by Eliza Gordon
Oh, sweet Susie, you’re so cute. Just wait until life catches up to your nubile form and you have to sit for a million hours processing medical claims for people who make bad life choices. Then tell me how not puffy your ankles are.
Susie then introduces me to the wild world of activewear, pointing to a circular rack of leggings. “We have everything you might need to start your gym adventure. This line here,” she picks up a pair of blue-and-pink capri-style pants that look like they would fit a Keebler Elf, “comes in different levels of fit. You can get ’em loose, semifitted, fitted, or even compression, which are super tight.” She leans closer. “Some women like the compression because it really sucks everything in. My mom calls it her sausage casing.”
Wow, probably not the best sales approach, Susie.
“Do you know what size you might be?” Before I can answer, Susie steps back and looks up and down my body. “Let’s start with a large and work our way from there.”
A tight smile drags itself across my face, if only to hold back the caustic comeback burning a hole in my tongue.
The humiliation continues when we get to the rack of sports bras. Apparently, I’m at least a large there too—“Maybe not cup size, but you don’t want the band to be too tight or else it’s uncomfortable. The goal is to keep the girls from bouncing up and hitting you in the face!”
Susie laughs. I do not laugh.
Thank all the gods that the T-shirts are just normal, loose-fitting cotton sweeties sent to make me feel human again.
By the time I get to the dressing room, arms laden with enough elastane to squeeze the life from an elephant seal, the doubt is so loud in my ears that it overrides the grating in-store music.
“Make sure to wear your panties and bra when trying everything on. I’ll put your shoe purchases up at the front counter for you, mm-kay?” She slams the dressing room door behind me. I dump everything onto the padded bench and slump next to it.
What am I even doing here . . .?
I should’ve told Viv about this. She’d give me a pep talk. Or she’d talk some sense into me.
I pull out my phone, my finger hovering over her number. But it’s dinnertime at her house. She’s probably eating her beans and spinach and taking her temperature or practicing baby-making.
Instead, I open the earlier email from Lady Macbeth and reread her added comments:
You can DO this. Whatever you need from me, let me know. And send me pictures of all the cute workout shit you buy. OH, and also—get some bikini, or better yet, thong underwear. No one at the gym wants to see your granny panties through your workout pants. XO from the Lady.
What’s wrong with my Hanes Her Way?
I didn’t notice this earlier, but in the attachments, she’s included a recent photo of The Rock on the set of his latest Fast & Furious film, his beautiful bare chest shining in all its muscular glory. She’s crudely photoshopped an arrow pointing at his tattooed half with the words “You want to lick this in real life so go do push-ups.”
I laugh under my breath. She’s right. I would do push-ups to lick that, but I’m pretty sure that would be super weird. “Hey, Dwayne, nice to meet you. Can I lick your tattooed pectoral musculature?”
Phone tucked away, I take a deep breath, stand, and strip to my undergarments, trying very hard not to throw shade at the pudgy, dimpled body staring back at me. For courage, I run my finger over the tattooed 94 on my left rib cage—Dwayne Johnson’s jersey number when he played college football. I’d tell you that I did this one drunken night in the Valley with my acting friends, but to be honest, it was one very sober night in the Valley with my acting friends, and I’d been saving for it for a year. While my thespian comrades weren’t hard-core Rock fans, they understood. We all had our talismans—a lucky ring or T-shirt or a small tattoo with personal symbolism. (They did razz me because my tattoo is not small but rather six-by-six inches of embellished black-and-orange numbering.) When you hear no as often as an actor does, you search for tokens of luck and courage everywhere you can.
But this stack of pants isn’t going to get any smaller with me standing here staring at my reflection. One after the other, I yank and tug them on. Susie, the little imp, was right—the large pants fit best. And I do feel like I’m stuffing sausage into its casing, but whatever. In a few short months, I will be partying with my buddy DJ, and Susie will still be here hoping she gets enough likes on her latest selfie.
