Do you use supplements?

Over the weekend my roommate and I decided it would be a good idea to join 24 Hour Fitness, which is like the Mecca of workout facilities. It’s not like joining a community center, which I did at the beginning of the year. Oh, no. It's very different.

You see, the community center is a very non-threatening kind of environment. Community centers are mostly frequented by old people, families, and middle-aged men and women. That’s not to say a few young people won’t sneak in here and there, but for the most part, you aren’t surrounded by a bunch of protein shake guzzling meat-heads who think they are the next Mr. Universe or Vin Diesel. The people who check you in and hand you your towel look like your grandparents or the school librarian. Most of the folks working out there are fully clothed in t-shirts and sweat pants and aren’t wearing a speck of make-up or bronzer. It’s about getting in, working up a bit of a sweat, and getting out.

I walked into my new gym today after work and sheepishly approached the front desk. The lady standing behind the counter did not look like either of my grandparents, but looked more like Christy Brinkley. The young beefcake standing next to the Christy clone was pretty confused by the information I gave him. Although I understand that the statement, “I just got a membership on your website yesterday and this is my first time in,” is a very confusing sentence. Especially when the only thing feeding your brain is Muscle Milk.

Luckily, Christy Brinkley’s long lost twin stepped in and got me checked in. She then explained that I get a free training session to get me started, and she summoned one of the resident beefcakes to get me penciled in for my first session. As I waited for my beefcake trainer to arrive, a group of other beefcakes milled around a few feet behind the front desk. I thought for a moment that maybe their job was to just stand at the front of the facility and look buff and hot. They were all, as Zoolander would say, ridiculously good-looking. I started to feel frumpy standing there and began to question my choice of jeans and a t-shirt.

Luckily, my trainer arrived within moments. He was also ridiculously good-looking. I wondered to myself if they have any ugly people working there. I think my trainer’s name was Richard, or maybe it was Derrick. Any way, what’s-his-name was buff, brown, and beautiful, and was walking with a limp. He informed me that he hurt his knee in a game of basketball. I made a quip that maybe I didn’t want him as my trainer if he’s all gimpy. He then threw in a comment that his wife wasn’t too happy with him that he threw his knee out. I really hate it when men do that. Within thirty seconds to a minute of meeting you, they throw a “my wife” or “my girlfriend” into the conversation just to let you know that they aren’t available. They do this because they assume everyone wants to date them. Get over yourself Richard/Derrick. He scheduled our session for Thursday and we shook on it. He bid me goodbye, and I realized he must have forgotten that Christy told him to show me around the facility. I didn’t feel like wandering around like a lost idiot, so I just left.

Halfway down the front steps some guy in a polo shirt and slacks comes trotting out the front door after me. I think I met him earlier, before my beefcake trainer showed up. “Did you want to work out today?” he asked. “Uh, I guess,” I murmured. “Well let’s get you back in here,” he beamed, “and I can show you around and get you started on some cardio!” Great. He shook my hand for like the third time and introduced himself as the district manager. He's not much taller than me, but I'm sure you can guess that he was . . . buff and beautiful! That's right! I always imagine district managers to be old and usually a bit paunchy. Well, they usually are. But not a fitness center district manager! I realized at that point that Richard/Derrick would probably get chewed out later for letting me leave the facility without getting my workout on because that's what district managers do. They chew people out.

District manager guy, whom I lovingly named, Mr. Shaky, showed me to the women’s locker room and then showed me around the gym. We pass a few girls in the weight room who are completely done up with hair, make-up, and super cute workout outfits. I figured that if you sewed together all the material from their workout clothes you'd probably have enough material for a hand-towel. I started to wonder if this was a workout facility for supermodels and also wonder who let that old guy and that fat chick in over there. Mr. Shaky yammered on about all the machines, blah, blah, blah. He shook my hand about two more times before he let me be at some cardio machine. At that point, I'd been sucking in my stomach since I left the locker room and my abs were starting to burn. I did't want anyone there to know I was a little out of shape, God forbid.

