Page 5 of Resistance Training

VIVIAN

I would have slept through the alarm if Hairy Styles hadn’t pounced on my chest. It’s a gray, overcast March morning, typical of the Pacific Northwest this time of year.

But it feels dark and cloudy inside my brain and body too.

It’s not a hangover. Not even half a bottle of wine was consumed last night.

But I have a serious case of the Mondays and an even worse case of You’re Going to Die Alone and Hairy Styles Will Eat Your Dead, Lonely Face.

I start a one-minute timer on my phone app and allow myself sixty seconds to think negative thoughts, so I can purge them.

But also to really enjoy them.

Aubrey was right.

I might be a little depressed.

The first glorious breakup phase, wherein I could rejoice in my freedom, is now over.

Phase Two has begun.

The man I’d moved to Portland with got engaged to the woman he cheated on me with, while I was busy engaging in food orgies all by myself.

The man I’d given up a great job opportunity in Seattle for so he could take a great job in Portland had moved back to Seattle and started a new life with Duckface.

While I’ve been sitting on my gloriously ever-widening ass every night on my new cozy sofa, watching every single movie and show he didn’t think I should watch while we lived together.

I take comfort in knowing that Duckface surely knows that even the worst episode of Sex and the City is better than the best night of sex with Jeremy Fenton.

Okay, if I’m being honest, when he brought his A-game to bed it was pretty great. I wouldn’t have moved to a new city for him if it wasn’t. I wasn’t that determined to convince everyone it was a serious relationship.

And I’ve run out of time to think about why I needed to convince anyone of anything at all, because I have to get to work on time for a meeting with my boss, who I have convinced I am reliable and punctual.

I am one minute late for my meeting with my boss, but he’s five minutes late, so it doesn’t matter.

Traffic in Portland isn’t nearly as bad as it is in Seattle, but that’s like saying that stubbing your big toe isn’t as bad as breaking your big toe.

Nobody enjoys being stuck in traffic. Especially when you’re stuck thinking about how the asshole you moved to this city with is probably in Seattle driving to work in his Mercedes while listening to NPR and not thinking about what an asshole he is.

The tiny rental house I used to share with him is in the Alberta Arts District, and the law firm I work for as a corporate paralegal is located in the heart of downtown Portland.

It’s about a twenty-minute drive at this time of day, or four repeat-listens of “So Long, London” by Taylor Swift and one “good 4 u” by Olivia Rodrigo.

I bolted out of the house twenty-two minutes before the meeting because I had made the suboptimal decision to hunt for pictures of Jeremy and Duckface on Facebook—an app I had managed to stay off of for over two and a half months—instead of showering or eating.

In the time it took me to get to work, I had gone from promising myself that I’d stay positive, take the high road, and never, ever go on Facebook again to vowing to ruin Jeremy and Duckface’s lives to mentally composing an email to Jeremy that expressed my gratitude toward him for leading me to the tiny house I love so much, that is within walking distance of the greatest artisanal ice-cream shop on earth, and wished him love, happiness, and success.

When I parked, I asked Siri about voodoo revenge spells, but it gave me directions to Voodoo Donuts instead.

Because my iPhone and all of foodie Portland conspires to get me to eat my feelings instead of dabbling in the dark arts.

Well played, Siri.

Well played.

I have every intention of stopping by Voodoo Donuts after work.

When I get out of my morning meetings, I head directly to the break room for a desperately needed protein bar and tea sesh with my work bestie, Marlo.

That is when I realize my sister has other plans for me, and her plans are clearly going to be the exact opposite of me going to buy donuts after work.

There are fourteen texts and as many missed calls from Aubrey.

My chest tightens.

But the text that followed the first missed call reads Nobody has died. Call me back ASAP.

Perhaps she has important news about a really gross and humiliating thing that happened to Jeremy and Duckface in public!

But no.

The words gym and personal trainer and appointment jump out at me, the way numbers and symbols float around for Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting . Except instead of solving the problems, I want to put my phone in the microwave and walk away in slow-motion, straight to the nearest food truck.

Groaning, I unwrap a protein bar, return to my small office, shut the door, and call my sister back on her cell phone.

