Wedding Weight

Chapter 9 - Your Own Cattle Prod

Soon, Robyn fell into a dreary routine. A day trapped in the bungalow for cardio, watching presumably inspirational movies that never failed to confound or depress her. Then a day of resistance training, chained to Torquemada's Bowflex, where Debbie would cattle prod her at the slightest indication that she was slacking off. In between, she worked on wedding arrangements, cried a lot, and got a great deal of sleep.

It was a dreadful existence. Yes, she was getting into shape. Her waistline had slimmed and while she wasn't yet ripped, the muscular scaffolding was there. The tight, form-fitting gym wear that had initially made her look like a stuffed sausage was a lot less lumpy.

But her incremental progress was cold comfort in the face of a seemingly endless cavalcade of pain and isolation. It was only a matter of time before she would snap again.

It was a strength training day. She was doing lat pulls, squeezing her shoulder blades together as Debbie had instructed, slowly pulling the steel bar to her upper chest. And she found herself once again, exhausted to the point of incapacity.

"That's it," Robyn wheezed. "I can't do any more."

At which point, Debbie cattle prodded her.

"God fucking damn it!" Robyn exploded, when she stopped convulsing. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"I'm trying to teach you something," Debbie said, matter-of-factly.

"What? That cattle prods fucking hurt? Lesson fucking learned!"

"No," Debbie responded. "I'm teaching you something about yourself." Robyn looked at Debbie, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about. "Over and over, you keep telling me that you're too tired, that just don't have it in you, that you can't." She had adopted a petulant tone that Robyn did not appreciate. "But over and over, I zap you, and guess what? It turns out that you can."

She gave Robyn a thoroughly self-satisfied look that made Robyn want to punch her in the face.

"What I want," continued Debbie, "is for you to understand how strong you really are. To be your own cattle prod."

"My own cattle prod?"

"It's a metaphor," Debbie explained and when Robyn didn't respond, she explained further. "For an actual cattle prod."

Robyn was no longer listening. She was experiencing a moment of clarity, an epiphany. Debbie, she realized, was absolutely right. Robyn was strong and she was capable of far more than she had given herself credit for.

So she resolved that from now on she would stop her whining and complaining. Instead, she would train with laser-like intensity. She would do everything she was told and she would give everything she had. She would shed fat, she would build muscle, she would get fit.

Then, when the time was right, she'd break out of this fucking lunatic asylum. And God help anyone who stood in her way.

"OK," Debbie said cheerfully. "You ready to work those triceps?"

"Yes," Robyn grinned. "Yes, I am."

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Brian was running down the strand in Hermosa Beach. At least that's how Brian would have described it. In truth, calling it "running" was rather grandiose. Even "jogging" qualified as mild overstatement. Basically, he was walking as fast as he could without spilling Peanut Butter Smoothie on his sleeveless gray T-shirt.

He stopped and looked out towards the ocean, barely visible through the early morning haze. He took an icy sip through an orange-colored straw, only dimly aware of the smoking hot, scantily-clad women who rollerbladed past him.