After about 40ish minutes of cardio I called it a day. All the other people on their machines were probably thinking I was a big wussy since I could only do 40 minutes of cardio. I didn’t even lift any heavy weights or grunt while pulling and tugging on one of those crazy contraptions downstairs. I figured 40 minutes was enough time that Mr. Shaky wouldn't chase me out the front door again.

After grabbing my bag from the locker room, I headed for the front door. I tried to sprint out before Mr. Shaky saw me, but he spotted me and hollered a goodbye. Luckily he was too far away for another handshake, but he did remember my name as he hollered at me to have a good evening. I’ll give him five bonus points for that. Which brings him up to -7.

Sitting in my car all sweaty, I decided I need to get some looser workout shirts. If I keep having to suck my stomach in like this for 40 minutes at a time while working out, I might give myself a hernia. I also wondered if quitting the community center was such a great idea. Oh, well. Too late now!

I hate that this song reminds me of you.

I still think about you. I wish that I didn’t. It only makes me sad and angry. No one I’ve ever met has treated me worse than you did. And I still struggle to understand why. I struggle to understand what it was I did, other than love you in spite of yourself and your circumstances, to merit the pain you inflicted on me.

I still remember the first time I saw you when I was 16 years old, almost eleven years ago. If I’d only known then how much pain you would cause me, how many tears I would shed over you, and for how long our doomed relationship would rule my thoughts, dreams, and nightmares, I might have run the other direction.

It’s not like you hurt me physically, although I think sometimes it would be easier to forgive you for such behavior, as most of the time it’s easier to explain. What you did to me runs much deeper. You hurt me in areas that I didn’t know could hurt. You broke parts of my heart that I didn’t know could be broken. You can credit yourself with bringing me to the lowest point I have ever been at in my entire life. The point at which I felt utterly hopeless, completely worthless, and like I’d never be happy again. There were parts of me that I thought could never be healed. Parts that would always be broken. I remember thinking that I would never find a man who would love me more than he loved himself.

A little over a year ago, I lay in your arms crying. You were passed out from drinking too much. I placed my hand over your rapidly beating heart and, sobbing quietly to myself, begged God in prayer to save your tortured, dysfunctional soul. I asked for a miracle in your life and in mine. I cried out for help. Thank God for delivering me from you a few months later.

I am lucky to serve a God that never gave up on me. He never left me. And he is restoring and healing me in ways that no one else in heaven or on earth can. When all else fails and everyone else fails me, he does not. He is faithful.

I know that’s something you can’t understand. Being faithful.

I can only thank your brother for revealing to me what I had suspected all along; that you were a liar. You’d lied about almost everything. You were dating and/or sleeping with at least two other women, your home was nearing foreclosure, you had no job, and no real plan to find one, you were relying on your friends to pay your bills, and no, you didn’t really have brain cancer. That was the lie that made me feel most foolish. Who lies about having a terminal disease? And why?

I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve shed for you. Tears of anger, longing, sadness, and self-loathing. Tears of frustration, helplessness, loneliness and pity. Tears of grief, mourning, and rejection. I’ll bet you never knew there were so many different kinds of tears. It’s unfortunate that I can’t remember any tears of happiness shed for you.

Sometimes I think you might suffer from multiple personality disorder. I do remember a kind, funny, gentle man that surfaced on a few occasions. Maybe that man is the man you wish you could be all the time. Or maybe he was a lie too.

I don’t know why you felt like you had to lie to me. I accepted you as you were, and I told you that. I didn’t care that you’d been divorced twice and had a two-year-old son. I just wanted to be with you. One of the last times I saw you, I told you I wanted to move to Oklahoma to be with you; that I was tired of waiting to be with you. You told me you had to get yourself straightened out and work on some things, and until you did, you wouldn’t be any good to anyone. You said you wanted to be with me, and I told you I would wait. I’m glad I didn’t.

I’ve decided that if I can survive you, I can survive anything. I just pray that you survive yourself. I pray that you won’t be able to hurt anyone else like you hurt me. I pray that you won’t call or text me ever again. And I pray that you will fade into the back of my memory, with only the scars you left on my heart to remind me of how far God has brought me and how I never want to go back there again.