Chapter 2

As I walked in, I saw someone on one of the treadmills. She had earbuds in and her back was to me, so she probably had no idea anyone else was in the room. I could see she had about 20 minutes left on the treadmill program, and it wasn’t set very fast. I could also see from the gleam of the new gym bag at her feet that she was probably new to the treadmill, if not to the gym entirely. I also suspectws, given her apparent size, that she had probably recently had a conversation with her doctor very much like the one I’d had with mine.

I decided to give her some space and defer any time on the treadmill tonight. Instead, I walked over to the weight bench, where I grabbed some light weights to work on my arms. In short order, though, my body reminded me that I hadn’t done this for a few weeks. The 10-pound weight quickly became very heavy in my hand, and I dropped it.

The weight hitting the floor got the woman’s attention. She hastily pulled out her earbuds, turned off the machine, and quickly said, with a very slight Midwestern twang in her voice, “Sorry ... sorry. I was just about done. I’m leaving, it’s all yours.”

I quickly scanned her face. I found it to be a very attractive face in spite of her overweight condition, framed by shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and piercing green eyes. And somehow, my brain hastened to inform me that if I don’t do something, right then, I would likely probably never see it again.

“Wait!” I said. Oh, brother, I thought as I heard the words leave my mouth. How original.

“No, no ... I ... I’ve been in here forever,” she laughed nervously.

“I would bet you have been here less than 10 minutes. You probably just started that program when I walked in.”

She gave me an inscrutable look, but nodded.

I straightened up and took a couple of steps toward her. As I did, I can see her eyes shift downward.

Damn it. Oh well, there was no harm in running with it. “Look, you can see where I’m not all that comfortable working out with a bunch of gym rats, so I imagine you’re not either. I know the signs.”

She didn’t get back on the treadmill. But she did stop packing up.

I gestured toward the weight bench. “Here. Sit for a minute.”

She hesitated, then came over and sat. I sat on the opposite end of the bench and extended my hand.

“John. John Mazur.”

With a thin, polite smile, she took it. “Lisa Garrett.”

I smiled. “So, Lisa, my story is that have a friend I can’t lie to who made me promise to come work out today. What’s yours?”

This actually got a smile in return from her. “Just ... need to lose weight. A lot of weight. You?”

“Trying to keep it off. I weighed about 40 pounds more than this two years ago.”

She chuckled. “Yeah, my doctor says my BMI is off the charts.”

I put up my hands. “Stop right there. Look at me. Do I look like I still need to lose 30 more pounds? Ten, maybe, but 30?”

She apprised me for a moment. “30? No way.”

“Yeah, well, the BMI charts say I should weigh between 74 and 99 pounds. By the way, you know Dwayne Johnson? The Rock? BMI charts say he’s obese. So don’t put too much stock in that.”