Yesterday's Half Truths

by Carey Heywood

  “Thanks for checking with me first,” I grumble.

  This is the complete MO of my family. If my mom or one of my sisters needs something, they know I’ll do it. I have a weakness when it comes to taking care of them.

  “You know you love me,” she teases.

  Because I do, I say, “Text me her info.”

  “Thank you so much,” she squeals.

  “You owe me,” I reply.

  “She owes me,” I repeat, reaching down to scratch Loki behind his ears. He rolls over, offering me his belly. He’s a bulldog. Best dog ever, except for the time I took more than one trip to carry in groceries and he ate an entire block of Monterey Jack cheese. Christ, for the week after, his farts could peel paint.

  After we hang up, I toss my cell onto the couch next to the pile of laundry I was folding. It dings with a text notification before it even lands. I pick it back up figuring I can knock helping Sasha’s friend out and avoid my laundry.

  My laptop is in my bedroom; my nightstand is my makeshift desk. The place I rent is small, but I don’t need a ton of space and the rent is cheap. I open up my email app and fire off a quick message to the email address my sister sent me. I don’t want to be stuck emailing back and forth so I just gave her my number and told her to call me.

  Once that’s done, I have no excuse not to finish my laundry. I text Sasha back, letting her know I emailed her friend as I walk back into the main living space of my apartment. It’s an okay sized room; the ad had referred to it as open concept. That just means what you see is what you get. Since it’s just me, it works.

  My kitchen takes up the back wall; my bedroom and bathroom are on the other side of that wall. Sure having a fridge right behind your sofa can suck, especially when you’re watching a scary movie and the icemaker kicks on. Someday I’ll have a bigger place; but for now, I’m in no hurry.

  This place is close to both of my jobs, the gym, and a restaurant where I wait tables. My training jobs have been picking up so maybe I can quit the other job soon. I’m not in any hurry though. The food there isn’t so bad and they’re starting to incorporate more healthy options. Sure, my idea of a smoothie bar didn’t fly but you can’t win them all.

  I reach for another shirt to fold when my phone buzzes with a text notification. I don’t recognize the number but it’s probably Sasha’s friend.

  Hi, this is Lindsay, Sasha’s friend. Is it cool to text instead?

  Groaning, I pinch my eyes shut after reading her message. The whole point of having her call me was to avoid having to type out an entire conversation but it’s not like I can say no without coming off like a dick.

  Sure. Sasha told me you were interested in hiring a trainer.

  I am, but I don’t want to go to a gym.

  You can hire a trainer to come out to your house. Normally, there is an additional cost associated with that type of setup.

  I’m not looking for a trainer to come to my house either.

  All right, now I’m confused.

  How about you tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll see if I can help.

  In the past, I’ve tried workout DVDs or stuff I’ve found on YouTube or On Demand through my cable. I have issues with knowing what I should focus on and staying motivated.

  A trainer can target trouble spots for you and provide motivation to help keep you on track.

  Would a trainer be able to do that virtually? Like, design a workout plan specific to me and my goals, and then check in weekly with me to make sure I’m staying on track?

  Have you looked into a program like Weight Watchers? I don’t personally know how robust their online workout platform is but I’m certain they have one.

  I’m looking for something more personal, a one on one relationship.

  I’m sure there are options for what you’re looking for. Unfortunately, I don’t have the personal experience to point you in the right direction of where to look.

  Is this type of training relationship something you’d be willing to try?

  Wait, what? I had to re-read her text a couple of times before I replied.

  Why me?

  I know your sister and since you already kind of understand what I’m looking for. I’ll pay you.

  She has my interest at payment; but truthfully, this could turn into a giant time suck.

  Got to be honest. I’m not sure what’d I’d charge for this.

  I’ll pay your standard hourly rate.

  There’s no way what she wants should cost what I normally charge.

  I’m willing to try it out on a trial basis. Part of what I offer some of my clients is a nutritional diet plan. Is that something you would be interested in as well?

  Yes. I’m committed to doing this the right way.

  Okay, I’m going to send you an email. I have a questionnaire for you to complete. Don’t worry; it’s not crazy long or anything. It gives me an idea of what your goals are and a baseline of your current diet and exercise habits.

  What if I lie?

  What if she lies? With my clients at the gym, I can see with my own two eyes if they’re cheating on their diet or not getting their workouts in on the days we don’t meet. How can I trust she will follow the plan I put in place?

  That’s ultimately going to be on you. If you’re not honest with me, this won’t work. Do you want this to work?

  I won’t lie. I want this to work.

  I glance at my watch again and stand.

  I need to run. I’ll email you the questionnaire later on tonight. There’s a portion on it for you to let me know what days and times work best for you. We should schedule a time weekly to go over what is and isn’t working. We can Skype or something.

  Or text? Could we just text?

  I suppose.

  Thank you, Luke.

  Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.

  I know, but you’re willing to try.

