Page 44 of Resistance Training
She removes her hand from my pec and says, “Can you remove this glove for me?”
I remove the mitts, hold them under one arm again, and pull off her glove.
“Thank you. I’ll take those if you want.” She reaches for the mitts.
“Thanks. Good work.”
“Thank you. It was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.”
I put on a playlist, and the first song is “Keep Driving” by Harry Styles.
“Aww, my boy!”
“Can’t believe you still like his stuff.” We used to argue about this all the time.
She grins. “I mean, you have to admit his songs are incredibly catchy.”
“They’re literally just lists of things that he likes. Or lists of feelings. Or lists of things he does.”
“Yeah. And?” she says, likewhat’s the problem?
“And if that’s songwriting then anyone can write songs. ‘Hey, what’s going on today, Mitch?’” I start singing a list of things like a skinny pop star while she rehydrates. “Vanillaaaa protein smoothie, black coffee too… Hiking, hydrate, egg whites, recoveryyy day…” She frowns at me and it’s glorious, so I just keep singing. “Epsom salt bath and a podcast too, rehydrate more and then take a nap, infrared sauna and then meal prep, rehydrate some more and then do yoga.”
“I’m just going to remind you of what you once said when I spoofed the Red Hot Chili Peppers album you were obsessed with one summer: Effective parody depends on the distinct characteristics and familiarity of an artist’s work.”
“Yeah, but the Chili Peppers are cool.” This is just friendly banter. No different from what goes on between Larry and me. “Get on your hands and knees.”
“Oooh, yes, chef!” She lowers herself to the mat, sitting on her knees. “Question. Did you tell Gwen about our high school situation? I don’t want to be dramatic, but she’s literally the only person in the entire world who hasn’t liked me as soon as they met me.”
“I haven’t told anyone about our high school situation. She doesn’tnotlike anyone. She just doesn’t care if anyone likes her or not.”
“Wow.” She covers her heart, dramatically. “That’s a thing?”
She knows it’s a thing. It used to be Vivian’s thing before she started wanting douchebags to like her right before we graduated. But I don’t bring that up, because I’m on the clock, in the here and now. I’m a pro. “I said get on your hands and knees.”
She does, and I like it, and we do half an hour of lower-body workouts that have her alternately complaining and trying to hide her fatigue. “What’s the deal with the demographic of the members here?” she asks while doing goblet squats. “And before you answer, just know that I am very supportive of it. If I’d known so many senior citizens work out in gyms I probably would have started going to gyms a long time ago.”
“I got my Senior Fitness certification last year,” I explain. “The plan is to open up a separate location that’s exclusively for seniors. Eventually develop it into a franchise. Larry wants to invest.”
“Wow. I love that—I really do. And that’s so smart because it’s a growing market.”
“I know.”
“That is so impressive, Coach.”
“Don’t call me Coach.”
“Okay, my sweet, scared little Scorpio baby.”
I frown at her and bring her a heavier dumbbell because it shouldn’t be this easy for her to have a conversation.
When we’re done with the monster-walk squats, I say, “Good. Cool down. Get back on the mat.”
She does, dropping to the floor dramatically, spreads her legs apart, groaning as she reaches for her right foot, then her left foot, then she reaches out in front of herself, looking up at me innocently.
It’s a fine sight to behold, but that’s not what I had in mind.
I stroll over, get down on my knees in front of her and say, “Lie back.”
