Page 10 of Resistance Training
It’s a neighborhood fitness center, at the corner of a commercial street in North Portland. It’s not a strip-mall fitness center or one of those places that look like former auto-repair shops where people go to jump on wood boxes and high-five each other. It isn’t exactly a boutique gym either. It looks like a remodeled studio or warehouse. It is the perfect size, as far as I’m concerned.
There’s a reception area at the entrance, with a clean, mid-century-modern vibe. Not mid-century modern in Jeremy’s interpretation of the style, which he had confused with Patrick Bateman’s apartment inAmerican Psycho, which was, in fact, eighties modernist. Butyoutry explaining that to him. This is the welcoming mid-century modern of clean lines, functionality, and natural materials. Instead of being surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows so people feel like they’re on display, there are skylights and beautiful interior lighting. Bright enough to keep you alert but flattering enough to not make you hate your reflection in all the mirrors. There’s even spa water on the reception desk. Cucumber and lemon water. What is this magical place?!
The woman at the reception desk has short blue hair, could be anywhere from thirty to fifty-five years old, and looks like she could lift me up over her head while hiking Mount Hood.
“Hi,” I say to her while she’s still typing something into an iPad. “I am almost exactly on time for my appointment with Mitch. Vivian Sparks?”
She looks up at me and does not smile at all, but not in an unfriendly way. In a badass way that I respect. “Welcome to Good Form.”
“Hi. Thank you so much! This is my first time here. My sister got me a membership? And training sessions. As a gift. Surprise gift! I did not wake up this morning knowing I’d have a training session at a gym today is what I’m saying. Hence the lime green.” I unzip my jacket, to give her a glimpse of my neon tank top.
She continues to not smile at me like a badass, and I really want her to like me. “You have to fill out some forms and take a picture for your membership card, but Mitch doesn’t like it when people show up late for his sessions. I’ll give you this guest pass for tonight, and we’ll do the rest of it next time. Show me your photo ID.”
I show her my driver’s license, even though she didn’t say please. “Funny story about what happened when I was at the DMV?—”
“Mitch is probably in his office waiting for you,” Badass Receptionist tells me without showing any interest at all in my funny DMV story. “Toward the back of the main area.” She gestures to some unseen place beyond the partially frosted sliding glass doors. “You’ll see a sign with his name on the door. He really doesn’t like it when people are late. Have a great session.”
“Traffic was terrible and I couldn’t find parking!”
“He doesn’t like it when people say that.”
“Fantastic—thank you so much…!” I wait for her to tell me her name. She doesn’t, so I take the guest pass from her and hold it up to the scanner by the doors to the main part of the gym.
I only feel a little like I should be accompanied by Storm Troopers as I march toward Darth Vader’s office. This Mitch guy sounds like a peach! I am not going to rush just because he doesn’t like it when people are late. I’m the client. If I don’t like the vibe, Iwillget my sister that refund.
I stroll past a few elliptical machines and treadmills, a few recumbent stationary bicycles, a lot of weight machines, and various large exercise-equipment thingies that I do not know the names of. I do like how it doesn’t smell weird in here. I also like how the music that’s coming from the ceiling speakers isn’t ear-splittingly loud. Off to the side, there are two more rooms with partially frosted glass doors. In one room I see a yoga class in session and a lot of heads with gray hair; in the other it looks like they’re doing some kind of HIIT class that I want no part of.
When I turn my attention toward the back of the main room, spotting a door with a name plate that simply saysMitch,I catch sight of the most gorgeous shirtless male specimen I have ever seen in person. A tall man who’s standing with his back to me. He’s holding a T-shirt in one hand, his fists at his hips, feet planted firmly on the ground as he watches a fit, elderly man bench-press. His brown hair is short in the back, messy on top. He’s not swole by any means; he’s just in such good shape, it’s lovely. Even the back of his neck is in good shape. He looks so fit. As soon as I see him I want to touch him, even from ten feet away. Not necessarily in a sexual way, but in the way that you instinctively want to reach out to touch a marble statue to fully appreciate it.
I feel so drawn to him.
My body is having what I believe they calla full-body yesin response to his body.
I want to high-five him for nailing the whole being-in-good-shape thing.
Also, my uterus seems to be doing a TikTok dance.
And yeah, if there’s a situation in the future where it would be totally appropriate for me to put my hands on his butt and squeeze those firm yet just-rounded-enough ass cheeks, I would rejoice in that opportunity.
Those cheeks have a kind of friendly, inviting, sturdy slope to them. Like they’re calmly sayingHey, girl. Pretty cool glutes, huh?
To which I would reply,Yes, I want to go to there.
I slow my pace even more so I can stare at his backside for a few seconds longer. I don’t get to blatantly objectify men in my daily life, I’m sad to say. He can probably feel the blazing-hot laser focus of my female gaze on the glistening smooth skin of his lower back, just above the waistband of his joggers.
I suddenly realize I should probably take off my jacket—and it has nothing at all to do with an unconscious womanly instinct to display my suddenly hard nipples in a silent mating ritual. I just want that hot guy to turn around and see my boobs while I still have big boobs. Because if that guy goes to this gym, then I will have to return to this gym on a regular basis, and if I work out a lot, I will lose at least one inch of boobage. That’s just science. Science made me take my jacket off so he can see my boobs when he turns around.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been hiding in my house for so long all winter, but I have never wanted so badly for a guy to look at me.
To be seen by one person in particular.
Turn around turn around turn around.
He doesn’t turn around. But I realize he’s staring at my reflection in the mirror along the back wall. Fantastic. He can see my boobs and I can still see his butt. We have the perfect relationship in this moment. Our eyes meet in the reflection. He isn’t doing the intense hot guy–stare thing—his eyes are widened. I see what could be a flash of recognition orappreciation. His face comes into focus and looks familiar in a way that confuses me. Is he famous? Is he a model I’ve seen on Instagram? Should I go up to him and give him my number or get back on the apps and just hope to find him on there? I don’t like being this confused. I want to go home.
Suddenly, he frowns and looks away.
Which is probably a good thing.
