High School Reunion

Notre Dame High School
Class of ’92

I finally go to the gym to sign up for my training sessions.  I guess I was stressing too much aloud about the whole Chris dilemma because after my second piece of ice cream cake (birthday cake has no calories in my book) my husband said, “Jesus, do you want me to go and pick a trainer for you?”  I said no, ‘cause where’s the fun in that?

So I’m at the gym now but the person I spoke to the other day isn’t there.  The manager is there though, so he’s signing me up at the computer.  He is about nine feet tall and I’m eye level with his armpit.

“So what’s your goal for your training sessions?” he asks typing my information in.

“I want to enter the Texas Shredder competition.  Not to be a gorilla woman… just the novice bikini fitness one,” I ramble.  His eyebrows rise.  I guess when you’re a size 14 and say you plan to enter a bikini competition it will raise some eyebrows.

“That’s cool.  Any particular reason you want to enter the competition?”

“Well, my high school reunion is coming up in October, so I figure this will get me on track.”

“What year reunion?”


God, it sounds awful to me.  How did twenty years pass so quickly?  It seems like just yesterday I was avoiding the gaze of Sister Jose (the scariest nun EVER) during Algebra and looking forward to the opening night of the spring musical with all my friends.

“Do you know who you want to train with?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Well, I did train with Chris, but I think I want to train with someone new; a bodybuilder.  Don’t get me wrong: she was great.  But I don’t want to compete against her because that would be weird.  Is that weird?”  Oh God, now I’m seeking 24 Fitness Manager’s approval.  What’s wrong with me?  I can envision Regina rolling her eyes now.

“No, that’s not weird.  You know, the trainers are committed to helping you reach your goals, so even if you did train with her it would be all right.  But you need to feel comfortable, so we’ll sign you up with a male trainer.  Do you know who you want?”

“I don’t really care; just someone who knows about body building competitions.”

“We have a few here, but you know my roommate, Daniel, is training for Shredder too.  He would be a good trainer for you.”


My husband would cringe had he been privy to this exchange.  Henri would have asked for everyone’s resume then met with them.  That’s because he’s a perfectionist.  I’m a 95% shoot-from-the-hip kind of gal.  It works for me, at least 95% of the time, anyway.

I pay the fee and set up my first session for 2 p.m. on February 7.  The manager wishes me a happy birthday and I begin to head out the door.

“Oh, wait.  So who’s my trainer?”


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