  Shoving my phone in my pocket, I head for the door, grabbing my keys from a hook next to it. I haven’t put much thought into virtually training clients before. Mentioning Skype gave me an idea for clients who didn’t like coming in to the gym. As I jog down the stairs, I wonder if the cable I use to link my iPad to my TV for Netflix would work the same way for Skype or FaceTime. I’m meeting Clay for a guy’s night; he’ll know.

  Training someone over the internet, why did I let her talk me into considering it? I shake my head and head toward my car. Sally is ancient and it takes some skill to open the driver’s side door. Engine wise, my ‘53 Corvette runs like a dream. Having Clay, a former mechanic, as a friend has saved my ass more than once over the years.

  It’s the body, which needs work. Clay has messed with the driver’s side door a few times but we both know I need a new one. I lean against the door, nudging it up as I ease it open. It isn’t perfect and I have to slam the door for it to shut, but it’s all mine.

  I’m saving up to buy a replacement but parts on older cars cost a ton. I don’t have many expenses so I’m saving what I can. Clay and I are meeting up at a bar not far from where he lives. He moved out to the burbs a few months back with his girlfriend, now wife, Courtney. I’m thrilled for him; it just sucks I don’t get to see him as much as I used to.

  They got married two months ago and have adopted Clay’s niece, Maggie. He’s busier than ever, but I envy him. If there was one guy I didn’t picture settling down it was him; now just a mention of Courtney gets him all mushy eyed. I make fun of him for it, but only because I feel lame admitting just how badly I want that for myself.

  I love women, always have. Problem is I seem to attract superficial gym bunnies. I take care of my body; I love a woman who does as well. I’m not crazy about the girls who come into the gym with their hair done and tons of make up on. Those girls are so fake. They don’t even break a sweat. They’re there for one reason, to be noticed. No, thank you.

  I have four sisters, three older and Sasha, my youngest sister. I know what girls look like when they s
weat. My oldest sister, Natalia, does triathlons and Krav Maga. I don’t mess with her; she can kick my ass. My other sisters are fit, just not like her. They’re more into Zumba and stuff like that.

  Sasha tried to tell me about this pole dancing class she was taking. You do not tell your big brother you’re pole dancing. I don’t care if it’s for exercise; you just don’t do that.

  Clay is already sitting at the bar when I finally get there.

  “Hey, man.” I pat him on the shoulder and he turns to give me a one armed dude hug.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asks as I slide onto my stool.

  I order a cider and ignore Clay’s smirk. I’m a healthy guy, even when I’m drinking.

  “How’re the wife and kid?” I ask as the bartender turns to get my order.

  “Maggie is struggling in school, but Courtney has been amazing with her. It’s as if she knows exactly what to say. Christ, you probably don’t want to hear this, but Maggie started her period. Eleven years old. Doesn’t that sound too young? Courtney handled the whole talk thing but, holy crap, I was freaking out.”

  I shoot him a disgusted glance and reach for my drink as the bartender approaches. After a long, long gulp, I look back over at him.

  “Never talk to me about periods again, man.”

  He just shakes his head. “It means she can get pregnant. Thank God, she goes to an all-girl school. Pregnant.”

  He flinches and takes a deep pull from his beer.

  “I’m gonna change the subject whether you’re cool with it or not.” He shrugs. “Can you hook an iPad or tablet up to a flat screen and FaceTime or Skype from it?”

  He lifts an eyebrow and one side of his mouth simultaneously. “Need the high def. for some mutual masturbation?”

  Giving him a ‘are you serious’ look I shake my head. “I offered to train a girl over the internet. She’s a friend of Sasha’s and nervous about going to a gym near her house. So we came up with the idea I could train people virtually.”

  “How far away is she?”

  “Maybe an hour and a half, I think. She lives northwest of here, closer to Greensboro.

  “Live session training over the net is a cool idea, man. You can definitely hook your flat screen up for it. You just need some special cables. You could always upgrade to a Smart TV. They have DVD players with Wi-Fi too that might work depending on what you want to do.”

  Grinning I motion for the bartender to get us another round on me. It rocks having a computer nerd for a friend.

  “Who knows? This over the internet thing might open a whole new wave of possibilities. Tons of people out there avoid the gym. I can see if she would be my experiment; and if it works, I might try to take on more clients this way.”

  “When do you start?”

  The bartender returns with our drinks. “I need to email her the training questionnaire. Find out for sure how realistic her goals are. We’ve only texted back and forth, but she sounded motivated.”

  What I don’t tell him is how I thought it was strange she didn’t want to talk, only text. You can’t be too safe with the internet; she could be some sixty-year-old dude in real life.

  Since we’re both driving, we don’t order any more drinks after our second. Clay has a website he needs to finish up and I have a questionnaire to email, so after making plans to meet up again next week, we part ways.

  The twinge of envy I have, knowing he’s heading home to a good woman like Courtney, sucks. I’d love to meet a nice girl and have that myself. For whatever reason, it just doesn’t seem as though it’s in the cards right now.

  I’m a morning person, a no coffee morning person, a crack of dawn, and no coffee morning person. Coffee doesn’t get me going, my morning web surfing does. A creature of habit, I have a fine tuned order in which I attack all things fashion related.

