Chapter 15
It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday, so that meant Willa was at The Rack Room, sitting on a chalky weight bench during 10 seconds of rest after a set of chest presses. She typically came to this dank, cement-walled den — where no one was wussy enough to wear lifting gloves, the soap dispenser was always empty, and it was considered polite to let loaded barbells crash to the floor — once a week for heavier-weight circuit-training that still, somehow, cost her $30 per class.
Willa always hit muscle failure at The Rack Room, shaking as she pushed for one more shoulder press or ball slam while a life-sized cut-out of the owner, Bonnie — casually lifting her shirt to show the v-shaped line below her abs, like Brad Pitt’s in “Fight Club” — watched in silent judgment. But today Willa felt sore even before the class began. It was because of FitFams.
Willa was hesitant to admit that to Natalie, a 35-year-old, Black, married engineer (Willa had no idea what type of engineer, or what an engineer did, except maybe the choo-choo kind) who performed stand-up comedy at Laughing Skull’s open mic on Tuesday nights and Relapse Comedy’s on Thursday nights. They realized they were kindred spirits when they both laughed at a Rack Room coach who yelled, “OK, now we’re gonna finish on your back!”
Natalie was a self-described workout snob with the words “go heavy or go home” printed on her favorite worn-out T-shirt. She had a CrossFitter’s body but stopped doing CrossFit when she could no longer stand that CrossFitters won’t stop talking about CrossFit. She lived in a Poncey-Highland townhome with her husband, Greg, whose home-brewing hobby — as well as his obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness — left no room in the garage for weights.
A few weeks ago, when Willa mentioned she might try coaching at FitFams, Natalie had been skeptical.
“Light weights? Stair stepping? Really?” she’d said while spotting Willa’s back squat. “This honestly sounds like some retirement-home workout bullshit. Ooh, or like that ‘Get in Shape, Girl’ kit from the 1980s, with sweatbands and leg warmers and one of those ribbons they use in rhythmic gymnastics? Like Will Ferrell in ‘Old School?’”
(She might not understand what Natalie did for a living, but Willa could always follow her friend’s colliding cultural references. “Yeah, I had that kit,” Willa had said. “Alyssa Milano’s workout tape, too.”)
Today, as Willa sat on the bench and tried to get her hamstrings to stop screaming at her, Natalie was suspicious.
“What’s the deal? You’re dragging,” Natalie said, picking up a kettlebell for swings. “Did you get into some trouble last night?”
“I’m afraid to tell you what I did,” Willa said.
“Did you do something —“ smiling, knowingly, “— bad?”
“No, nothing like that,” Willa said, hoisting up her kettlebell. “I took a FitFams class with the owner.”
The Rack Room coach signaled the start of the next work interval, and Willa and Natalie swung their weights between their legs, using their hips to pop the kettlebell through and forward, looking at each other in the smudged, cracked mirror.
“And …” Natalie prodded.
“And that’s it,” Willa said, grimacing while she worked. “It thoroughly, entirely, and royally kicked my ass.”
A hairy, shirtless dude in unfortunate shorts was eavesdropping. “Something kicked your ass? No way. You’re a beast,” he said, swinging a smaller kettlebell.
Willa gave him a smile, then turned her attention back to Natalie. “I’m telling you — FitFams is the real deal,” she said. “I’m as surprised as anybody.”
“What about the owner?” Natalie asked, setting down her kettlebell. “I think I read in the New York Times that she’s … not very nice.”
Three burpees and a box jump gave Willa time to think about how to respond. How to explain the way this workout, this person, made her feel during those 60 minutes in the dark? How it felt like Willa’s endorphins put on a sparkly dress and convinced her couch-bound serotonin and dopamine to get off their asses, put on some makeup, and go out? How everyone in the room grew hungry for Dee’s attention and approval and physical contact, and when they got it, they nearly burst into tears? How Dee stopped in front of Willa’s machine, held her gaze, and said “I’m proud of you” and “you’re amazing” and it somehow erased the bad evaluation, cleared up a zit, and patched up old psychic wounds, all at the same time?
No, Willa was not going to say all of that to Natalie, partly because it would sound completely insane, but also because the experience felt like lightning bugs cupped in Willa’s hands. She didn’t want to open her fingers and let go of the glow.
“I mean, yeah. She’s not soft. She doesn’t suffer fools,” Willa said, panting. “But maybe you have to be tough to make it this far in a male-dominated industry? I mean, her workout is legit, she’s making millions, and she does a lot of philanthropy.”
The Rack Room coach called out a one-minute rest interval.
“I don’t know,” Willa said. “I may end up hating her, but it won’t be because she’s a hard-ass. Men are like that all the time and get away with it.”
Natalie nodded, catching her breath.
Willa wiped her forehead on the hem of her shirt. “Next week I’m teaching three free classes, to get people interested. You should come.”
Natalie took a sip of water. “I’ll think about it.”