‘That... man’s a... terror...terrorist,’ Kevin huffs as soon as he gets his breath back, or partially back. It still looks like he is struggling to be honest, as he gasps and flails around on the grass.
Mind you, he’s been doing that for the past hour whilst the rest of us did burpees and lunges and side planks. If he’d been a stranger, I would have loosened his clothing and called an ambulance by now. Instead, Dan and I exchange an affectionate look, knowing he’s fine, just remarkably out of shape.
The whole millennial obsession with fitness seems to have passed Kevin completely by. Resistant to my offerings of healthy green juices, avocado breakfasts and vitamin-enriched smoothies, he thinks I didn’t see the empty box of twinkies (a twelve-pack) in the bin, along with the four Burger King bags and the one Subway delivery, which I know is what he considers the healthy option. Kevin alone is keeping Deliveroo in business. So that, and his fondness for hyperbole, means he is thoroughly enjoying taking this slightly dramatic path, despite all his protestations to the contrary.
‘You probably need to hydrate. Here, sit up and take a sip of this.’ I shimmy over on my bottom to him and feed him water as if he is a dying bird.
‘Thank you,’ he says meekly, managing to find a burst of energy and sit up, sip pathetically and then shoot daggers at Joe, the fitness instructor that runs these bootcamps on The Downs, who has just finished packing up his things and is waving as he heads off.
This morning Kevin begged me to let him join this and bring Dan for moral support. He knows I come to this once a week and he claims he is determined to do something about getting a little trimmer. He even ate a carrot in front of me to prove his commitment before calling me an evil hell-spawn diva with a wholly unnatural relationship to exercise as I passed him a sip of my drink. I did mutter something about transference but he merely spat some kombucha at me and added that gaslightingandpoison are a particularly cruel combination.
However, seeing a photograph taken of him recently at a very unflattering angle – seven chins that I swear do not exist in real life – means that he is newly invigorated with a passion for losing weight. This happens fairly frequently but so far has failed to last. This time he insists that his very soul has been seared with the pain, the shame and the need to change.
He may be shit at push-ups but he is very good with language.
I gently suggested joining my Tuesday night yoga class but Kevin has decided the best way to deal with things is by putting himself up for the brutality and public humiliation of bootcamp.
‘So, you on for next week?’ Dan asks, the glimmer of mischief clear on his face.
Kevin lies back on the grass and starts to mock hyperventilate again, too traumatised to use words.
‘How was your day?’ Dan turns to ask me instead. We are adept at this now. We give Kevin a little attention and reassurance and then we get on with what we’re doing and he can choose to join in or not. He always joins in.
‘Ah, had a client this morning.’
‘Ooh, Flowers guy or the doll woman?’
‘The doll woman,’ I confirm. I maintain confidentiality about my clients, but occasionally I do chat with Kevin and Dan about the absolute basics, no names and no specifics though.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Do you know what, better than I had hoped. We started the preparatory work for EMDR a couple of weeks ago. I think we’re taking some serious steps forward.’ Dan nods, he’s listened to me enough to know what EMDR means. ‘I think if we can get to the bottom of her anxiety then she may be able to function and interact a little better, maybe even have healthy relationships and children of her own one day...’
Dan lets out a long, low ‘whooooo’ and Kevin shoots up into a sitting position, his breathing suddenly normal. He clasps his hand to his chest as he exchanges meaningful looks with Dan.
‘Woah,’ I say, holding my hand up defensively. ‘I know what you’re thinking and don’t even go there. It’s a completely different situation.’ I take a deep breath, ‘As far as I know my client’s anxiety is what is stopping her,hermedical condition doesn’t impact fertility. There’s no physical proof that she can’t have children.’ Kevin’s eyebrows have taken on a life of their own and I clench my teeth before continuing the explanation I really shouldn’t have to give. ‘It’s very different to my situation.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Dan agrees. But I know this man, albeit only for the past year, and his tone is placatory, well-intentioned but not an indicator that he truly believes me. I narrow my eyes.
‘Right!’ I draw myself upwards. Kevin has had my back ever since the first day we met at university all those years ago, and I’m super fond of Dan as well, but on this one issue they have never comprehended the gravity of it. They look at me as if my potential infertility is all in my head and I don’t understand. Why would I make something like this up? I just wouldn’t. I avoid ever speaking of it with them, because when it does come up it always gets super uncomfortable, super-fast.
I know it’s unreasonable to expect your friends to agree with you on everything, but on thisonething, on this I think they should. No one knows your body as well as you do and it hurts that they do that look. The one they are doing right now that makes me want to batter their brains out and spread them all over the downs in some kind of macabre mulching ceremony.
‘You know I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome and the upshot of that is that many women then have problems with fertility. That GP said...’ I say, a little aggressively.
‘That man was an evil arsehole with no understanding of the female reproductive system or the support you needed. He should have been struck off,’ Kevin bites back.
‘Yes, he was pretty bloody mean, and he might not have had any empathy for what he termed “women’s problems” but he did have a medical degree and thirty years’ experience and he said that the chances of me ever getting pregnant were slim to none.’
‘Yes but you can’t just—’
I hold up my hand in the universal stop-right-now signal.
‘Oooh,’ say Kevin and Dan and I kind of give them a half-arsed smile but I’ve heard this time and time again and I am done with it. Done. ‘I can do what I want when it comes to my body. Agreed?’
‘Well yes...’ they chorus, but both sound reluctant and I know there is more they want to say:That was then, you should go and get it checked... You did all the research at the start when you wanted to lose weight, why not apply that dedication to your beliefs about whether you can conceive...And the worst of them all and a favourite of my mother’s –Time is ticking on, you know, why not go and get checked out? Why are you burying your head in the sand?
People build walls for a reason, I get that. But these aren’t just any old walls, this is based on information given by the doctor who diagnosed and treated me; the doctor whose advice, albeit somewhat bad-tempered, has led to all those changes I made from being an obese and unhappy teen to a healthy – well, maybe a little bit obsessive – adult. His advice, harsh as it was, kickstarted me into turning my life around, so why would I dismiss the bits I don’t like when the advice I have acted on so far has proven most effective?
