constant stream of thoughts in her head. As a writer, she was a natural people-watcher. Unsurprisingly, she picked apart mainly women.
She’s fifteen pounds overweight, she shouldn’t be wearing horizontal stripes with those wide hips, she could use a good lip wax, what was that woman thinking wearing leggings with that ass, if you’re not pregnant don’t wear an Empire-waist dress, if I ever get that overweight please take me into the pasture and kindly put a bullet in my brain. It was a habit she had, like some people don’t step on cracks or always turn right when lost. When women passed her on the street she instantly judged them. Height, weight, whether they were prettier than her, highlights real or fake, how many times they’d gone under the knife … It never failed to leave her with an anxious feeling, and she knew she’d feel better if she could only stop comparing herself to every New York woman, but it was a hard habit to break. It was just who she was.
Entering the gym, she waved to Carlos, who worked the front desk of her gym. He doubled as a yoga teacher, and he was always inviting her to his class, but Alexis knew yoga was for lazy people who didn’t want a real workout.
“Namaste,” he teased her as she swiped her card.
“Whatever,” she replied.
Alexis passed the room where she sometimes took spin class, then walked by the personal training room, currently occupied by the resident kickboxing expert, Leona. She was Hispanic and had long, curly black hair she put in two buns on the top of her head and a killer bod. Some gyms touted a mix of people trying to get into shape and those already in it; what Alexis liked about Soho Gym was that everyone was already gorgeous, like Leona. She didn’t have to do crunches on the mat next to any fat, sweaty slobs wearing T-shirts with the sleeves cut off, advertising mechanic shops. Soho Gym was a place where people wore makeup on the elliptical machines.
Alexis, who had worked out with Leona last winter when Sarah went on her honeymoon in Alaska, waved. In turn, she looked up from demonstrating jabs to a short, pale, fleshy banker-type guy on the punching bag and winked.
Alexis strode into the women’s locker room and stripped off her cardigan. Inside her specially-assigned locker was a brush. She ran it quickly through her hair, then slipped on a slim black workout headband. She went over to the scale and stripped off her clothing, then climbed on. It was chilly in the room, and she shivered. She congratulated herself inwardly: the needle wavered between ninety-nine and one hundred. She’d lost a pound, perhaps from all the stress of going on Oprah last month. She hadn’t been nervous onstage because she knew she was in the right with her message of health, that awful fat girl Shoshana was completely in the wrong, but she had been on edge in the weeks leading up to the show.
To prepare for Oprah, Billy bought her books on speaking in public. He decided she needed a voice coach, designated himself, and made her walk around the living room with books on her head for posture. “This feels like something out of the fifties,” she’d complained. “Like etiquette class.” Billy told her to shut her trap and pay attention, and she had to admit that doing ridiculous voice exercises with him like gargling with salt water to relax the throat had somehow ended up relaxing her, in the end. She’d clearly been the victor in the Oprah debate.
If Billy was her only friend, her personal trainer, Sarah, was someone she admired greatly and respected. She would consider Sarah a friend, as they’d been working out together several years now, but since she paid her extravagant amounts of money she wasn’t sure if that constituted an actual friendship.
Sarah was forty but looked not a day over twenty-five. She was tall, svelte, Puerto Rican, and rumored to have once picked Carlos up over her head and bench-pressed him. (Carlos weighed in at 190, all muscle.)
She’s fifteen pounds overweight, she shouldn’t be wearing horizontal stripes with those wide hips, she could use a good lip wax, what was that woman thinking wearing leggings with that ass, if you’re not pregnant don’t wear an Empire-waist dress, if I ever get that overweight please take me into the pasture and kindly put a bullet in my brain. It was a habit she had, like some people don’t step on cracks or always turn right when lost. When women passed her on the street she instantly judged them. Height, weight, whether they were prettier than her, highlights real or fake, how many times they’d gone under the knife … It never failed to leave her with an anxious feeling, and she knew she’d feel better if she could only stop comparing herself to every New York woman, but it was a hard habit to break. It was just who she was.
Entering the gym, she waved to Carlos, who worked the front desk of her gym. He doubled as a yoga teacher, and he was always inviting her to his class, but Alexis knew yoga was for lazy people who didn’t want a real workout.
“Namaste,” he teased her as she swiped her card.
“Whatever,” she replied.
Alexis passed the room where she sometimes took spin class, then walked by the personal training room, currently occupied by the resident kickboxing expert, Leona. She was Hispanic and had long, curly black hair she put in two buns on the top of her head and a killer bod. Some gyms touted a mix of people trying to get into shape and those already in it; what Alexis liked about Soho Gym was that everyone was already gorgeous, like Leona. She didn’t have to do crunches on the mat next to any fat, sweaty slobs wearing T-shirts with the sleeves cut off, advertising mechanic shops. Soho Gym was a place where people wore makeup on the elliptical machines.
Alexis, who had worked out with Leona last winter when Sarah went on her honeymoon in Alaska, waved. In turn, she looked up from demonstrating jabs to a short, pale, fleshy banker-type guy on the punching bag and winked.
Alexis strode into the women’s locker room and stripped off her cardigan. Inside her specially-assigned locker was a brush. She ran it quickly through her hair, then slipped on a slim black workout headband. She went over to the scale and stripped off her clothing, then climbed on. It was chilly in the room, and she shivered. She congratulated herself inwardly: the needle wavered between ninety-nine and one hundred. She’d lost a pound, perhaps from all the stress of going on Oprah last month. She hadn’t been nervous onstage because she knew she was in the right with her message of health, that awful fat girl Shoshana was completely in the wrong, but she had been on edge in the weeks leading up to the show.
To prepare for Oprah, Billy bought her books on speaking in public. He decided she needed a voice coach, designated himself, and made her walk around the living room with books on her head for posture. “This feels like something out of the fifties,” she’d complained. “Like etiquette class.” Billy told her to shut her trap and pay attention, and she had to admit that doing ridiculous voice exercises with him like gargling with salt water to relax the throat had somehow ended up relaxing her, in the end. She’d clearly been the victor in the Oprah debate.
If Billy was her only friend, her personal trainer, Sarah, was someone she admired greatly and respected. She would consider Sarah a friend, as they’d been working out together several years now, but since she paid her extravagant amounts of money she wasn’t sure if that constituted an actual friendship.
Sarah was forty but looked not a day over twenty-five. She was tall, svelte, Puerto Rican, and rumored to have once picked Carlos up over her head and bench-pressed him. (Carlos weighed in at 190, all muscle.)
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