I take an amazingly difficult, fun and exhausting fitness class at the gym called Body Combat. It's my favorite, really.
The moves are great, the energy high and, well, the instructor looks like a model.
He sweats pretty.
Nobody sweats pretty.
Except for John. Sweet Johnny.
I always stand in the same spot, ugly sweating (because I do that) and huffing in the back trying to just keep up. It's a blast. But, honestly by minute 42 of our 60 minute workout, I have given everything I can. Then darling John comes and gets in my face insisting I punch harder.
And I try. I give it my all.
But what I really want to do is tell this instructor all about my life story. I want to explain that I have lost a ton of weight before, I can do this. I want to tell him that my foot is broken and that's why I hold back. I want to say that I am a kind and loving foster parent who wrestled two littles to even get to the gym. I desperately want to share how funny and talented and happy I am- that it is a joy to be in my presence. I do not do that. I just grunt. And work hard. Someday, John will see me in Trader Joe's- no, Whole Foods- and I'll have perfect makeup, a great outfit with even greater shoes and just casually wave at him. And then, my next class will be a breeze. And he'll just it on his exercise mat and be in awe of how far I've come. And then I snap out of it. I'm happily married. And John's gay.