Day 2

I slept a little late and finally rolled out of bed at six fifteen.  I showered and brushed my teeth and carefully applied my makeup.  My pimple had gone down slightly, so I covered it with concealer.

I looked at my hanging wall clock when I entered my living room.  It was seven o’clock, and Chuck still hadn’t called to let me know that he was on his way over.

I picked up my phone and dialed his number.  It rang three times and went to voicemail.

I left him a message that was short but sweet.  “Chucky Bear, its Sammy.  I thought we were going to have breakfast this morning.  I hope that you haven’t overslept; you need to be at work in an hour.  Give me a call as soon as you get this message.  Love you!”  I sounded perky and hopeful, definitely not badgering.

I hit the end button and set the phone carefully on my end table.

I busied myself making coffee and checking the job boards.  There were still no responses to my resume, but I wasn’t too worried.  The economy was down, and there were a lot of applicants to search through.  They would get to me, and my phone would be ringing off the hook.

An hour later, Chuck still hadn’t called me back, so I sent him a quick text message.

“Just checking if you got my message.  Call me.”

I sat and stared at my phone, twiddling my thumbs for five minutes.  He didn’t call.

I got up and refilled my coffee cup for the third time that morning.

I drank my coffee and stared at my phone some more.  Was he just playing hard to get?  What could I have done to make him treat me this way?  What could I have done differently?  Had my a*s really gotten that fat?

I thunked my coffee cup down on the desk and stood with resolution.  I was going to the gym and would work off my fat a*s.  Then, maybe Chuck would return my calls.

I smiled as I scrubbed the makeup from my face and changed into some old gray sweats.

 

When I got to the gym, the receptionist looked at my membership id with a sneer.  “This is out of date,” she said, handing it back to me.

“It can’t be too out of date,” I said to the blond with impossibly high cheek bones.  “I was just here a couple of months ago.”  I looked at the date on the card, and sure enough, it had expired three months earlier.  The last time I had been there was a week before Christmas to fend off some of the holiday pounds.  It was now June.

“You’re going to have to pay the full price to renew it,” the blond receptionist said pointing at a colorful chart listing prices.  “We have these packages which include two classes a week; these here include a free massage; and this one is our deluxe package that includes both and a personal trainer.”

I visualized Chuck’s face as I “accidentally” walk into a restaurant that he happens to be in.  I am wearing a short, red dress with a deep v neck and a pair of heals so high that I am standing on my tip toes.  For some reason, I am also wearing a broad brimmed hat to match the dress; I look like something out of the soap opera “Dynasty.”  I might also need a b**b job or at least a good push-up bra.

Chuck would look up and notice me, and his jaw would drop, not from the shock of seeing such a ridiculous hat on my head, but because I look so damned hot.  My hair would billow behind me in a soft breeze, and…

“Ma’am?” interrupted the blond impatiently.  “Which package would you like?”

I pulled out my wallet and handed her my credit card.  “Give me the big package.”  I might as well get the massage to follow up my intense workout with my personal trainer.  I imagined my masseur, Sven, a muscular, blond, Scandinavian god, massaging the knots out of my shoulders and slowly working his way down my back.

The receptionist turned to a computer, punched in some info, swiped my card through a machine, and a minute later she was back.  “Ma’am, your card doesn’t work.  Do you have a different way to pay?”

I did some quick math in my head and realized that I only had about $200 in my account until my final paycheck went through.

“Just give me the basic package for a month,” I said grudgingly.  The basic package wouldn’t include the classes, massages, or the personal trainer, but it was only $25.

The blond ran my card again, and this time it went through.  She placed a sticker over the expiration date on my card, and I was free to wander the facility and get the beautifully tight body that I deserved.

Twenty minutes later, I was dying on the treadmill.  My hair was plastered to the back of my neck, and sweat was dripping into my cleavage.

I stopped and walked over to a water fountain, dragging my feet along the floor.  Why did I remember this being a lot easier?

I took a long drink from the fountain, and when I stood up, there was another woman waiting in line behind me.

“Save some for the rest of us,” she said with a smile.

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t hydrate enough before I started,” I said, backing away from the fountain.

“Been a while since you last worked out?” she asked, stepping up to the fountain.

“Just a couple of months,” I stretched the truth a little.

She stood and dabbed the little droplets of water off her color-stay pink painted lips.  “I’m Kristine,” she said, offering her hand to shake.

I wiped my palm on the side of my pants to remove most of the sweat and shook her hand.  “Samantha, but you can call me Sam.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sam.”  Her grip was firm, unlike some of the creampuff girls I had met in the past.  “So what do you do, Sam?”

“Currently?” I asked as if to clarify the question.  “I am between jobs.”

“Oh!” Kristine exclaimed with surprise.  “I am sorry.  How long have you been out of work?”

“Only a day and a half,” I replied.  “I am following up on several promising leads.”  I stretched the truth again, but it really wasn’t stretching the truth because I fully anticipated promising leads to start streaming into my email box at any moment.  At which point, I would follow-up.  Then, I would have my perfect job.  See?  Perfect logic.

“Well, if you think you might need someone to talk to,” she said reaching into a drawstring workout bag, “or if you want to make some extra money, give me a call.”  She handed me a little white business card with royal blue lettering.

I looked it over with surprise.  Kristine Jensen, Camelot Cosmetics.

“I’ve been there, and Camelot helped give me the tools to help get me out.  Also, here’s a sample of something to help with that pimple.”  She handed me a little foil packet with the Camelot logo printed on it.  “I’ve got to get to my Pilates class, but seriously, give me a call.”

“I will,” I said stretching the truth again.

With a wave, Kristine was gone, disappearing into a room where presumably, women learned to contort themselves into pretzels.

I did another half mile on the treadmill.  Surely that was enough to lose five or six pounds?  The leaden feeling in my feet indicated I had done more than enough for the day.  Then, I packed up and went home.

That evening, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror analyzing my body.  My arms looked round and had a bit of sag, and my stomach had a bit of a pouch that the Whopper I had eaten for dinner certainly didn’t help.

I opened the foil wrapper Kristine had given me and slathered some of the flowery smelling white cream on and around my pimple.

I did some quick stretches, almost touching my toes, and then, I was off to bed with another of my books that had been sitting unread on my shelf.