Just breathe…
Baring your body in front of God and everyone on a treadmill at the gym is like baring your soul on stage. It's not that I believe people must earn the right to wear no more than a skimpy little jog bra and shorts by dieting to the point of extinction - in fact, more power to the people who bare it no matter what - I just have a hard time doing it myself.
Nevertheless, I did. Just that once, when the fans weren't working and the window was stuck, when the room got too steamy and, lest I pass out and die, I flung off the T-shirt intended to hide the flab that normally disappears into obscurity beneath black suits, and pretended to run with abandon. Just that once.
"Run harder."
The command, from somewhere down the long row of occupied treadmills, broke through my oxygen-induced trance. I turned my head toward the direction of the voice, as did everyone on every treadmill and, apparently, on every piece of equipment throughout the capacity crowd.
And there, sauntering at a leisurely pace three treadmills down, was Natalie, an 80-year-old woman I had known but hadn't seen for years.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"Run harder."
Now, I have been running, faithfully, obsessively even, for 32 years. Despite the slowing of time, even I thought my 7:30 pace was a pretty decent clip for a day at the gym.
"Why?" I had to ask.
"Because you've gotten fat," she yelled over the roar of the motors. "You're thick. Porky. Run harder."
When I was little, I used to watch a cartoon called "Shrinking Violet." Every time her feelings got hurt, she shrank to someone so tiny, we could hardly see her any more.
My face burned somewhere between scarlet and sad. My eyes stung with the tears I hoped no one could see as I turned my head back toward the window where I had been valiantly trying to ignore my reflection. I breathed like a Lamaze student, trying to stall the tears and wishing I could step off the treadmill in the front of my audience and disappear like Violet.
But I couldn't. I still had 45 minutes to go. Besides, I needed the exercise. I was porky. She named it, and I owned it as fast as it came out of her mouth.
A wonderful thing happens at some point during an energetic run. A sense of well-being takes over, and I tend to abandon my mind on the trail, leaving all thoughts in the dust.
I actually, for the moment, let it go.
But Natalie didn't. Having finished her stroll, she wandered up behind me, slapped me on the shoulder and said, "You have gained weight, haven't you? You're porky. You're just gonna have to run harder," as she continued on out through the door.
The flame returned to my cheeks as fresh tears spilled onto the treadmill. I still had 10 minutes to go.
Usually, after my run, I slip into a swimsuit and log in a few laps in the outdoor pool. I stepped off the treadmill and looked out the window at the glistening water that normally seduces me while I run. I suddenly had no idea how to stuff my porky self into a swimsuit in front of God and everyone.
Just before I left the gym, I noticed a black telephone sitting on a small desk in the corner. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number of my best girlfriend. Just hearing her voice was like a balm as she answered the phone, and I poured out my story with all the tears I had stemmed on the treadmill.
Her anger at Natalie's behavior hit me like something between a hug and a high five for having survived it. She ordered me into the pool.
Nearly an hour later, after I had finished my swim and my shower, the door to the locker room swung open. In walked my best friend, who had left her desk and made the drive over to the gym.
"I am here," she said, "to help you get back into your day. I am here to congratulate you for exercising every single day of the week. I am here to remind you what's important and what's not. And I am here to take you to lunch."
That night, I decided to offer Natalie the chance to grow. I found her e-mail address and sat down to send her a letter:
Dear Natalie:
When I was in fifth grade, the church choir director offered us a special treat at the end of rehearsal: a piece of solid milk chocolate wrapped in foil to resemble a ladybug. As he made his way among fifty 10-year olds seated among three risers, he held out a cardboard box in front of child after child, each of whom reached into the box and selected a chocolate.
Halfway down the front row, he extended the box to my twin sister, a little slip of a thing who quickly picked out her ladybug. As he stepped in front of me, I reached my hand toward him in eager anticipation of my chocolate. But he withdrew the box.
Perhaps, in response to the horror registering across my face, he returned the box to my reach and said, "I guess you can have one. I guess you're just what we call pleasingly plump."
My twin sister returned her chocolate to the box, took my hand, and got me out of there.
Natalie, you have no idea who you were talking to today, no idea what you did to my self-esteem with your unkind words. I tell you this story not to ruin your day but in hopes that should you ever feel the inclination to hurl your criticism across the gym again, you will refrain.
And may I remind you that anyone who has ever gained weight is already painfully aware of it. . . .
I still go to the gym, still run on the treadmill, still swim laps in the pool, still curse the 10 pounds sitting between me and perfection, still love chocolate, still remember what's most important and what's not. . . . and where Natalie fits into that.