By Erika Erhart
“I can’t believe the lead singer killed himself,” Sara laments when she returns. “That sucked. I haven’t gone to cardio since.”
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“Come meet Jake–the fitness god,” she whispers, pulling me into a small room next to the tennis courts to introduce me to my personal trainer.
“Hey,” says Jake, looking up from a copy of Muscle & Fitness. He sizes me up with his piercing gaze. “Welcome to wellness.”
Sara rolls her eyes and we head toward the tennis courts. “Pammy is totally PMS today.” I nod and look around for Jake the fitness god. I decide I love him, chicken-patty weakness and all.
As Sara leads me back through the fitness area I hear an aerobics instructor yelling. “My fucking blow-dryer broke! I have frizzy-ass hair today! And this leotard hurts!” She is a short brunette with a long braid, and she’s dancing alone in front of a mirror, wearing a thong leotard and a headset.
“I’m so fat,” she whines, exposing her ribs. “Right?”
