Fitness Challenged (Richmond, VA)

My gym is hosting a contest for people to get "into their best possible shape." Winners are to be chosen in multiple classes, based on age (by decade -- except after 60, when it's just 60+) and gender. I figure that this might be just the nudge I need to lose about 10-15 pounds. I plunk down my $35.00 (U.S.) entry fee before asking all the right questions, such as: What do I have to wear in the "before" picture? Will the before picture actually be displayed in public? Can I wear a mask?

The requirement that I wear a two-piece bathing suit probably increases my chance of winning in my age category, because the gym members of my age fall into two categories: those who are incredibly fit, shaped, and honed and those who really need to lose a lot of weight and increase their muscle tone, strength, and endurance. The women who fall into the first group have nothing to gain or lose by getting involved in this competition and the women who fit into the second group generally refuse to wear two-piece bathing suits.

I, myself, have not worn a bathing suit of one or more pieces for over ten years, although I've carried one with me in my travels, just in case an opportunity to jump out of a door or window directly into a swimming pool or ocean without anyone seeing me should ever present itself.

I tell Ed, the hapless manager of the gym, that I don't have a two-piece and that I am not going to purchase a new wardrobe for my "before" picture, because when I reach my "after" shot, my new clothes will no longer fit.

I don't own anything that exposes my midriff. "Can I tuck a t-shirt into my bra?" I ask the frowning Ed.

"I don't know," he says. "You can probably wear a pair of shorts, though."

"Shorts?" I stare at him incredulously. "I haven't worn shorts in twenty years!"

"You could cut down a pair of workout pants," he suggests with a look of helpless hopefulness.

"This is starting to sound expensive," I say. "Why should I have to ruin a pair of perfectly good pants for one one-shot shot?"

Ed, turning red, changes the subject. "Do you have a personal trainer?" he queries.

Of course, Ed knows that I do not have a personal trainer. One look at me would convince any gym manager worth his salt to fire someone who'd spent two years personally training a person who still maintains as many spare tires and duplicate chins as I do. Had I had a personal trainer for all this time, I would boast a bod that Madonna would die for -- or at least upper arms that don't wave in the breeze.

"No, I don't have a trainer," I reply sweetly. "Are you offering me one at no charge?"

"No," Ed says, looking somewhat alarmed. "A trainer will measure and weigh you.... Would you like Stacey or Tracey?" (Note: Names have been rhymed to protect the innocent.)

I can't quite decide which name I prefer so, in the interest of time and his other managerial duties, Ed directs me to look at the photos of the trainers that are displayed on the wall.
I am still finding it hard to decide whether a perky 20-year-old blonde or a perky 20-year-old brunette will be able to skillfully (translation: tactfully and without snickering) measure and weigh me.

I return to Ed and tell him that he should hire women of a certain age to train, measure, and weigh their cohorts, so we would feel more comfortable. My talented and delightful zumba instructor, who is a few years agier than I and a lot more certain, smiles in agreement, but decides not to place her job in jeopardy by offering any verbal support.

Ed, visibly frustrated, awaits my decision. I go for the brunette, figuring we can bond over our shared hair color and gender.

I am now entered and am scheduled for measurements and weighing-in this Saturday. I'm already geared up; in preparation, I'm going to eat everything and anything I want to before the "before." What have I got to lose?

Rued Awakening: Homeward Bound

I've spent hours packing my one carry-on suitcase and "handbag" (translation: second suitcase). Weeks ago I sent home a skirt and a top with A. I've used up most of my allowable 3-ounce containers of shampoo, lotions, and miscellaneous liquids and creams. I'm leaving a shirt and a tote bag (along with a tip) for the woman who cleans the room. I should have plenty of room.

After all, I haven't purchased too much: four thin paperback books of cartoons by Alex; a straw mask; two smallish primitive paintings; two ex-votos (one tiny, the other notebook-paper size); four small woven cosmetic bags with floral or geometric designs; a six-strand stone bracelet that's already fallen apart; three bottles of the indispensable Tajin, a mixture of salt, chili, and lime that will last me for a year and that I will sprinkle on virtually everything that's destined for my mouth, from soup to nuts to fruit to ice cream; a small bag of habas enchiladas to munch on the plane, in the airport, or at home (should it last that long). Oh, and there's the book of revolutionary poems that I was given for dancing, to the sounds of a live band, in the plaza in front of a subway station. I'm using every bit of available space to squeeze everything in and, if the bags don't burst, everything will fit.

I try to sleep, but what's the point? I've asked the hotel desk clerk to call a cab and to call me at 3:00 a.m. I'm not sure that he'll do either, so I close my eyes at 1:30 and open them every 15 minutes. I'm not ready to go home but I don't want to miss the plane.


At 3:00 the phone rings. I pop out of bed and answer. No answer.


A quick wash-up. I'm as ready as I'll ever be at such an ungodly, unhumanly hour. I try calling the desk four or five times to get help taking my luggage downstairs, as the hotel elevator hasn't been operating for the last week. No answer, no luck, no dice, no help.


I lug and tug everything down four interminably long flights of stairs. The lobby is deserted, except for the clerk and the taxi driver, who were obviously and obliviously snoozing.


The streets are dark, eerie, and uncharacteristically silent. The cabbie delivers me to the airport quickly and easily.


It is 4:20. My flight leaves at 7:30 am. Even the airline folks are still sleeping. It's too early to do anything else.

I figure that I'd better get something to eat now or I'll have to settle for bags of salty peanuts until I arrive home late this afternoon. I lug and tug my baggage and myself up a flight of stairs to have the worst meal I've not enjoyed since I left the US: tiny cubes of salt, seasoned with freeze-dried potatoes; ice-cold fried eggs; and refried, untried beans on what might pass for a tortilla -- if you are a lover of cardboard with an "off" taste.

On the first leg of my journey home, I am leg to leg with a handsome young man who spends the entire flight picking at his face and neck, staring at the slim or thick pickings, and popping them into his mouth. I am nauseous and look forward to upchucking on him. Unfortunately, I don't.

The flight from Atlanta to Richmond is uneventful by comparison.