Chapter 3
Willa pulled her Nissan Leaf up the cracked driveway to her house, a 1950s brick ranch in Decatur, a small and liberal city right next to Atlanta, where moms bragged about being exhausted and how many days in a row they’d worn the same pair of sweatpants.
The “Black Lives Matter” sign on the scrubby front lawn was askew, so — with one arm loaded with the FitFams manual, her gym bag, and her travel coffee mug — Willa carefully bent down to set it right. She heard the dog, Chicken, barking from inside.
“Hi, guys,” Willa called out as she walked in. Chicken jumped up and panted garbage breath in her face.
Her husband, Pete, was bent over an elaborate Lego set that Willa could swear had already been completed, his face incredibly close to the instruction book. He said he could see better that way. “I dropped it while carrying it to Charlie’s room, so I’m fixing it,” he grunted.
Pete was the kind of dad who did not need to call her to ask where the shin guards were. He and Willa were 50-50, almost to a fault; they’d once considered creating a spreadsheet so there’d be no argument about who was doing more for the family.
Willa met Pete when she was 22 and working as a graphic designer on the Business desk of the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle daily newspaper, where she made infographics, “If You Go” boxes, and flow charts for disheveled lifers who smelled like lunch meat and defeat.
Pete was brought on to write about restaurants, which meant he was ensconced in the fluffy wonderland known as the Features department, a place of stories about pet sweaters, hamburger trends, and dating tips. Whenever that department hired someone new, there was always a big spread of bagels.
Willa and her deskmate, Lynn, never missed out on the bagels.
As Lynn grabbed an Everything and smeared on some scallion cream cheese, she suggested they introduce themselves to Pete. Willa shrugged, went to his desk, said hello, and gave him a firm handshake.
She would later learn that Pete’s first impression of her was that — even with her long blonde hair and black fit-and-flare skirt from Express — she walked like a guy. He liked her smile, her butt, and that she used the word “soporific” to describe the announcer’s voice at the symphony on their first date.
She liked that he was smart, hilarious, and bought the wine during intermission. She also liked that he was one of six Catholic boys from a prison town in upstate New York who were named after the Apostles in various combinations: Peter Andrew, Andrew James, John Peter, James Matthew, Thomas John, Matthew James.
Willa and Pete married in 2003 and moved to Decatur when he was hired to write for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Willa went freelance. When downsizing later claimed Pete’s job, he pivoted to writing and editing communications for the fundraising department of Oglethorpe University.
Now, at their dining room table, he was trying to unstick two tiny Lego squares. “So how was the training?” he asked, handing the pieces to Willa.
“Odd,” Willa said, sticking her nail between the Legos and prying them apart, then handing them back to Pete. “I didn’t really … train. I briefly met the founder, which was awkward. The Talent Chief gave me a training manual and a pep talk, and then the place literally came crashing down around me. Like, a window broke.”
“You don’t have to do it, you know,” he said, ever the fixer. Acts of Service was his love language; hers were Words of Affirmation, Touch, and ‘90s R&B.
Willa picked at the cuticle of her thumb. “Yeah, I know, but I said I would do it, so I’m going to try.”
She shared what she’d learned so far from the FitFams Bible:
Whenever a new client enters the studio, you must say: “Welcome to the first day of your best life! I’m gonna kick your ass!”
One towel per client, and it must be folded into thirds (“hotel style”).
You must wear branded clothing when in studio. Items are available for purchase on our website.
Memorize each client’s name and say it at least once during each class.
Touch each client on the knee or elbow at least once during each class.
Mandatory: three (3) social media posts, tagged with #fitfamsforce, each week.
There can be no more than two (2) seconds of dead air on the microphone at any time (“ABC: Always Be Coaching”).
Women’s hair must be worn in a messy top-knot (fig. 1) or high ponytail (fig. 2). (If your hair is short, see Appendix F.)
When she began to explain the workout to Pete, she could see him mentally sign off. He exercised once a week, and mostly because of his blood pressure. He wasn’t terribly impressed when Willa hit a new deadlift PR, and he was truly baffled when she spent $150 to run through mud, ice pits, and live wires at an obstacle race.
“Mama!” James yelled, barreling toward Willa. This was her eight-year-old, her mini-me, who planned to be a famous singer when he grew up and also save the oceans. When she’d told him the bare minimum about where babies come from, he had yelled, in a crowded restaurant, “Your BA-JI-MA? Did it stretch all the way to MARS?”
Charlie, at 11, was more introverted, like Pete, but still called her “mommy” and got in her lap when he felt sick. He was a skilled soccer player who wanted to someday go pro or, if that didn’t work out, become a trial lawyer and bicker for a living. He was currently in the basement, on the PlayStation, yelling into his headset about no-scoping.
“Baby James,” Willa said, pulling him in for a squeeze. Then, to Pete: “I’m supposed to go back tomorrow afternoon.”
Then her phone buzzed. She saw a text from Tara. “Come have a beer w team at Tap. Need to talk about training. FitFams is buying. Come out.”
She showed Pete the screen. “I don’t have to go. I can stay and help with dinner, and put the kids to bed. I mean, it would be cool to meet the other coaches and get to know Tara better. Dee might be there. But, I mean, it’s not mandatory …”
“My only Saturday night plans are with this Lego set,” Pete said. “You go ahead.”
So she kissed James on the head, Pete on the cheek, and headed out.