Ten Years Later

by Lisa Marie Latino

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said the babies are coming in December. Would they be able to walk down the aisle by May of next year?”

  “WHAT?” I shouted in horror. My brother wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I was more horrified by the other part of that sentence.

  “That’s only…” he counted with his fingers. “Five months. I thought they needed more time to walk.”

  “The- they, do,” I stammered. “But what’s this May business?”

  “I don’t want a long engagement,” my brother said casually. “I know Gwen doesn’t either. Her favorite season is spring, so next May sounds good.”

  My mother forcefully put down her fork. “Jimmy, you’re going to get married in less than a year?” She said disapprovingly. I smirked. I think it was the first time I saw Mom not agree with one of Jimmy’s decisions since he surprised her with a barbed wire tattoo he had gotten around his bicep down at the shore during his senior prom weekend. In other words, this was not a normal occurrence.

  “I guess. I have to talk to her first, obviously. Why?” Jimmy asked.

  She rose from her chair. “I have a year to lose 20 pounds,” she said dramatically. “This family is going on a diet.” And with that, she picked up her plate and leaned over to take my father’s.

  “Hey!” Dad exclaimed. “I’m still eating!”

  “You ate enough,” Mom snipped, leaning over to take mine.

  I didn’t even protest when she took my dish away; I was too deep in depressing thought to care. Not only was Jimmy getting engaged before me, at my expired benchmark engagement age, but he was going to be getting married at age 25, my expired bench mark marriage age. The icing on the cake? This was all going down the month before the reunion. Swell. “Carla, I heard your little brother got married!” A random former classmate will say. “When do YOU plan on getting married?” Instead of answering, I’ll start hysterically crying, ripping the bobby pins out of my prom up-do while trying my best to run out of the gym in a heavy tulle gown.

  “I have to go,” I said to no one, clutching my stomach. The men had already retreated to the couch. My mom started washing the dishes, with the ring box watching her from the kitchen counter.

  I ran upstairs and made a beeline for my laptop. I was going to write my millionth missive about the horrific state of my life, but a Facebook notification caught my eye:

  Katie Lansford has invited you to like Honey Crest High School Class of 2007 Reunion.

  The grinning default picture of a cartoon bear, our school’s mascot, didn’t do much to break my frown. Geez Katie; the save-the-date’s weren’t torture enough?

  I clicked on the page and noticed that 56 mutual friends/former classmates had already joined. Not wanting to hurt Katie’s feelings, I clicked “like” and became Unlucky 57.

  Surely there are some people worse off than me, I reasoned. I went into my iTunes and located my “FML” playlist (FML= Fuck My Life) and hit the play button. The angst of Kelly Clarkson, my musical soul mate, poured out of the speakers. For the next hour, I clicked on each name, keeping a tally of their life’s accomplishments.

  The numbers of my informal survey were certainly not tipping in my favor: Out of 56 people, 30 were married. Eighteen of those couples were with child. Seven couples were already with multiple children. Another 14 people were engaged. Ten were in relationships. That left a measly four people who were either single or too ashamed to list themselves as single. Furthermore, about eighty percent of those people listed their “current city” as somewhere far, far away from their hometown of Honey Crest. I was the farthest thing from a mathematician, but I was sure that if you applied those figures to the entire graduating class of 532, the statistics would be even more staggering.

  What would Mrs. Wright have to say about all this?

  I closed my laptop shut, cutting Taylor off mid-song. I dejectedly buried myself underneath my covers and hid there for the rest of the night.

  4

  Day 1

  Despite still being down in the dumps over my study, I dragged my ass out of bed precisely at five in the morning to get ready for the gym. Unfortunately, I was not the only person who was awake at that time.

  “What are you doing up so early?” Mom chirped when I got downstairs, not looking up from studying her room sketches. (She works as an interior designer, the perfect complement to D’Agostino Construction. Dad and Jimmy build the homes, Mom decorates them. Have you figured out who the black sheep in the family is yet?)