  Shower, hair, makeup, and then today’s look for the blog. I might not take a step outside my door but I don’t care. I like to dress up for me. Besides even though no one sees me in person, my virtual followers all do.

  My spare bedroom is my photo shoot studio. I have a simple white background and a remote switch for my Cannon. I’m my own model, photographer, and blogger. I usually use three or four look pics for each blog post. I then collage them for my daily Instagram post.

  After the pics are edited, I do my daily web surfing.

  First stop, all the major designers. Even if we’re months away from runway shows in New York and Europe, there are still subtle hints on their sites. Sometimes it’s something as simple as a hue change of their font. I track everything. After designer sites, I scope out what style forward celebs are wearing.

  There are always current pics of what they are wearing on paparazzi sites. While I don’t care who is dating whom, I absolutely must know what purse they were carrying on their date. After that, I check movies under production. I want to know what costume designers they are using and location settings.

  It’s amazing how movies can point fashion trends. Right now, dystopian trilogies are the rage. However, if I’m not paying attention, I can miss that one of my style icon trendsetters is filming a 50’s remake in Monte Carlo, which just screams a vintage resurgence may be imminent.

  My last stop before I start a post is Pinterest. Sure, some of the looks are based off designer trends from last year; but if one million people pinned the same lace button up, I want to know about it.

  Most likely that button up can now only be found in limited sizes for way more than what it originally cost on a resale site like eBay. What my readers love is I have a knack for finding alternatives, which are still available for purchase by their seller and may have something different enough about them to keep them from seeming dated.

  I categorize and subcategorize everything I search. My saved link database is definitely bigger than yours, and size does matter. Once a week, I also feature up and coming designers. Given the number of unique page hits I have on a monthly basis, I have a waiting list for that feature a mile long.

  Every single day, I post what I’m wearing along with one additional feature type article. Mondays are makeup; Tuesdays are hair; Wednesdays are for bags; Thursdays are for accessories; Fridays are my designer feature day; Saturdays are lifestyle, which includes advice type articles; and Sundays are my weekly wrap up and any interesting news, which may have hit over the week.

  I do not even glance at email until I’ve completed my daily blog post. It can be distracting; and my cat Coco, as in Chanel, jealously weaving her way back and forth through my legs as I type, is distracting enough.

  “You have food in your dish,” I remind her.

  If she’s taken a bite or two, she refuses to touch her bowl until I either shake the bowl to disguise any evidence of food consumption or top it off. She has a water dish but that’s only in case of emergency. I have to leave the kitchen faucet with a gentle drip on for her actually to drink. I keep a bowl in the sink and use the water she misses to water my houseplants.

  Otherwise, I’d feel like I was killing the earth. I might not go outside much but I do still love the planet. After I check all my sites, I check notifications. I can get up to a thousand comments on any given post. Most are as simple as someone saying they loved a look or a tutorial, but there are also questions and some comments needing follow up.

  My main site has an email address. My Facebook page can receive private messages. In addition, if I follow the person messaging me, my twitter account can as well. Otherwise, all of the comments and posts made on or to my pages are public. I try to respond to every message, except for the creeper ones.

  There is a web phenomenon of creepy dudes private messaging popular sites in the hope of…I’m honestly not sure what. I guess it would make sense if I were being hit on by local people. That way there’d at least be the opportunity for them to meet me in real life. Sadly, or maybe thankfully, the majority of these creepy messages come from men overseas.

  There should be a hand
book on how to hit on a woman over the internet. Someone needs to let these guys know sending a picture of their penis is not going to inspire me to come visit them. Seriously, who does that? I jot a note down on a sticky pad next to my mouse, possible blog post, how not to virtually hit on women. That could make a funny article.

  While I’m checking my email, I see one from Luke. Silly how something as innocent as a fitness questionnaire from a cute man can give me butterflies.

  I glance over at Coco. “Don’t judge.”

  She just rolls over so I’m now looking at her ass. Thanks, cat. The questionnaire is straightforward enough, though still anxiety inducing. Whatever fantasy I have been nursing with Luke will evaporate the moment he sees my thigh measurements. There’s no point in lying; only that’s what I do when it comes to my appearance every single day on my blog.

  The world sees a size 2. It’d all be fine and good if what they saw, what they all loved, wasn’t a lie. Maybe if I actually looked like the girl in those images, I wouldn’t feel like throwing up every five minutes. It would be funnier if I hadn’t actually considered bulimia as a solution to the problem I had created.

  Sad, there are girls out there with legitimate eating disorders and the fat girl in me wished I could be one of them. Anorexia, tried and failed. Bulimia, tried and failed. Diet pills, tried and failed.

  Problem is, even though the world’s seeing me in the pictures I post, they’ve never really seen me. When I started the blog, I meant for it to be a daily inspiration of what I’d love to look like.

  With the help of Photoshop, I made it happen. I turned my size eighteen self into a size two. Now, I have seven months to make that happen in real life, too. If only I didn’t eat my feelings. Didn’t matter what they were, happy or sad, my feelings went best with some mint chocolate chip ice cream and Twinkies.