Support Staff-Marcia

People around me are leaving. The tennis director at the club where I am an ardent player, the teacher I work for, our dear neighbors (their first son is James' best friend), and now my fitness trainer.

Yes, I have a personal trainer. It happened by accident.

Last summer right around this time, I was asked to partner with one of the most skilled and humble tennis players at our club. This was like being asked to go to the prom with the Homecoming King and you are the chubby Queen of the Chess Club: The one whose dress always rides up in the back. I could not believe my good fortune.

Then the dread set in.

What if he hates me? What if I'm too loud on the court? What if I miss a shot and he thinks, in his head (because that's where most of Dennis' conversations take place), "God, how did I get saddled with this heifer!"

Two days later I was at Oz Fitness. Sign me up! Get me in shape and step on it!!!!!!

While the ink was drying on my contract, the 23 year-old saleswoman tottered off on her high heels to find me a trainer.

"I don't want a trainer," I called after her, noticing, considering her "product", that her pinstripe trousers were a little tight in the tush.

"Don't worry, it's free!" she blithely looked around, made a decision, then dragged me over to someone named Chris.

I didn't pay too much attention to Chris and he didn't pay too much attention to me. His eyes were fixed somewhere over my left shoulder, he was chewing gum, jiggling his leg, and talking so fast I had to keep my eyes planted on his mouth to catch the words as they fired past.

His face was impossible to read. I thought he's probably wishing I were a player on the Panther's basketball team or, better, a Panther cheerleader. It didn't matter, whatever his spiel, I couldn't afford him. Still we soldiered on.

I remember being plopped on the scale out on the gym floor (!) and then lead into the trainers' den of torture . . . the Let's-Get-Real room full of tape measures and calipers. My post-baby belly hadn't seen the light of day in nine years. Now I was raising my shirt amidst the general hubbub, flourescent lighting, and file cabinetry for a tot and his calipers. He was swift and quiet.

Then he gave me the news. I was 60 pounds human, 130 pounds whale blubber.

After that, the cunning poker-faced devil took out his calculator and figured out how long it would take me to get as ripped as Serena Williams. He broke the calculator. Should I choose to commit, I would be with him for a very long time.

I do the "How much are we talking?" thumb and finger rub.

Poker man taps on the calculator and gives me a staggering number.

If I had been chewing gum it would have fallen out. There was silence.

After awhile I said, "Well, uh, okay."

I remember thinking this will be good, we'll have this totally antiseptic thing. Do 20 push ups and call me in the morning. I won't get attached, I won't try to get to know him, find out what makes him tick, I won't tell him my whole life story. I'm here to get in shape, not make friends.

But he was oddly funny. He gave me a hard time. Teased me. Bossed me around a little. But mostly he told me the truth when I needed to hear it. He worked hard to find ways to keep me motivated, keep it fun, and make it feel like I was an athlete in training. My fantasy.

Once, clipboard in hand, he was moving at his usual rapid pace through the gym, my short legs trying to keep up behind him--I don't know what I said, but he responded, "Don't worry, I'll take good care of you." He kept moving, scanning the gym for bosu balls and available space--I was stopped. His statement, made the same way a waiter says, "enjoy your meal", gutted me like a fish. Struck way too close to home. I almost wept.

When our agreed upon time was through I thought, okay, we're done. His face is going to close back up. We're no longer business partners. He doesn't have to smile at me every day and ask how I am. But you know what he did anyway. And I found myself plunked in the chair across the desk from him, or giving quick reports in passing. If I was missing, he wanted to know why. When I offered up some lame excuse, he offered a solution. He checked up on me. He did take care of me.

I was schooled by a kid who hasn't even reached the quarter-century mark. His professionalism and service were sterling. Eventually his speech slowed down, eye contact was made, every obstacle I threw up, he showed me how to hurdle. He gave me no option but success.

"Remember your goal," he would say. "Picture my face. You can do it."

I've learned not to assume that just because a cute guy is bouncing his leg, chewing gum, and looking off in the distance, he isn't listening. Because this one was. And often what he said surprised me. When a man of so few words speaks, he means it.

I try to use a lot of what Chris Hill taught me in my writing. Remember the goal, be consistent, be accountable, and the rest will follow.

I believe that whittling down my writing, my possessions, and my body all require the same kind of discipline, attention, and control. And if I can succeed at one, I can succeed at the others. So It's Bon Voyage to my trainer boy. I'm going to have to hope his lessons stick. Luckily the Lithia Girls will make sure they do. It's great to have so much support.

I am going to remember my goals, all of them. I can do it.