Every Thursday after work, Lia and I had a fitness date. We started planning them a few months back, after one particularly gluttonous all-you-can-eat happy hour experience at El Cantinero. The two of us drooped over our supersized margaritas, struggling to digest the countless flautas and enchiladas we’d inhaled.
“I feel unhealthy,” she said. “Like I’ve got refried beans and tequila pumping through my veins.”
“In a way, you do.”
She groaned. “I need to start working out.”
“Me, too,” I said, cramming another salsa-laden chip in my face.
“Hey, wait.” She straightened, brightening. “I just remembered I have this Groupon for a kickboxing class.”
“Why do you have that?”
“I think I bought it after the last time we came here and stuffed ourselves.” She pulled out her phone and started swiping. “It looks like they’ve still got some available. Wanna get one and go with me? They’ve got a class open this Thursday after work.”
“Sure. Sounds fun.”
And it was fun. It was also grueling and excruciating. I left with bruises all over my body. The next morning, each step I took was torture.
By the weekend, I started feeling better. Stronger. Healthier. But on my meager budget, paying full price for these classes was out of the question. That’s when we decided to scour Groupon for fitness deals, switching up our workout routines based on whatever was cheap. We committed to Thursday nights, and hadn’t missed a single week since.
Tonight’s class was in Union Square at a rowing studio, which was essentially a small room packed from wall to wall with rowing machines. When I walked through the door, Lia was already there, decked out in mesh-panel leggings and a sports bra. She’d plopped her purse onto the machine beside her.
“Saved this for you,” she said.
“Thanks.” I carefully lowered myself into the sliding seat and looked around. “What do you think a rowing class will be like?”
“I watched a YouTube video last night. It seems pretty intense.”
“Ugh.” I moaned, not because of the intensity of the upcoming workout, but because the mention of YouTube sent me spiraling into a vivid flashback: cartoon penises. Auto-tune. #DickInTheDark.
Lia knew exactly what I was thinking. She squeezed my forearm and gave me a sad smile. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s really not that bad. Nobody knows it’s me in that video, besides you guys.”
“I’d love to find out who started the whole meme thing. These people are losers with too much time on their hands.”
“In their defense, some of them do have good Photoshop skills.”
Our conversation was cut off by three sharp claps. A woman with massive traps and a velociraptor tattooed on her bulging thigh stalked into the room, yelling, “Are we ready to go, people, or are we ready to go?”
The question was hypothetical, obviously, because thirty seconds later, the small space resounded with the zip and whoosh of a dozen rowing machines in motion. Five minutes in, I was short of breath; ten minutes in, I could no longer feel my feet.
Whenever I got to this point in a strenuous workout, panting and snuffling like a dehydrated dog, I’d usually start half-assing it. Go a little slower, ease up on the weight. Stop pushing myself so hard. Give myself a chance to catch my breath.
Today was different. Today, rather than giving up, I conjured images of reasons why giving up wasn’t an option. Reasons I needed to grow stronger, to build stamina, to show the world I was not to be fucked with.
Each yank on those handlebars had a meaning.
Yank. I was going to make it someday, on my own.
Yank. These Hatchlings would be sorry they ever crossed me.
Yank. The same goes for that subway perv and the jerks who turned it into a giant internet joke.
Before I knew it, we were in our final sprint. Our instructor screeched at us, “Go as fast you can! Give it your all!” I yanked and pulled and heaved, sweat pouring off my forehead and splattering onto the parquet floor.
These men will not break me.
A buzzer rang out, sudden and terrifying.
“That’s it, everyone! Good work!” She clapped again, then added, “Make sure you get your stretches in,” before disappearing behind a door marked Employees Only.
My whole body throbbed. I leaned forward, head in hands, willing my heart rate to return to normal. All my worry and anger were gone, replaced by fire, passion, and, inexplicably, burning sexual desire. I pictured Alex, his sliver of stomach, the tuft of hair on his chest beneath his shirt, my hands exploring—
“That was weird, wasn’t it?” Lia said, busting apart my fantasy. “Good, but weird.”
I sat up and huffed out a breath. “Yeah. Weird.”
“What are you smiling about?”
“Huh?”
“You’re grinning like an idiot.”
“Am I?” My hand flew to my face, patting my cheeks, my lips. Yup, that was a smile. “I guess I’m just feeling good.”
“Good! If this place ever does another Groupon, we’ll have to get in on it.”
We gathered our belongings and walked down the stairs to the street. Out on Fifth Avenue, we exchanged sweaty hugs.
“Are you headed to Jay’s now?” I asked.
“Nah, he’s working late.”
“What does he do again?”
“He’s in finance.”
“Doing what?”
She gave me a funny look. “Honestly, I don’t even know. He’s explained it a few times, but I always zone out when he talks about it. Something to do with trading. All I know is it’s boring as hell.”
We laughed, then she added, “Actually, you can ask him yourself on Saturday night.”
“Is he coming to the party?”
“Yup. We’ve been together almost three months now. I told him it’s way past time for him to meet my best friends.”
“Awesome. I can’t wait.” I looked down at my feet, hesitant to say the next words. As if admitting it might jinx me. “I’m bringing someone, too.”
“Who?” Her eyes bulged, fingers wiggling in excitement. “Did you meet someone?”
“Yeah.”
“On Fluttr?”
“No, at work. His name’s Alex. He’s a Hatchling. Super nice and funny.” And hot.