Throw This Rench in the Mix: February 2011

So I'm taking a creative writing class this semester. It's not required. I'm doing it totally for the fun of it, and it is fun. Every few weeks we have workshops where we have to turn in seven pages of original creative writing.

I'm also doing a Lazy Man Iron Man this month. I actually finished it this morning, thank heavens. If you don't know, that means I did an Iron Man, but I had the whole month of February to do it. That's 112 miles on the bike, 26 miles running, and 2.75 miles swimming. Needless to say, I've spent far too many hours at the gym this month, peddling away on the stationary bike. In between the moments where I sat there late at night, hating life and wondering why on Earth I was doing this again, I people-watched and dreamed up ridiculous stories.

Hence, my latest creative writing workshop piece. Please note, that unlike all of my other posts, this one is in fact fiction. Enjoy!

Stud Finder

I’ve spent the last three years of my life at the gym. I mean, I’ve never really considered myself a fitness guru or anything, but I suppose with all the calories I’ve burned there, I could probably be scientifically classified as one. As much as I’d love to believe it though, it’s not the workouts that motivate me. Who am I kidding? My metabolism is off the charts and I probably couldn’t gain a pound even if I sat on the couch for a week eating nothing but Twinkies. I’ve never been able to chart my dropping dress sizes, or watch as the pounds melt away. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not complaining; I just haven’t seen the fruits of my labors yet. I guess I can’t expect my destiny to just unravel itself before my eyes after only a month or two, but I’m getting a little impatient.

I am working at it though. It’s not like I show up every day in old paint-splattered T-shirts and ugly velour sweatpants like the moms who come after dropping their kids off at school. I always wear the latest trends in workout attire, like my pink Addidas sweatband, and dark gray Underarmor spandex capris that make a snapping sound when I slip them on. I like to pull my long brown hair in a high ponytail so it bounces and waves as I run. I put on just enough makeup to cover blemishes and make my green eyes pop, but not enough so it appears like I’m wearing any. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard. I mean, I never wear earrings or anything. I wouldn’t want to look like one of those purple leotard-clad aerobics girls from the 80’s that have blue eye shadow caked on their faces. That was a nightmare that would be best staying in the past. I’m telling you; it’s all about the subtleties.

Much like a morning mocha, I get my fix on the treadmill. I always pick the one closest to the door so I can inspect every guy who walks in, and they can see me. It’s a perfect view, not to mention the cool breeze every few minutes that keeps me looking fresh despite the fact that the counter shows I’ve already run 3.6 miles. Some of the guys who come through are old, some are short, and some look downright fantastic in their red Nike kicks and sleeveless shirts that reveal their chiseled biceps.

One guy looked particularly scrumptious the other day as he swiped his membership card. He smiled at the receptionist and brushed by as he made his way over to the weight machines. He pretended not to notice me as he walked by, but he totally did. How could he not? I had the machine cranked up to level ten. After he passed, I looked down: 1.2 miles. Not exactly my goal for the day, but it would have to suffice. Besides, my triceps could use a little work…maybe? I wiped off the machine and inconspicuously made my way over to the dumbbells near where Mr. Biceps just so happened to be working on his lat pull-downs. What an uncanny coincidence.

I smiled, kicked the stray bangs out of my face, and picked up a seven-pound weight.

“So, I’ve never seen you here before,” I said in my most cheerful voice.

He let the bar slowly retract, his muscles flexing gracefully like ripples in hot cocoa. Then he turned to face me.

“Oh hey,” he said, “Yeah, I usually come in the evenings but they just switched my schedule at the fire house so now I guess I’m coming in the mornings.”

A firefighter. That’s hot.

“Oh nice! Have you been coming to this gym for awhile then?”

He stood up, picked up his towel and wiped off the seat. “Um, not too long,” he said, his head tilting adorably to the left, “My wife and I only moved in about two months ago.”

Wife.

Turns out some guys don’t wear their wedding rings when they lift weights. Wouldn’t want calluses. I suddenly didn’t feel the need to work on my triceps anymore. In fact, I think I would have rather just taken that dumbbell and knocked myself in the head with it. Any blunt object would have worked, really.

I guess this called for yet another date with Ben and Jerry’s and more re-runs of Friends. I think I’m on Season six now. It’s kind of a let-down after the big Season five break-up, but what can you do? Maybe this is the real reason I keep coming back to the gym. After all, Ben and Jerry’s and I have become pretty tight lately.

So basically what I’m trying to say here is that aside from a nice waistline and rockin’ calves, the gym has done nothing for me. Nothing, that is, until last Tuesday.

I always go to Zumba class on Tuesdays. Somehow, that Latin beat lets me escape to a dance patio on a gorgeous beach somewhere in Costa Rica. The girl who teaches it, Jenny, is fantastic. She puts together flawless routines, picks the best music, and she’s got that Puerto Rican blood that simply exudes Latin Jam perfection. She’s been pregnant for about six months now though, and there’s only so much hip-shaking pregnant ladies should be allowed to do before it should simply be outlawed. I mean, as much as I love her, it’s kind of like trying to look at an old man in a Speedo swimsuit. It just hurts.

