My ponytail reminds me of when I was in my thirties, leading me to recall that Thomas and I have a telenegotiation meeting with our lawyers on the thirtieth. I backtrack to the fridge and write that down on the magnetic whiteboard, where I used to list reminders to John and Andrew about what they needed to pack for after-school activities. I also add “Call colorist.”
I peek in the dog jar and see that I have one cigarette left. If I make it for six minutes rather than five, I promise myself I can have it, because this is the last one I’m having, ever. I think. The washer triple-dings, and I take a moment to separate the sheets that have twisted together and put them in the dryer. No one wants moldy-smelling sheets from sitting damp for too long.
I look down at my watch. It has taken me forty-two minutes to mentally gear up for five. Five minutes,Momonthemoveadvises. All I have to do is run for five minutes.
Finally out the door, I think of my recent four-way stop-sign fiasco and slow my pace, which is almost impossible since I’m only shuffling down the sidewalk. I jog in place, looking right, left, then right again, before crossing the street. If I could ask, I’m pretty sureMomonthemovewould say jogging in place doesn’t count, so I grudgingly subtract my curb break from my trudge to six minutes and my final cigarette.
Seven blocks down, one more to go, and I will have successfully avoided seeing anyone on my street as I plod along the pavement, feet falling heavily, breath growing more and more labored. I touch eachmailbox I pass as evidence that I am actually moving forward, making progress. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older gentleman across the street walking his dog in the same direction I’m going. Mid-block, he passes me by, and when I reach the next crosswalk, he has already turned and disappeared.
Glancing at my watch, I see that I have twenty seconds left. I see a fire hydrant a quarter of the way into the next block. I blow out a big breath, put my head down, and pick up my speed. According toSpeedySteve22, you should try to sprint at the end of your runs. There was no explanation why, and I am questioning his advice as I pump my arms to get my lower body racing. The tight seams of my shirt are causing friction against my upper arms as they swing against my side boobs. No wonder Jock and Jill were almost sold out of Butt’r for Udd’rs.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
I grasp on to the hydrant to steady myself as I wheeze so piercingly I fear the people in the surrounding houses might come out to shoo away stray cats they imagine are mating in their front yard.
From somewhere around me, I hear chatter growing louder. It’s only one voice, and I am too focused on catching my breath to look up and see who may be talking to themselves and if I should step out of their way. If only I could move. I may be mugged for my new sneakers before sunset, and I don’t have the energy to care.
“Callie?” a surprised voice inquires.
Still heaving, I look up and catch the best-looking calves I have ever seen attached to lean, defined quads. I have seen legs like that before, but not since waiting on my college boyfriend to finish up the occasional football practice held at the track.
“Hi again. I’m the guy you almost hit a few weeks back.” Chap waves his brand-new phone in my face to spark my memory. “What are you doing out here?” he asks, reaching his hand out to help peel me off the hydrant. “If you’re trying to catch your breath, leaning over isthe worst thing you can do. You need to stand up straight and walk it off. Here, let me help you.”
Lately, no one’s offered to help me other than my lawyer at the steep price of $575 an hour. I used to get attention from construction workers, pilots, and car mechanics, but in the last decade, any glances, let alone full stops, have, well, stopped. Until Chap.
“Chap?” I put my hands over my eyes to block the sinking sun, making sure I’m seeing correctly since a few drops of sweat are blurring my vision.
“You remember,” he replies, sounding surprised, and his high-wattage smile grows wider.
“I just ran six minutes and”—I check my watch—“twenty-three seconds.” After it comes out of my mouth, I recognize this must sound like the lamest victory in the history of sport.
“That’s what’s up! How you feelin’?” Chap squeezes my hand to congratulate me, but also to keep me upright and walking.
“Like shit,” I pant out honestly.But maybe I lost a pound from all the effort?
“Sounds right. But think about it, you just ran more than anybody else at home sitting on the couch. And that’s most people.”
“Thanks for trying to make me feel good.” I let go of Chap’s strong grip and dismiss his words with a wave of my fingers, feeling like a silly woman for completing something that takes about as long as it does for water to boil.
“I’m not trying to make you feel good; you should be doing that all on your own.” I give an appreciative half smile at what I can only assume are Chap’s practiced words meant to motivate a bunch of high school boys who’d rather be at home lazily scrolling through their phones. Like me.
“I bet you make a great coach,” I respond, desperate to take the attention off me but proving to Chap I remember he coaches young runners.
“About that, I wouldn’t know. My uncle’s my boss, and he’s pretty tight with the compliments.” Exactly what the world needs: another grown man with limited emotional intelligence. “I’m headed over to meet my running club in McKinley Park. I was getting a few miles in first. You wanna come with me?”
“Where?” I ask, confused.
“To meet up with my running club.”
What little moisture I have left in my mouth spits out a burst of laughter.
“What’s so funny? We’re always looking for new members. I’m in charge of texting people to make sure they show up, so lucky for me that new phone was delivered quickly.”
“Ah. Well, I’m glad your phone got replaced, and thanks for the invitation,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “But I think being passed by an elderly power walker is enough humiliation for one day.” Though Chap has gifted me with my first congratulations after my one run, my ego would not survive a club where everyone is fast and trim, like him.
“Alright, but if you change your mind, we meet Wednesdays at 6:30 p.m. Lots of people like you are part of the club.” What does he mean,lots of people like you? Female? Old? Oddly shaped? Recently dumped? Shamed by their physician?
“I think I should call it quits for today,” I say, turning around, indicating I’m ready to hobble home.
