Page 92 of Set on You

Jennifer

I spend the entire evening reading these emails. If there’s one common thread among all my past clients, it’s that they were well on their way on their journey to self-acceptance. Sure, they didn’t love themselves every single second of every day. And I reassured them that was okay. That as long as there was more love than loathing, they were on the right track.

Maybe I was onto something.

chapter thirty-two

MY WAKE-UP CALLcomesthe next day when the UPS man delivers my new sponsored athletic wear. The repulsion in his eyes at the sight of my pale, cadaver-like face and stained pajamas as he asks for a signature is a gut punch. So much so that I feel compelled to fake cough and give the unsolicited explanation that I’m the victim of a mysterious, possibly deadly plague.I’m not suffering from a severe case of self-loathing! I swear! Don’t judge me. OkaythanksBYE.

If there’s any hope of going back to normal, I have to start somewhere. I need to return to the gym—the place that used to be my sanctuary from all things bad, ugly, and stressful. Not only for the sake of my business and livelihood, but for myself. For my soul.

The moment I step through the turnstiles and inhale that familiar scent of sweat, disinfectant spray, grit, and determination, the anxiety of leaving my apartment begins to dissipate. There aren’t a ton of people here, given that it’s midafternoon. I take aquick glance around, recognizing a couple faces. The Walkman guy with the goatee. The bodybuilder woman clenching her rock-hard butt in the mirror. Thankfully, the one person I’m desperately trying to avoid is nowhere to be seen.

When I’m face-to-face with my favorite squat rack by the window, the guilt floods in. That’s the thing with strength training: breaks delay progress, regardless of muscle memory.

By my second set, I’m crimson-faced, frustrated, and on the verge of tears. I feel the strain. The immediate soreness and Jell-O sensation in my legs from days of inactivity.

I’m glistening with sweat, contemplating giving up and retreating to the sanctuary of my bed, when a woman I don’t recognize approaches. She’s middle-aged, with tanned skin and gorgeous deep brown eyes. My attention immediately zeroes in on her neon-colored Lizzo concert T-shirt, which readsFeelin’ Good As Hell.

“Great T-shirt,” I tell her.

She smiles, glancing down to stretch it out. “Thank you! Got it at her concert in the winter. The woman can seriously perform. And in heels.”

“Right? I don’t know how you can rock heels for that long without ruining your feet.”

She nods in vigorous agreement, still lingering. “I hate to bother you...”

I draw in a breath, fully expecting her to ask me if I’m the girl from the viral photo.

“I don’t want to sound super creepy, but I was watching you do your squats and I couldn’t help but think, holy shit, that woman is freakin’ amazing. How much are you squatting?”

I stare at her in disbelief, for so long that she must think I’mderanged. After days of agonizing over what strangers think of me, the unsolicited compliment feels foreign. “Uh... thank you,” I stammer.

“I don’t think I can even squat the bar,” she laments as she examines the weight on the bar behind me. “I’m Rhonda, by the way.” She extends her hand in a friendly greeting.

“I’m Crystal.” I return her handshake before nodding to the squat rack. “And when it comes to squatting, it really depends on your body weight. That will determine how much you’re naturally able to push. But it’s like any other muscle training. You have to start off slow. Really slow with squats. Let your body get used to the dynamic movement.”

She rests her body weight on the rack as she nods with interest, so I continue.

“Squatting is a full-body workout. You’re not only working out your legs. You’re fully engaging your core and your butt too.”

“You sound like an expert.”

I’m struck by the realization that I really do know my shit. “Technically, I am. I’m a personal trainer.”

“No wonder you’re lifting so heavy. I’ve been meaning to book a few sessions with a trainer, just to get started on some weight lifting. It’s only my second day today and...” She glances around the Gym Bro Zone like a lost sheep. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.”

I tilt my head sympathetically, recalling the terror and embarrassment of entering the gym for the first time so many years ago.

I scan the space, taking in the sight of the intimidating gym bros grunting to our left. My eye catches the cable machine, where Scott committed Paper Towel Gate. The thought makes my gut ache, but only for a couple seconds before I’m transported back to Rhonda.

“Honestly, those guys look intimidating. But they’re really nice when you get to know them. Always willing to help if you need it,” I reassure her. As much as I rag on their frat-boy ways, they’re always friendly, greeting me whenever they see me.

She doesn’t look convinced, and I don’t really blame her, as a newbie. After rereading my client emails, I want to help someone again. “I have two more sets and I’ll be done. Then I can show you some things, if you want?”

She smiles eagerly, but quickly shakes her head. “It’s okay. I don’t want to take up your time if you’re busy.”

“You aren’t at all. Just give me a couple minutes.”

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