Page 8 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“Imogen—what are you eating?”
“Nuh-hing.” Her tone, however, screams guilty.
“Imogen.” I pour myself coffee into a Styrofoam cup while checking the time—still ten minutes before my first client.
“A pastry,” she says, swallowing noisily.
“A pastry?” I turn the question into a doubting scold.
“Fine. A donut.”
“Imogen!”
“It’s Saturday! I’m off! Jesse is off! He went and got us donuts and they’re delicious and I’M NOT SORRY.”
I sigh, knowing I can’t push her too hard. “Sugar and bleached flour still go straight to your ass on Saturdays, even when you’re both off.”
“I know, I know.” She groans. “I’ll just do some extra crunches and squats or something.”
“It doesn’t work like that, babe, sorry. You can’t spot-reduce fat, and also, crunches aren’t just useless—they’re bad for your back and neck. Do some in-and-outs, or vee-ups. Squats are good though—you can never do too many squats.”
“Won’t it make my butt bigger if I do too many?”
“Nope. Firmer, rounder, and more toned, but not bigger, exactly. Just…an athletic butt versus a jiggly donuts-and-soda butt.”
“So, the difference between your butt and my butt.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Although I didn’t mean you have a jiggly donuts-and-soda butt, just that—”
“My butt is pretty jiggly,” she interrupted.
“Your ass is perfect,” Jesse’s voice rumbles distantly.
“I know you think so, but it could be tighter and firmer,” Imogen replies.
“Sure, and I’d love that,” I hear Jesse say. “My point is, I’ll enjoy spanking your beautiful ass till it’s pink either way, baby.”
“OKAY,” I cut in, loudly. “On that note I really seriously, truly have to hang up now. Bye, Imogen. No more donuts.”
“Yes, Evil Diet Overlord.”
“It’s not about dieting, it’s about changing your lifestyle,” I say. “And I’m not an evil diet overlord, I just want you to be the best version of you.”
“I thought you had to go?” Imogen says.
“I do, I do. Bye!” I hang up and drink my coffee—it’s hot, and I burn my mouth, but that’s a small price to pay for the caffeine hit which, at the moment, is my lifeblood and my sanity.
Right on the dot, I toss back the last of my coffee and leave the break room, finding my client by the squat rack, loading plates onto the bar in preparation for our workout of the day—which, she correctly assumes, will include heavy barbell back squats because, if anyone needs to squat away a jiggly donuts-and-soda ass, it’s this client. The workout will also include high volume HIIT work: burpees, high knees, band-assisted chin-ups, and mountain climbers. Oh yeah, she’ll hate me by the end of the session, but I figure if my client can breathe without wheezing, and doesn’t hate me at the end of our hour together, I haven’t done my job right.
The hour goes fast, and my client requires my full, undivided attention to keep her motivated to make it through the workout without giving up, especially when we get to the burpees. I’m grateful for this distraction, because it means I’m not thinking about anything or anyone else.
When I get to my own scheduled hour of workout, I go heavy on the upper body and light on the legs because I’m so sore that certain movements would be torture. I refuse to think about anything but my workout, using the movements as a kind of moving meditation, a way of focusing on just my workout, just the push and pull of my breath. The rest of my day goes just as fast, thankfully, since I’m totally booked through five thirty.
After my five thirty client, I’m mentally fried, physically exhausted, and cranky as hell. I also feel crusty and gross because I’ve been wearing the same outfit for two days, which is just icky even though I did take a shower in between. I know, rationally, that I just need to go home and take another shower and put on my PJs and binge-watch Netflix until I fall asleep, but that’s not where I end up.
I end up at Imogen’s house. Because she promised me dinner, and she’s a better cook than I am, and I’m way too done-for to even think of making real food. Plus, if I’m with Imogen, I’m less likely to obsess and overthink myself into a tizzy.
I enter without knocking—she has Debbie Gibson playing so loud you can hear it from the street, and I hear her singing along in the kitchen. I watch from the doorway into the kitchen as my best friend dances like a lunatic, bopping her head and shaking her butt as she chops something on a cutting board. I wait until she’s done chopping to announce my presence, because knowing Imogen, if I were to startle her now there’s a good chance she’ll lop off a finger or something.
She swipes the garlic she minced into a bowl and sets the knife down.
“Imogen!” I shout over the music.