  “I’m going to the gym,” I replied, grabbing a bottled water out of the fridge.

  She put her papers down and swiped her glasses off her face. “That’s great honey! This is the best time to go – when you have no distractions. You can get it out of the way, and enjoy the rest of your day.”

  “Yup,” I agreed, grabbing my keys to cut the impending lecture short. “See you tonight.”

  “Bye, honey!”

  I could barely keep my eyes open while navigating my white Mazda M3 to Fitness World. When I parked, I contemplated just sleeping in my car but someone tapping on my window startled me.

  “Good morning, Sunshine!” Andrea exclaimed through the glass. I rolled my window down. “You were the last person I expected to be here. Welcome back!”

  Andrea and I used to work out together, but then I just got too busy (read: uninterested). On the other hand, Andrea was there every morning, seven days a week, without fail. (I wouldn’t have been surprised if she snuck in a quick elliptical session on her way to the hospital to give birth.) I wished I could give her my body to work out, but I guessed tapping into her dedication could be a distant second best. I opened the car door.

  “Happy to be back,” I lied, rubbing my tired eyes.

  “I can tell,” Andrea laughed as we started walking towards the entrance. “How long has it been?”

  “Six months?” I guessed as we walked inside. “I’m really not sure.”

  “Hi Andrea,” a dark-haired body builder greeted us. He leaned in to give Andrea a big hug and kiss on the cheek. “Who is this?”

  “This is my best friend, Carla. Carla, this is Xander, he’s my trainer. He’s Superman!” Andrea gushed. “My ass never looked this good until we started working out together!”

  Xander laughed. “Well thank you, but don’t wreck my work by succumbing to pregnancy cravings! Are you following the diet I made for you?”

  Andrea glanced at me. I could see the guilt wash over her face as she thought about the big brunch she indulged in the day before. “Yes,” she gulped.

  “Good! Pregnancy doesn’t give women the excuse to turn into gluttonous pigs.”

  What did he know? That was the EXACT reason to get pregnant! Then I had another thought.

  “Hey,” I said, playfully pushing Andrea’s shoulder. “You told your trainer you were pregnant before us?”

  Andrea let out a nervous giggle. “Well, we had to alter my workouts. I told Xander before I even told my mom!”

  I smirked at her logic. Then again, I’d probably tell Xander, the gas station attendant, my priest, and the homeless man living under the Verrazano Bridge that I was with child before breaking the news to my mother. It was only then I noticed Xander staring at me, deep in thought. (I’m using the term “deep” loosely here.)

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “No, let me help you!” Xander exclaimed. He turned to Andrea. “Let me train your friend. She’s a pretty girl, but she’s soft. I can whip her into shape in no time!”

  I gasped at his rudeness.

  “Wh-why would you want to do that?” Andrea stammered nervously.

  “Yea, I don’t think so,” I shook my head vehemently, agreeing with Andrea. There was no way I wanted to spend any more additional time with this vain cyborg.

  “Why not? What do you have to lose?” Xander asked, eying me up and down. “Besides 15 pounds?”

  My eyes bulged out of their sockets.r />
  “What? You are going to tell me that’s not the truth?” Xander challenged, looking me dead in the eye.

  What was I supposed to say? He was right; I had morphed into the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s long-lost sister. But I couldn’t go down without a fight. “Even if that was the truth, that’s not the way to garner potential new clients,” I said dramatically.

  “Being nice is not going to help get rid of this,” he said, grabbing a handful of fat around my midsection.

  “Ow!” I exclaimed.

  “Do you want a better body?” Xander challenged.

  “Of course, I do!”

  “Then let me help you!” he repeated.

  I felt abused and mortified, but…Was that a glimmer of hope I was feeling? Maybe I needed an intense meathead like Xander to help turn my bloated, flabby physique into fighting form. I looked over at Andrea. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and she looked annoyed. “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “Do whatever you want,” she snipped.

