a dazzling smile. “Then I can send you ladies additional info.”

  Steve began to pass out the pouches as I stood there in the corner, feeling about as sexy as a speck of someone’s earwax. But what about the flirting? What about his waving nipples? It had all been a ruse, cleverly designed to trick me into buying Total Thunder. My humiliation quickly turned to rage.

  Before I could think of an action plan, Steve was back, only now with his pouch of Total Thunder.

  “Here you go, Romi. Now how about you give me your e-mail address?” His eyes sparkled once again.

  “Sorry asshole, I only drink Gatorade.”

  In a perfect world, I would’ve told him that. But of course I lived in a world where you don’t call giant football players assholes, especially not when their eyes sparkle green and their smiles tend to dazzle.

  I recited my e-mail address out loud, and ten seconds later we said goodbye.

  As I grabbed my coat from the locker room, I looked at my watch to see that it was nearly one p.m.

  I’d told my dad that I’d return in an hour and a half, or by noon to be exact. He was probably on his way to the hospital now, clinging to life from complications of being over-protective.

  I drove straight home only to discover that he’d taken my mother grocery shopping.

  Just like that, huh? I could be dead for all he knows!

  Over the next five days, I received one e-mail a day on the benefits of Total Thunder. They weren’t even written by Steve, just a bunch of mass e-mails from “Total Thunder Inc.”

  On the sixth day I marked the e-mail as “junk,” which was the perfect assessment for my very first attempt at dating in the year of the chick...

  Chapter Five

  Will I meet a special guy by Valentine’s Day?

  The view outside my window was a haze of white.

  Just your typical Canadian blizzard. Maybe my man was somewhere out there, in his car late for work and annoyed by the weather.

  With a storm this bad, I sure as hell wouldn’t be meeting him today. Nor would I be headed to the gym.

  So what was the back-up plan if I couldn’t do cardio and help my weak-ass heart? Gooey apple pie in my fuzzy pajamas?

  As I tried to decide if a quarter of a pie would be enough to fill my needs, an e-mail landed in my inbox.

  It was from Jayla, a friend from my previous job.

  ----------------------------------

  Hey Everyone!

  Sorry about the mass e-mail, but I wanted to announce it at once:

  -ADRIAN AND I GOT ENGAGED!!!

  The wedding’s right here in Sydney on November 22nd, but we’re coming back for a visit in September. That’s when we’ll be having our “Toronto Engagement Party” so you better show up!

  By the way, thanks for all your love and support throughout the re-location, I miss you guys!

  And also: AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ENGAGED!

  Love,

  Jayla

  xx

  ----------------------------------

  Before I had a chance to absorb all the exclamation marks, my phone started ringing. I glanced at the call display and it all made sense.

  So Laura’s read the e-mail too.

  “Good morning darling,” I said. “Is this an urgent matter? I’m quite busy here.”

  “Shut up,” said Laura. “I know you read it too.”

  I’d met Laura along with Jayla at my first corporate job. Laura was my “best friend stand-in,” as my childhood one was finishing with med school in Boston. Laura didn’t mind the term, and I played the same role for her, with her own best friend a two-hour drive away.

  “I just read it now.” I minimized the e-mail off my screen, not because I was scared to read personal e-mails at work, but because I could feel it mocking me. “Are you happy for her?” I asked. “Or are you ready to puke from all the jealousy?”

  “Come on, you know I love Jayla. But also…” She let out a heavy sigh. “I guess I’m twenty-percent jealous. I just can’t believe she randomly met him on vacation!”

  “THAT’S what you can’t believe? I can’t believe she stole my dream of marrying for love without your Indian parents killing you. Like he’s an Aussie white dude! I also can’t believe she scored an office transfer to Sydney. How come one person gets all the luck?”

  “Yeah, too bad you work at a Canadian company. There’s no office transfer for you which means NO MORE foreigner boyfriends with expiring visas!” She laughed.

  I did not join her in the ha ha has.

  “Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t quit,” I said. “Maybe they would’ve shipped me off to…Paris. You can’t not fall in love while you’re in Paris.” I sighed and started pulling balls of lint off my brown wool sweater, wondering all the time if decisions had any meaning at all. Am I really meant to be here? In this job? I
n this chair? With not even a glimpse of a boyfriend?

  “Hey, are you listening?” Laura had apparently been talking all this while.

  I stopped with the lint balls and tried to focus in. “Sorry, someone was at my desk,” I lied.

  “I was just saying you should be glad we left that corporate pit. I mean yeah, Jayla stayed and got the chance to move to Sydney, but remember how we had to wear suits every day? Ugh!”

  I rolled my eyes at the thought of Laura’s curvy bod. “Oh please, you took painted-on tailored suits to a whole new level. Long blonde curls, petite little frame and your ass bursting out of your office pants? You disgust me.”

  She does, she really does. Had I always felt this way about my best-friend stand-in?

  “I disgust YOU?” She laughed. “Then why am I the one who’s puking? You’re so much taller than me! You can gain five pounds and no one will even know.”

  “Too bad I gained fifteen though. God...what the hell did I eat last year?” I poked my belly with my index finger, sighing at how easily it squished.

  “So how’s the gym going?” she asked. Good ol’ Laura, forcing me not to dwell on last year’s menu.

  “The gym’s alright. It’s way too early to hop on the scale, but I worked out twice in the last couple weeks. Tonight I’m gonna chill with some pie.” I smiled.

  “Twice in the last couple weeks? Pie? So let me get this straight: your parents are going to saddle you up with a stranger, while my Italian family is predicting that I’ll wind up a spinster. And you’re talking about pie?!”

  “But it’s APPLE pie.” I loved apple pie but she had a point. I hadn’t been out on the prowl even once, since Eleanor and I were in hiding from this horrible weather. But this was Canada. If we waited for spring we’d be hibernating ‘til April.

  “Alright that’s it,” stated Laura. “Tomorrow we’re going to a happy hour place. There’s this awesome swanky bar downtown. I haven’t been, but my friend told me Thursdays are crazy.”

  “Crazy?” I didn’t like the sound of this.

  “I mean like crazy-busy. They have a velvet rope with a bouncer, and from what she said the place is just crawling with investment bankers, executives, lawyers...do I have your attention?”

  “You have my full attention, but I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Can’t we just wait until I lose five pounds?” As if I want an investment banker grabbing at my “rolls.”