Chapter 11
The alarm on her Louis Vuitton Smartwatch Tambour Horizon buzzed at precisely 5 a.m., as it did every day, including weekends, and Dee Bradley snapped up out of bed. She shook out her red curls, then surveyed the previous night’s wreckage: 10 empty airplane bottles of vodka, tipped over on top of the dresser, along with a half-eaten bag of Fritos. Gross. With a sinewy arm she swept all of it into a wastebasket, causing a clatter that woke up the woman still lying in the bed.
“Ugh. What time is it?” the woman whined from under the W Hotel’s fluffy white duvet.
“It’s time for you to go,” Dee said.
“Oh, come on. Come back to bed,” the woman said, propping up on an elbow and lifting the blankets, completely unselfconscious about her dimpled thighs and her fleshy stomach.
“No. Time to go,” Dee said, arms folded across her chest, keeping her eyes locked on the woman’s eyes, willing her to move.
“Damn, OK,” the woman said, rolling out of the bed and shimmying into her bodycon dress and heels. “Can I at least use the bathroom first?”
“No,” Dee said.
The woman scowled, grabbed her bag, and muttered, “bitch,” before tottering out the door.
That word held little meaning for Dee. It had been hurled at her since she was 15, when her shyness was misconstrued as snobbery. “Who does that bitch think she is?” they’d hiss in the halls of Little Falls Community High School. “You know her mom was drunk at the basketball game last week, right?”
Back then, Dee tried to be as small as possible. Scared that she would choke, she ate only soft foods, like applesauce and Yoplait yogurt, and liked that they helped her take up less space in the world. She once tried using Vaseline to tamp down her wild curls. When it wouldn’t wash out, Dee asked her mother for help, but Joanna Bradley just laughed at her and sipped her gin.
That was the part of the story that Dee told over and over again, as the famed founder of FitFams. She spun a tale of a lonely little girl whose mother’s addiction and father’s absence at first weakened her, then became the fuel she needed to move toward a fully realized life. “I woke up one day,” she would tell a writer, or an awards telecast, or a podcast host, or a crowd, “and I was different — done with the eating disorder, done with my parents, done with hiding my sexuality. I was ready for my real life to begin. And so it began.”
When a reporter from Marie Claire, or Shape, or Vanity Fair would try to prod further, Dee’s publicity team would put a stop to it, and Dee would shrug and smile as if she had little control over the situation.
But she was always in control. Always.
After her “date” left the hotel room, Dee checked her watch: 5:10 a.m. She pulled on a pair of pale-pink leggings and a pale-pink sportsbra, along with her FitFams x Nike running shoes, Beats by Dre Pro earbuds, and a slim-fitting, silver-toned fanny pack for her hotel key and phone. Then she headed to the elevator. During the ride down she checked her texts and emails.
“I was thinking we could add a 10:30 a.m. class on Wednesdays in St. Paul, Minnesota,” the studio manager from that location had written. “The clients say they want this.”
Dee clenched her teeth and fired back a response. “You should not be polling the clients for their class-time preferences. This can cause confusion and create false expectations. Your numbers for the 9:30 a.m. aren’t good enough anyway, so maybe you should focus on that.”
Another email, this one from a coach in Boston: “Hi Dee! So glad to be working for FitFams! Got a quick question for you: A client, who is also a physical therapist, approached me after class to say she was concerned about the safety of ‘the Corn Cob’ move. She worried it could put strain on the patella tendon. Thoughts? Thanks!”
Dee tapped back her response: “Do not engage in these kinds of conversations with clients, even if they say they are ‘experts.’ We carefully test and vet every move. If she thinks it’s unsafe or doesn’t like it, tell her she can go to LA Fitness. Also, these kinds of questions should not come directly to me. Talk to your studio manager.”
Another from a coach: “Hey, Dee. I feel weird asking you this, but do you think could stop posting about ‘America’s disgusting obesity problem?’ It’s triggering for people with body dysmorphia and eating disorders, and it feels like fat-shaming. Some clients have come to me, hurt and feeling self-conscious about their bodies. We preach about strength and self-love, and I think these kinds of posts chip away at that. Thanks for reading, and understanding.”
Dee scoffed, then typed furiously into her phone without a second’s hesitation: “I am sharing important information in these posts. I won’t apologize for caring about America’s health and wellness; it’s what my business, my life, is all about. It’s time we take charge of our bodies. If a client doesn’t like it, she can stop following me.”
Then Dee blocked the coach on Instagram and made a mental note of her name.
Next Dee clicked on an email from a client: “Dee, I just want to tell you that your workout has changed my life. I’ve never looked or felt better. So thank you. I’m so happy to be part of the FitFams family.”
Dee copied and pasted from a note she kept in her phone: “Thank you so much! I’m so glad you love the workout and the community as much as I do! We are so grateful that you are a member of the FitFams family. Don’t forget to sign up for our special 10-pack. And tell your friends! Yours in mind and body, Dee Bradley.”
She walked out of the Midtown Atlanta hotel, turned on the “Wellness Warriors” podcast episode that featured her story, hit “start” on her watch, and set off on a 10-mile run.