  “Well, if you’re going to be angry about it, I won’t train with him.” Andrea always needed to be the center of attention, and knowing her, she probably couldn’t handle her trainer sharing his focus.

  “She’ll be fine,” Xander insisted. Andrea glared at him.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, ignoring Andrea. I extended my hand out.

  “This is gonna be fun,” Xander said devilishly, shaking my hand.

  For the next hour, as Andrea carefully watched from her treadmill, Xander put me through the wringer. After weighing me and taking my body fat percentage (so embarrassing), we did all sorts of cardio and weight training exercises. It was horrible, yet actually exhilarating.

  Afterwards, Xander and I sat down and mapped out a fitness and diet plan. We would meet three days a week, and he expected me to do forty minutes of cardio on our off days. He also gave me a diet plan full of vegetables, protein and other unsavory items. Luckily, he agreed to Sunday being my rest/cheat day. “Just don’t go overboard. You can undo all the good you did that week with just one bad meal,” he warned.

  “Do you have goals?” he asked as we walked out of his office.

  “Of course, I do,” I responded.

  “What are they?”

  Where do I begin? I thought as I started mentally running through my ten-year reunion scenario. “Well, I obviously want to lose weight, get my dream job, meet a great guy, get married-“

  He put up his hand. “I don’t want to hear what your goals are. But what I need you to do is to visualize them.”

  “I do visualize them. Every single day of my life,” I sighed.

  “No, actually visualize them. Print pictures, rip out pages from magazines, even draw them up, I don’t care. Put together a vision board of what you want your dream life to be. Hang it by your bed, desk, wherever you spend most of your time. That way, you can see what you are working towards. Trust me,” he said, looking towards the treadmills, where Andrea was still speed walking. “It works.”

  I watched him lovingly gaze at my best friend. Something was definitely going on there. Was Andrea on his “vision board?”

  “Anyway, what was I saying,” he said, shaking his head to snap out of his trance.

  “You were explaining how a kindergarten arts and crafts project will somehow help me achieve my goals,” I replied.

  “Oh, right. Besides making the collage, there are two important things you need to remember.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One—you need to be patient. Don’t expect everything to happen overnight. If you do, you will get frustrated and quit. Two—you need to be positive. Negative thoughts will stall your progress. ‘Act as if’.”

  “ ‘Act as if’ what ?”

  “Act out your dream scenario, and the universe will give it to you.”

  I was a taken aback by Xander’s philosophy; I had not taken this meathead for a Buddha. “How am I supposed to do that? Do I put on a white string bikini, convince myself that I’m Adriana Lima, and then go to the beach? I’m in no shape for that; people will report a beached whale to the authorities!”

  “This is what I mean,” Xander snapped. “Your physical body isn’t the only thing that needs to get in shape. You are your own worst enemy!”

  Didn’t I just hear that from somewhere? “I’m just being honest,” I replied defensively.

  He sighed. “Do you have an answer for everything?”

  “You learn quick!”

  “Andrea should have warned me about you.”

  ■ ■ ■

  The good will Xander had instilled in me flew out the window a couple hours later, as I walked through the doors of WSPS Sports Radio 950 AM.

  It was when Buffalo Bills kicker Scott Norwood’s would-be game-winning field goal sailed wide right in Super Bowl XXV that I became a sports junkie. My parents had a huge party for the big game, and instead of going with the mothers and the other kids downstairs to our massive playroom, I opted to stay with my father and the other men. I had just turned four years old just days before; I had no idea about football. But I got a kick out of my father and my uncles sweeping me up in their arms and throwing me up in the air whenever the New York Giants did something well. I was in awe over how crazy the men were. They held their breaths with every single play, paced around, and constantly screamed. Even though I wasn’t completely clear on the game, I was immediately hooked. My parents even allowed me to stay up until the end of the game. To this day, I haven’t seen my father cry the way he did when the Giants won that year.

