Twas the Night Before My Leg Workout

I’ve been told divorce “looks good” on me. Everyone who’s ever been through one knows exactly what I mean. It’s an automatic 30 pound drop. Then, you fall in love, get married again and wham! You’re up 30! (There’s a lesson here, I’m sure.)

During both divorces, I hired a trainer to not only keep the weight loss off but also to add muscle. It worked, but was it ever painful! Just for fun, I thought my trainer, Cheryl Brose (otherwise known as Helga), needed a poem just to honor her leg workouts. Here it is…

Twas the Night Before My Leg Workout

Twas the night before my leg workout,

And all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring

Just me planning to grouse.

My workout clothes were laid out with great care,

In hopes that I’d wake up and want to be there.

We were all nestled all snug in our beds,

While visions of 2-piece bikinis danced in my head.

When out of the blue there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

I was still able to, no Helga yet to thigh-mash!

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When what to my horrified eyes should appear,

But Helga and all of her tortuous gear.

With a 15 pound weight in each hand, so menacing and tall,

I knew in this moment I wasn’t going to the mall!

More rapid than eagles her devices of torture they came,

And she whistled and shouted and called them by name!

Now Smith Machine! Now Hack Squat! Now Leg Curl and Extension!

On Sled! On Lunges! Come on! Quit your bitchin’!

Now walk around! Walk around! Walk around all!

And then in a twinkling I was in such a state,

Standing as I was in Helga’s House of Pain and her weights!

As I drew in my head and turned quickly to run,

Down came ‘ol Helga and grabbed my right bun!

She dragged me to the weight room and gave her tools a whistle,

I felt as light as a feather in a thistle!

Her machines were all poised to hand out their pain,

And I heard her exclaim as she flew out of sight,

“Your thighs are mine,

so I’ll see you at first light!”

No-match.com

Jumping back into the single scene back in 2009 with both feet, I decided to take dating into my own hands. I joined Match.com. (Stop rolling your eyes.)

Almost immediately I’m sent five matches. These are guys who don’t smoke, drink socially (I was honest—I put moderately), don’t want children and are physically fit. One of them really stands out and his profile could have been written for me. He lives in Shoreline.

 

His name is Jeff (yes, my ex-husband’s name) and he sends me an email telling me he’d like to connect by email. So, I email him back. I have to admit, I was pretty witty in my response. Apparently he thought so, too. He told me I got an A in Intuitive 101 or possibly even 301. No one had gotten his profile in its entirety as well as I had. (Yes, you can imagine. I’m feeling quite smug at this point.)

So, we talk on the phone. He’s got a great voice—he majored in Broadcast Journalism at UW. He’s funnier than heck. And quick. Everything I say, he has a comeback. And he’s a great writer. His emails are awesome. He was an insurance broker for Allstate and sold his business two years ago. So, at this point, he’s jobless but, that’s okay, because he doesn’t need to work. (So he says…)

 

He wants to meet in person so we schedule a date for the next Sunday. Only on Monday, he calls me and asks if he could come to Bremerton on Wednesday for lunch. He can’t wait to meet me. I meet him at Anthony’s in Bremerton right off the ferry dock.

On the ferry, he texts me and tells me, “I got nailed in Seattle for parking. I know you’re worth it, though.” Strike ONE.

He shows up. And, he had pictures on his page so I knew what he looked like. (At least, I thought I did.) But all of his pictures were taken straight on. So, not only did I NOT know that he had a BEAK for a nose. I also didn’t know he had eyebrows about 3 inches long. Strike TWO.

I’m sitting there thinking to myself, “Suzie, all the other guys you chose were hot and sexy and offered you the Den of Pleasure and look where it all got you. Change takes different choices.” (I’m trying to be open-minded here.)

So, I tried not to be judgmental. Really hard. I tried really hard. Also, I drank wine.

He talked incessantly. Non-stop. Me? Sit quietly? Strike THREE.

He asks, “How we doing so far?”

 

I remind him he needs to catch a ferry back and he’s not going to want to pay more for parking. He readily agrees. (This parking thing seems to an issue.)

 

I walk him to the ferry ramp and he says, “So, will this be our future? Saying hello and good bye at ferry docks? Or would you ever be willing to move over to Seattle?”

There are no words at this point.

 

After that lunch, I realize that Match.com may not be for me. Back to the gym...