Around my fortieth birthday, my metabolism died.
I held the funeral over a piece of chocolate cake from Meijer then set my mind to navigating the stages of grief with some semblance of dignity.
I’d recently managed a divorce, several address, last name, and driver license changes, a large house purchase, and a stressful promotion. Accepting my metabolic shortcomings while maintaining the comforting belief that I would neither marry nor move ever again seemed enough to aspire to.
Four years passed in this suspended state.
Then, one day, I thought, “Hey! Let’s do it ALL AGAIN, but in reverse!”
So I quit the job, sold the house, moved to Michigan, and, oh yeah, got married, again. Then, just to top things off, I got COVID.
For a month and a half, I came home from work feeling like my head was going to pop off, moaned that I wanted to die, and fell into a fitful, miserable sleep. I cannot be held responsible for my dietary choices during this period. Everything was awful. There was a lot of cheese.
One morning, after the fog had lifted, I stepped on the scale. In that instant, all four years of careful grief-work went flying out the bathroom window like a flock of chubby, over-fed bats.
Dear heavens to goodness. How did THAT happen?
It was clear the time had come for drastic measures, and drastic measures led me to Jake.
Jake was the guy who popped up when I Googled “personal trainers near me.” And Jake, the whole muscled, tattooed package of him, was the guy I met at 6:30 pm on a Monday to discuss the Transformations program.
“You’d be perfect for it, frankly,” said Jake, appraising me.
This was encouraging. Perfect transformation! Within my grasp!
What did I have to do? Oh, take some nutrition advice, go to a few classes a week? Consult with Jake about my progress? Sure! Sign me up!
“Sign me up,” I said.
So, all right, maybe the initial food list was a little restrictive. But I could live on skinless chicken breast, spinach, and egg whites for two weeks, couldn’t I? Who knew? Maybe in week 3, they reintroduced bacon. The 5:30 am classes might require some sleep-schedule adjustments, but, think of it! Perfect Transformation! Eyes on the prize, Sarah. Focus.
It was 5:30 am, and I was focused — focused on the bright orange walls of Jake’s gym and its hodgepodge of stripped-down exercise equipment: bikes that looked like they’d been salvaged from garage sales, metal bars at various heights, a rack of weights, and a stand in the corner filled with poles that looked like they could possibly be for jousting.
A thin, classically-handsome Italian man was standing apart from the knot of exceptionally healthful women by the water cooler.
“I’m Alfonso,” he said, mournfully. “My wife thought this would be good for us.”
“Is it?” I asked.
“It is week 2. I cannot move my legs.”
“All right, let’s move those legs!” called Jake, clapping his hands.
We were off. I was confused. First I was hoisting a medicine ball above my head and hurling it to the ground. Then I was on the garage-sale bicycle, then lifting a kettle-ball from a squatting position, and so on, round and round.
All the while, my Apple Watch was palpitating on my wrist, wringing its little ,digital Apple hands about the Very High Noise Level. “Warning!” it buzzed plaintively. “Warning!”
“There’s nothing I can do,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
There was nothing I could do. Jake was in charge of the music, and he was using his power to regale us with some German-sounding, screaming metal band.
It was all nonsense and noise until one phrase came through, clear as day: “I——I —I—-hhhhhhhhhh am the EMPEROR of EYEBALLLLLSSSSSS.”
That in the end, was what got me through. Because, what? Emperor of *eyeballs*? Surely not. But no, I think that’s what he said…what on earth is an emperor of eyeballs?
I got so distracted trying to figure it out that I barely noticed round 435 on the bike. I didn’t notice anything until six hours later, at work, when I thought I would do something simple. I would get up, walk down the hallway, and get some water.
I attempted this, and suddenly Alfonso’s face swam before my eyes. I felt a kinship with him then: he a hapless victim of his wife’s big ideas, me a heedless victim of my own; the two of us locked together in one undeniable truth. It was week one. I could not move my legs.
Don is making dinner now. He just popped his head in to ask if I could eat feta cheese.
“I cannot have any cheese,” I said.
“Ahhhhhhhrghhhhh,” he said. It was a deep and guttural groan. A primal thing, worthy, perhaps, of the Emperor of Eyeballs.
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