  From that day forward, all my essays in school were based around sports; football, baseball, the Olympics, I was obsessed with it all. I immersed myself in the history of how the New York Knicks came to be, and fantasized about being alive during the 1950s majestic New York Yankees World Series era, and read countless athlete biographies. In essence, I became an even bigger fan than any male in my family. My girlfriends didn’t get it, and most guys I met were intimidated that I knew more than they did, which obviously did wonders for my love life.

  But tell me, what’s better in life than a Game 7? (Okay, there are a couple things; shut up.) But nothing packs more of a dramatic, breathless punch than a do-or-die sports competition. And you know how much us girls love drama! It’s better than any Lifetime movie.

  When I wasn’t reading or watching sports (or failing miserably at playing them), I was constantly listening to people talk about them. My father always had on WSPS, the country’s number one 24-hour sports talk station, and I followed suit. I would get ready for school listening to Joe & JoJo in the morning; I would do my homework listening to Harry & the Leatherneck in the afternoon; and later in life, I would stumble home drunk and listen to Thomas Jay in the overnight. It was my ultimate dream to work there, and right after college, my dream came true.

  New Jersey University has one of the top-ranked college radio stations in the country, and I had hosted a weekly sports talk show called Girl in the Locker Room. (My mother freaked at the title, but it definitely got me noticed!) My program director at 90.5 WNJU got in touch with Dan “The Man” Durkin, WSPS station manager, and scored me an interview.

  Dan was quite the interesting character. His nickname was self-imposed, and his borderline-sickening obsession with celebrity offset his intimidation factor. His walls were crammed with countless photos of him posing with the rich and famous, and he had piles of rare memorabilia everywhere.

  In the midst of showing off the crown jewels of his collections, Dan asked me what my intentions were in the business...

  Self-doubt gripped my throat. “I want to be a sports talk host.”

  Dan flashed a sympathetic grin and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “You are very talented and knowledgeable, but I can’t put a 22-year-old female with no professional on-air experience on a show right off the bat. It just can’t happen. Not on this station.”

  Of course not. Why would a major radio executive give
a lowly college graduate the keys to her own show? And had I been truly gifted and talented, his experience and infinite wisdom would have ignored my young age.

  I would never mutter the intention again.

  Dan ended up offering me the weekly overnight producing shift. It was as if I won the lottery (despite the crappy hours and the barely-above-minimum-wage pay). But who said no to a job at WSPS? I understood that at this stage of the game, it was all about paying your dues. I could move to East Bumblefuck, Wisconsin to get my start, or begin my career at the best sports talk station in the world. I took the job right on the spot.

  At first, it was cool –working in Manhattan, making great friends at the station, and of course meeting the athletes. I quickly ascended from producing the overnight show to the mid-morning show to the afternoon-drive show, where I had remained for the past two years. The hosts even put me on-air once in a while. That certainly made up for the still less-than-stellar pay.

  But the novelty wore off as I kept getting passed over for THE job. It actually sickened me to think about how many on-air personalities I’d seen come and go. They were usually brought in from other markets, and then had meltdowns because they couldn’t handle the heat of New York City, where even the sports pundits have critics who critique their criticisms. However, I’d been one of the station’s constants; whatever they needed I was there to do — unpaid overtime, coming in on my days off to train the newbie producers, whatever. No matter how under-appreciated I felt, I always showed up to work with a smile. I knew I was good. I had thick skin for the business, yet I kept getting overlooked. Why? Unfortunately, I knew my boss’ answer--“You just aren’t good enough.”

  “Morning, Laney,” I cheerfully greeted the station’s receptionist and my best friend at work, Elaine “Laney” Lester. Laney has been there for 20 years and was their unofficial mascot. She could totally write a best-seller based on WSPS with all the wacky things she’d seen and heard.

  “Morning Carla,” she responded back, imitating my sing song tone. Laney was off her rocker and came up with the zaniest things possible. She had this infectious, cackling laugh that could be heard all through the office. She was a tiny brunette but loomed much larger than her 4’11” frame.