Here’s an ultra-short story, a little sketch I had some fun with.
The Trainer
Don Thompson
I arrived at the gym just before the doors opened, not because I enjoyed getting up at 5:30 but because I could usually make it through the workout unimpeded and unobserved by others at that hour. I was often the only sweating soul there, silently counting reps and sets, working diligently toward the goal of leaving.
And sure, fitness was a motivator too; but I had to constantly remind myself that each pull on the stack of weights was a positive step in that direction and not just another step toward the shower. This wasn’t easy because in my late-sixties progress was slow and hard to see. But I persisted because I did see some, not at a level where anyone else might notice, but some. A little. Enough to keep me coming back.
And on this particular morning I was enjoying small stirrings of confidence and faint echoes of youth as I got up in the dark, put on shoes, sweatpants and a T-shirt. After a quick cup of coffee, I was out the door, in the car, and at the gym. But something didn’t feel quite right as I struggled out of the driver’s seat. My phone, with its vast collection of tunes to help me through the workout, had apparently slipped out of my side pocket. It took a few minutes to locate the device and fish it out from between the seat and the center console, but there it was and off I went, walking fast, trying to make up for lost time.
As I breezed into the weight room, earbuds in place with The Eagles standing by to musically coax me through the workout, I noticed that someone was already there. I had seen her twice before – a personal trainer, probably in her early forties, blond, beautiful, and in amazing shape. But this time she was there on her own, without a trainee. We nodded to each other as she walked over to a pull-up bar and proceeded to execute more of the wretched things than I could do in a week. I noticed, partly with envy and partly with appreciation, the muscles in her tan back and arms flexing with each pull.
Getting down to business doing bicep curls with five pounds more than my usual selection, I heard Glenn Frey in my earbuds belting out, “It’s a girl my lord, in a flat-bed Ford, slowing down to take a look at me.” Uh huh. Sure. I adjusted the phone in my pocket as it threatened to slip out again.
The trainer finished her set and moved on to the next machine over on my side of the room. She smiled and seemed to do a little double-take as she looked at me. I smiled back.
“Looks like it’s gonna be another beautiful day out there,” she said.
“Yeah, should be nice,” I responded, enjoying the attention.
“You ever do any kayaking around here?” she continued. “Should be a perfect day for it.”
“Actually, yeah. I, uh, we, have a couple of kayaks at the house,” I replied, knowing that the boats had been lying overturned and unused for months. “I’ll probably get out on the water today.”
“Sounds good. Probably see you out there sometime.” I thought I saw her pause just slightly, as if she wanted to ask me something but then thought better of it.
“Yep,” I managed, trying to eke out the last curl in the set without revealing too much effort.
She finished her workout before I did, adjusted her long blond ponytail, and waved over her shoulder as she left the room with a cute little laugh.
You’re such an idiot, I reflected. Still, that was nice.
I finished up my last set of crunches, wiped down the machine, and headed for the door. But again, something was wrong with that annoying phone. Stuffing it back into place, I noticed that the pocket seemed to slope at the wrong angle. I looked down.
The front of my sweatpants seemed oddly saggy and the pockets slanted awkwardly forward. Confused, I felt around the back of the waistband and discovered the drawstring there. That explained a few things.