20 Million Tiny Particles

11. Launch

Sheridan called me Monday afternoon. She was on her way to yoga and had to fill me in on the news -- a new product had been delivered at her house. "Everyone's been raving about it online," she told me through the speakerphone. I could hear the sound of her car and the tapping of her nails on her metal water bottle as she took swigs in between her sentences.

The product, she told me, was an energy gel.

"It's all natural," she went on. Whatever that means. "I think it'll be really good to use when we have our workout parties, you know? We can try it with some of the girls from last week, maybe invite some of the class teachers from the gym."

Like they needed energy. I told her I had a better idea.

We decided to meet after her class, at the Y. I told Miss Lavonne I'd be back in a little and she gave a nod as I fluttered through the front doors. She told me not to forget to call back a collector who'd inquired about an antique vase we'd acquired, and I waved my hand as I closed the door as if to say "It's already done." (It wasn't.) My dad was somewhere in the back office doing bookkeeping; I figured we'd bump into each other at some point that evening, but so far we hadn't spoken today.

At the Y, I couldn't get past the front desk. "Sorry, ma'am, you have to have a membership fob or an ID card."

I stepped back and texted Sheridan. In a moment, she appeared to let me in with her visitor's pass. "Next time, get a membership card," she advised as she led me through the foyer. Tennis shoes squeaked on the basketball court on the far side of the room. To our right, glass walls enclosed a large swimming pool where women in swim caps held their arms high above their heads chanting "One, two, three four, one, two, three, four." Beyond us, I could see group fitness rooms, mostly empty, and a cluster of cardio machines facing televisions with Fox News anchors speaking silently toward the few blank-faced women sweating on the treadmills.

"It's only $10 a month," Sheridan said, pushing open the door to an empty classroom. A stack of black exercise mats stood towered to one side of the door. To the right, rows of exercise bikes pushed up against the mirrored wall left the small room even more cramped. I followed Sheridan to the front of the room, where her bags were laid on the floor beside an unfolded purple yoga mat.

I told her I'd get a card on the way out. It would be easier that way.

"You can come to my classes, too," she chirped. "I'm starting pilates next week." I admitted I'd never done pilates. "Oh, it's so easy," she told me.

"Where did you learn how to be an instructor?" I asked.

"I just do YouTube videos," she shrugged. "It's really not that hard." I saw the lightbulb brighten above her head. "You could start teaching if you need extra money."

I shook my head. "I'm really busy at the store."

"Oh."

It occurred to me that this seemed to be how Sheridan made decisions: by following the bright ideas until she got so deep in that she was bored of it.

Did we have that in common?

She sat herself on the floor, her legs spread out in a v-shape with her gym bag in between them. "Here, take a look at the product." She dug through her things before retrieving a small red box. Prying it open, she told me more about the big new thing. "It's basically what marathon runners use to stay energized during races." She took a small tube out of the package and set the box aside while fiddling with the cap. I reached for it to read the ingredients list, which was minimal at best and gibberish at worst. "And it's super low calorie."