INT. DICK’S CHANGING ROOM — EVENING
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
You’re being kind of a brat, Danielle. Susie’s trying to give you a hand. She seems to know her activewear.
DANIELLE
Seriously?
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
I’m just saying, you don’t have to be rude to people who’re trying to do their job.
DANIELLE
Yeah? Well, where were you earlier when that angry woman in Tigard yelled at me because Imperial H&W won’t pay for her labiaplasty? I was just trying to do my job too, but she was super rude and kept screaming at me about how her labia “flap in a strong breeze because she birthed a child the size of Godzilla,” and we should pay to have this fixed.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
That image will never leave me. Thanks so much.
DANIELLE
I do what I can.
I find two pairs of pants that will work and then start on the bras, but I’ve managed to work up a wee sweat from all the grunting and stuffing and pulling and arguing with DJ.
First lesson in workout gear: If there is any form of moisture on your upper body while putting on a sports bra, the difficulty level of situating said paraphernalia over the boobage increases by a factor of twelve.
And then it somehow gets caught on your regular stretched-out bra with the torn lace over one cup because you bought it four years ago at a Victoria’s Secret “Black Friday” sale, and yeah, you should’ve replaced it, but everyone knows that bra shopping ranks up there with Pap smears performed by young male doctors fresh out of medical school who say stuff like, “Wow, I’ve never seen such a friable cervix. Does it hurt when I do this?”
Shit.
I’m stuck.
Like, my left arm is stuck over my head and I . . . cannot . . . move . . . it. And then there is a tearing noise, which cannot be great because this sports bra is expensive, and I’m not sure if there’s a you-break-it-you-buy-it rule at Dick’s, but . . . if I can just get my left arm through the hole . . .
“Everything okay in there?” Susie’s chipper voice sings through the crack in the door.
I almost say yes, but I realize I am super stuck, and my wallet cringes with every popped stitch.
“Actually . . .” I scoot over to open the door with my free right hand, thanking myself that I at least put my slacks back on so I’m not standing here completely exposed. “Somehow, Susie,” I laugh nervously, “I’ve managed to get myself a little bit tangled.”
She comes into the changing room but leaves the door open. Before I can ask her to close it, she’s all hands and fingers and she’s pulling and twisting. “Wow, I’ve never seen anyone do this before. It’s somehow tangled up with your regular bra. Like, I think it’s snagged on a bent hook or something.”
“Okay, let’s just ease the sports bra up and over because my arm is sort of falling asleep.”
“Hang on, I need to get someone to help us, or maybe find some scissors—” And then she’s gone again, and I’m really tangled because whatever she did made it worse.
In less than a minute, there are two Susies in my changing room, tugging and pulling and tee-heeing about how “this is definitely a first,” and then they pull me into the main area just outside the wee boxy cubicle “because the light is better and we need more space” and all I can think about is how this is a unisex changing area and how my very white belly is jiggling around and my boobs are about to pop free as these teenagers yank on me and how hard everyone is going to la
ugh at the Dick’s Christmas Party when they review the security footage of the half-naked chick who got herself entangled in a sports bra.
I should really get a discount.
Instead, I end up buying the sports bra because they have to cut my regular bra right up the back to untangle it, and I am not comfortable with the girls footloose and fancy-free under my rather sheer blouse when I still have to walk through the mall to my car. I also end up spending half a month’s rent on athletic wear that I may or may not be able to commit to using because it’s ten to seven, and as I bid the Susies adieu, all I can think about is a Quarter Pounder with extra pickles.
Nope. Dwayne would never eat that before a workout. Only on a cheat day. And even then, he’d rip into two deep-dish pizzas and a stack of pancakes that reaches the ceiling.
I might need to google some diet plans.
In the food court, there’s a smoothie place. Aha! A smoothie—perfect. I’ve seen the late-night infomercials for those expensive blenders that turn spinach and kale into liquid gold. That’s what I’ll do. Kale is supposed to be super good for you.