She answers before I even hear it ring. “Okay, the gym is called Good Form. I sent you the address. It’s in Kenton. That’s sort of near you, right?”

“Not really.”

“Right, but it’s not out of your way or anything.”

“It kind of is.”

“Anyway, I got you an annual membership—but—I’m also paying for personal-training sessions with the owner of the gym. He’s usually impossible to book, but he just had a cancellation, so you have to go tonight.”

“I have to? I had plans for this evening.”

“Really? Do these plans involve other people, or do they involve pastries?”

“They involve other people serving me pastries.”

“You need to get out of the house and meet new people in that city that you refuse to move from.” She is not wrong about this.

She is not wrong about very many things.

Like, ever. “Your appointment is at seven. With Mitch. Okay? You have to go. Have to have to. For me. I’ve already paid for three months of personal-training sessions with this guy and it’s nonrefundable. ”

“Everything is refundable if you annoy the right people for long enough.”

“Vivian.”

“Fine. I will go. But if I hate him I will get you your money back.”

“Deal! I have to jump on another call—get there early so you can fill out intake forms and call me as soon as you get home from your appointment. Make sure you look cute when you go to the gym, okay?! Love you!”

She hangs up before I can ask her what level of cuteness she is prescribing.

7:00 p.m.? Tonight? This means I don’t have time to go home to get my workout clothes and shoes before the appointment.

Which means I go to the downtown Target during my lunch break.

Which means I spend twenty minutes finding parking, which means I have to eat Starbucks food for lunch, on the run.

Which means I don’t have time to do any Googling of this Mitch person.

It means I don’t have any time to vent to Marlo about my ex.

It means that when I finally call my parents to discuss Aubrey’s upcoming nuptials I am simultaneously driving, putting my hair up in a ponytail, and eating a grilled-cheese sandwich, which apparently makes me sound depressed because I don’t have a date to the wedding.

Which means I have to put the sandwich down to get my mom to stop crying and lie to her about how excited I am to hopefully meet some new people at this gym I’m going to.

More importantly, it means that when I arrive at the gym at exactly 7:00 p.m., unshowered and hungry, in my new workout gear that is an unfortunate shade of neon lime green due to the limited sizes and styles available at the small urban Target, I do not look or feel my best when I walk in and try to remember what looking cute feels like.

Also, they didn’t have any sports bras or tank tops with built-in support in my size.

And I refuse to wear the push-up bra I wore to work under a tank top, so once my jacket comes off, I will be one layer of ribbed cotton fabric away from pointing at everyone in front of me without my fingers, if you know what I mean.

If the air-conditioning is turned up high in there, that is.

And it is.

Of course it is.

It is definitely cool, verging on cold in here.

It’s a neighborhood fitness center, at the corner of a commercial street in North Portland.

It’s not a strip-mall fitness center or one of those places that look like former auto-repair shops where people go to jump on wood boxes and high-five each other.

It isn’t exactly a boutique gym either. It looks like a remodeled studio or warehouse.

It is the perfect size, as far as I’m concerned.

There’s a reception area at the entrance, with a clean, mid-century-modern vibe.

Not mid-century modern in Jeremy’s interpretation of the style, which he had confused with Patrick Bateman’s apartment in American Psycho , which was, in fact, eighties modernist. But you try explaining that to him.

This is the welcoming mid-century modern of clean lines, functionality, and natural materials.

Instead of being surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows so people feel like they’re on display, there are skylights and beautiful interior lighting.

Bright enough to keep you alert but flattering enough to not make you hate your reflection in all the mirrors.

There’s even spa water on the reception desk.

Cucumber and lemon water. What is this magical place? !

The woman at the reception desk has short blue hair, could be anywhere from thirty to fifty-five years old, and looks like she could lift me up over her head while hiking Mount Hood.

“Hi,” I say to her while she’s still typing something into an iPad. “I am almost exactly on time for my appointment with Mitch. Vivian Sparks?”

She looks up at me and does not smile at all, but not in an unfriendly way. In a badass way that I respect. “Welcome to Good Form.”