So there’s been a sign in the window for a few weeks advertising for a new instructor. I’ve seen a few of the applicants come in. Some wore flashy, sequined tank tops—that one was a guy, and one lady came in wearing platforms and seriously huge bell bottoms. I’m pretty sure the only salsa she knew was the kind that goes on chips. The gym managers were getting exhausted with the options, that is, until Armando showed up.

I’m quite certain I’ve never seen a more beautiful man in my entire life. I was working the elliptical trainer when he walked in, and thank goodness because if my feet weren’t strapped in, I would have tripped. His skin was the color of perfectly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and it emanated a luster that gave me the sudden urge to just bite a chunk out of him. His black hair framed his delectable face in perfect waves, except for that one taunting little lock that fell across his coal black eye, beckoning me to come hither. So I did.

I’m not really sure how it happened. One minute I was pretending to watch Channel 6 News on the elliptical, and suddenly I was standing right next to him, staring at him as he spoke to Gina at the front desk. He glanced down at the counter where his massive forearms were resting. His muscles suddenly flexed as I assume he was probably just trying to see the paper on the counter better.

I don’t know what he was saying, but his lips were irresistible. They were big and luscious like those marshmallow peeps they sell at Easter, without the sprinkles of course. And that jaw. Oh, heaven help me.

I was suddenly jolted back to the present when he turned towards me and those piercing eyes seared straight into my soul. My gosh, he’s even more attractive from the front.

“Hola, hermosa,” he said to me, and winked.

I don’t know what hermosa means, but it was the most heart-melting compliment I’ve ever received.

I smiled like a fool and being the genius that I am, I responded with a, “hey” and a little wave.

“Melissa, did you need something?” It was Gina.

“Oh, uh, no.” No? No, I have to need something. I can’t just be standing here for no reason. “I mean yes! Yes, I just wanted to let you know that uh, that the elliptical machine over there is um, well it’s a little squeaky.” Wow. Smooth.

“Okay thanks hon, we’ll take a look at it.” Right. I think that was my cue to leave. For a second, I panicked. I forgot how to move my feet! No wait, I got it. I floated out the door to my car, and then realized I had been bit by tragedy. I forgot my keys on the shelf. And my bag. And my water bottle.

Shoot.

It was too late. I couldn’t go back in there. I would die of embarrassment. Then I was flooded with a burst of inspiration. The spare key. I knelt in front of my car and began clambering around for the key under the front license plate. It was harder to find than I expected. I could feel the dirt and grime managing its way under my fingernails and tried to avoid it rubbing on my sweaty forearms as I reached higher and higher under the car.

“Would this help you, perhaps?” I jumped. His voice was like velvet and candy canes. He dangled my keys in front of me with an apologetic smile. My Seaworld dolphin keychain laughed at me, and I wanted to cry.

“Oh! Uh, right. Thanks,” I said, snatching my keys.

I clambered off the dirty parking lot, brushed off my knees, looked him straight in the eye, and then jumped in my Hyundai and sped off. I know! I know. I’m such a loser, and a wimp, and a little girl.

But I’ve been thinking a lot about it, (Ben and Jerry helped me out on this one, a lot) and I’ve decided (one carton of Cherry Garcia later) I’m going to suck it up and go to his Zumba class. I have to. If I don’t, it’s like I’ve given up. I’ve been defeated, and I have not been defeated, dang it.

I woke up extra early Tuesday morning. I had a banana and ¾ of a cup of honey roasted oatmeal. I needed my protein so I could showcase my best performance. I was thinking Wheaties probably should have been my first choice, but everyone knows that’s all a mental thing anyway. Besides, that stuff has way to much sugar, and I couldn’t crash in the middle of Zumba. I pulled on my aqua tank top with sweat-wicking technology. It would make me stand out for sure.

I got to the gym at 7:45—same time I always do. “Good morning, Gina!” I sang as I swiped my card. Gina mumbled something back through her NutriGrain bar and waved.

I walked over to my usual cubby where somebody had so kindly placed my abandoned gym bag and water bottle, and then I made my way over to the dance studio. As I neared the room I could hear the Latin music pulsing through the hallway. My anticipation grew and I had to pause outside the door. Remember, breathe. I pushed the door open, plastered on my best smile, and glided inside. A few people were already standing around the edges stretching out. I nodded at them and then took my spot in the middle of the floor where the second row would be. I couldn’t be too obvious.

Armando looked up from the sound system where he was selecting music on his iPod. He raised an eyebrow and flashed me that stunning smile. Oh my gosh, he likes me! He so did. I gave him a little wave as I lifted my arm over my head in a shoulder stretch. A few others began filing into the room, and I could tell they were surprised to find a hot Latin guy instead of Jenny. The competition was going to be tough, but I wasn’t worried.