And as I stand gaping at the overwhelming menu, a dreadlocked kid named Brandon with ear gauges big enough to drive through happily tells me they can add whatever extra stuff I want, like protein or echinacea and flax or ginseng or chia or creatine or hemp or even organic chocolate syrup.
Okay, I know what chocolate syrup is.
I tell him I need something healthy and with lots of energy and bravery in it.
Eight bucks later, I’m holding a plastic cup with more vegetables in it than I’ve eaten in a decade. The first sip is okay—chocolatey, not greasy like carob but properly chocolate. It’s thick like a milkshake but sorta grainy too, and the aftertaste—you know when you’re pulling weeds and you inhale and you get that dirt taste on your teeth and tongue? Like that. With each successive sip, I realize there’s more chewing involved than I would’ve expected—is that from the protein powder or maybe the kale?
It’s a little weird for me to be drinking something without whipped cream slobbering down the side of the cup, but Dwayne would approve of this.
Take that, Dr. Jerky Jackie.
She can’t hear you. She’s reconstructing the face of a gunshot victim right now.
So what? I’m drinking kale.
Bags stashed in the trunk, I pull up the GPS app on my phone to find the quickest route between here and Hollywood Fitness. My heart skitters in my chest at the thought of walking into an actual gym with hard bodies and beautiful people, but before turning the key in the ignition, I stare at The Rock’s face (the wallpaper on my phone, naturally) to Steele myself. (Get it? Steele?)
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can do this.
Time for a smackdown.
TEN
March 21, 2016
Dear Dwayne Johnson,
Darling DJ, I don’t know how you do this. This gym thing. You do it every single day, like some sort of mythical beast fueled by lactic acid and virgin tears. And kale.
I went to Dick’s (tee-hee-hee) and bought the activewear. Shoes, pants, bras, a couple of shirts long enough to hide my butt.
I bought the smoothie that Dreadlocked Brandon said would make me feel brave and strong.
I ate an antigas tablet like Lady Macbeth advised so I don’t fart when I’m on the treadmill.
I drove to Hollywood Fitness and even parallel parked on the second try. (A record!)
I changed my clothes in their air-freshener-enhanced locker room and didn’t make eye contact with the sweaty, fit bodies walking around half-naked talking about the best ways to soak chia seeds. (Did you know that chia means “strength” in the Mayan language? I did not know this.)
I checked in with Trish (the club manager who has muscles growing out of her muscles)—as Lady Macbeth promised, she showed me around with the agreement she’d introduce me to my new trainer as soon as he (He! He?) was done with his current client. Then Trish talked really fast and used words like “free weights” and “cable machines” and “interval training,” but I will take these things up with Google later.
Then she cut me loose after she showed me how to operate the very confusing digital panel on the treadmill. Of course, there was this miraculously beautiful man a few machines over, a clipboard in hand as he stood monitoring another human, this one a male with basically the same fluffy attributes as me, but this guy’s beet-red face looked like he was close to needing an ambulance. It was a little worrisome, actually. I think my CPR card is expired.
That’s not important, though.
I was just trying to look cool and look like I knew what I was doing in my $250 worth of new activewear while Clipboard Guy looked down, made notes, and looked back up, smiling—he had loose, dark, slightly curled hair about chin length that would’ve looked over-the-top on any other dude, but on him it accentuated the rich coffee of his irises and the brilliant, infectious smile and the five-o’clock shadow and the eyebrows that even you would envy. And he was wearing these shorts—let’s just say he has really impressive knees. (You know I have a thing for nice knees.)
And then I realized that Clipboard Guy is a trainer, and please don’t let him be my trainer because I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of someone that pretty.
As we hadn’t properly met yet, this is how I imagined our introduction going:
INT. HOLLYWOOD FITNESS - EVENING
CLIPBOARD GUY
Wow, that is some impressive activewear you’ve got on tonight.
ME
What, this old thing?
CLIPBOARD GUY
I’ve not seen you here before. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone like you here before. Honestly, your hair is like something out of a shampoo commercial.
ME
I eat a lot of carbs. It helps.
CLIPBOARD GUY
Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Keep it up. (Clipboard Guy blushes) Something about you . . . do you want to grab coffee after you finish your bruising workout?
ME
I’d need to shower and freshen up first . . .
CLIPBOARD GUY
I’ll gladly wait. Something tells me I just have to get to know you better.
Clipboard Guy winks and moves back to his client, but he looks over his shoulder more than once, ensnared in the meteoric power of my feminine charms.
Sadly, this is not how it went.
The treadmill I mentioned—I do think it had a mind of its own. Because it started going faster.
And faster.
And faster.
And I was keeping up, even though I was having a hard time catching my breath, but then the thing started to slow down again so I was okay, but it only slowed down for about a minute and then, holy Jesus, here we go again, going a million miles an hour and my legs were absolutely on fire and my lungs were burning like that time at the year-end bonfire when I smoked weed laced with something bad, and then I couldn’t breathe properly for a week, and then that smoothie, that smoothie was bouncing in my gut and tickling my esophagus not in a that-feels-good-do-it-again sort of way but rather in that I-might-revisit-the-oral-cavity sort of way—
ANYWAY.
This treadmill.
Did I mention the last time I participated in strenuous physical activity was that semester in college where I had a lady-boner for one of the English department TAs who happened to be a marathoner? Yeah, I went jogging with him once. I threw up.
Which sort of happened tonight.
And Clipboard Guy—whose name is Marco, by the way—he’s a trainer—in fact, HE’S MY TRAINER—he left his beet-faced client for a few minutes to hold my ponytail as I introduced the garbage can to the healthy shit that Dreadlocked Brandon fed me just forty minutes earlier.
And then Marco says, “It happens all the time, dahling.” Did I mention Miraculously Beautiful Marco with the great hair and delicious knees has a fetching British accent?
> Well, he does.
And I can never show my face there again.
Pass the Pepto,
Danielle Barf-Queen Steele
P.S. KALE IS THE DEVIL. Jesus, these farts are so toxic that Hobbs just covered his tank with tinfoil. No more kale. Ever. Again.
P.P.S. I did that quiz Jerky Jackie sent me. Remember, the one about daddy issues? Apparently, there’s an 87 percent chance I have daddy issues. The quiz app then recommended another quiz after I finished: “Is Your Mother an Extraterrestrial?” I SCORED 100 percent.
*SAVE*
*CLOSE*
ELEVEN
“Hiya, I’m hoping I have the right number. This is Marco Turner from Hollywood Fitness calling to follow up with Danielle Steele with an e—great name, by the way. My mum loves your books”—he laughs into the phone—“no, but seriously, I’m calling to check on how you’re feeling after last night. I hope everything’s all right. You’d be shocked to learn how often that happens with folks coming in for their first time, so don’t you worry a moment about it.
“So I’ll see you tonight at half past six, Ms. Steele, and be sure to bring runners and water to rehydrate. Oh, and eat one hour prior—a light meal with carbs would be great. Maybe no more smoothies? Cheers!”
TWELVE
Half past six.
Half past six tonight.
But the Great Smoothie Debacle—how can I possibly look him in the eye?
I should find and self-diagnose some obscure medical condition from my hulking ICD-10/CPT—it’s a huge reference book filled with medical diagnoses and procedures codes. I can find something that fits before six thirty. Right?
I’m sweating. Why am I sweating? I’m just sitting here. Did someone turn up the heat?
Is this a hot flash? Oh lord, maybe this sweat is menopause. Maybe I’m entering early menopause at twenty-nine, the youngest person ever, and I shouldn’t exert myself or I will expel an ovary on the gym floor.