The electronic clock finally flipped to 8:00 and it was time to start. Armando took his place at the front of the room. “Bienvenidos,” he said, as he clipped the microphone to his ear, “Welcome to my Zumba class. My name is Armando, and I will be your instructor.” Oh, that accent. “Are you ready to dance?” The class responded with an overenthusiastic “Si!” and with that, he whipped around toward the mirror and began the basic bachata step as he scooped his arms out and above his head, and then slowly brought them back down.

“Alright ladies,” he said once the warm-up song ended, “it’s about to get hot in here.” That’s when Enrique Iglesias’ enchanting voice blared through the speakers. Armando got us started into some hip shaking (and by the way, that man knows how to shake it) when he started singing, “Baby I like it. Come on ladies, sing with me.” Not only was he totally hot, and a dancer, but he could sing too? I really must be dreaming.

I made sure to smile the biggest, lunge the lowest, turn the fastest, and shimmy the hardest. The other girls tried, but it was a simple fact. I was his best student. There was no way he could miss me. I noticed he had an interesting style of teaching though. Jenny used to turn around to watch us and give us a few pointers. Then she would walk around and give us some encouragement when we’d get tired. Armando, on the other hand, spent most of his time looking at himself. I’m sure it was just to make sure he had proper form so he wouldn’t teach us incorrectly though. That’s actually really kind of him to be looking out for us like that, although it did make it difficult for me to catch his attention.

As the class went on though, I was getting a little frustrated. Even during the Shakira song, he focused his attention on his own biceps. At first I thought maybe it was because he was ensuring the routines were properly working certain muscles, but it started to get a little excessive. I dismissed it for the most part, but at the end of the song, he quickly whipped around in a complete turn, faced himself in the mirror, and winked.

Oh. My. Gosh. The man is in love with himself.

I couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t even glanced at another person the entire time. Thankfully it was the last song, so after a little cool down time, I picked up my water bottle and walked over to him to thank him for the class. It’s something I always do. This was my last shred of hope, my one last chance to see if he was actually the egotistical crazy I feared he was.

“Armando,” I said, “thank you for the class today.”

He whipped around, “What? Oh, gracias,” he said, turning back to face the mirror. He folded his arms across his chest, allowing his bulging biceps to flex as he watched himself at an angle, “You like it?” I think he was still referring to the class, but either way, I could hardly contain my disgust. I sighed loudly, and walked out. I’m not sure Armando even noticed.

I brushed past my cubby, grabbed my gym bag and keys and stormed out to my car. My ponytail swung side to side and my hands clenched to fists around the bag strap. My jaw tightened and I didn’t even see who was at the front desk to wish them a good day.

I was done. So done with it all. How could I have been so dense? Forget the spandex, forget the protein shakes, forget the nice abs, forget it all! I was never going back to the gym. So what if I’ve been defeated? I never liked that place anyway. It was stupid, smelly and full of sweaty old men who I wanted nothing to do with. Maybe single was just my destiny after all.

I slammed the car door, plopped myself on the seat, blasted some Beyonce, and sped out of the parking lot to do what I do best. Eat.

I was done being desperate. For once in my life, I didn’t care what anyone else thought. I drove to the Metropolitan Grill (the nicest restaurant in town) put on my best “don’t mess” face, and asked for a table for one. The nicely-dressed hostess looked at my gym clothes a little warily and took me to a high table by the window overlooking the bay. I didn’t even look at the menu. I knew what I wanted.

“I’ll take your triple chocolate ice cream sundae with caramel and chocolate morsels please—the biggest one you offer.” So what if it would take half my paycheck to pay for it. I was having a renaissance, an awakening.

I have to give the waitress props for how well she kept a straight face. For heaven’s sakes, the place barely opened for the day and already she had a sweaty, spandex-clad girl asking for a three-person serving of ice cream.

When the waitress brought it out a few minutes later, I didn’t even think twice. I lifted that spoon and practically inhaled the gooey slop of heaven. I didn’t think about anything, actually. I just sat and ate and let myself be carried to a land far away. It was so creamy, so fattening, and so perfect.

I was suddenly jostled back to the restaurant when a man came up behind me, “So it’s good, huh?” I turned around to see a brown-haired guy in his late-twenties with square-ish glasses and a nice button-down shirt.

“Wha?” I really should have swallowed before answering.

“The ice cream,” he said, pointing to my soupy bowl. I looked down and was suddenly shocked and ashamed at how empty it was, “I’ve been eying that sundae on the menu every time I come, but I’ve never felt brave enough to get it. I guess it’s good though, huh?”

And then I actually looked at him. He was average height, average build, and yet I couldn't take my eyes off of him. “I’m Josh, by the way,” he said. He stuck out his hand, and when I took it, my heart—like the ice cream—melted.