Megan
I don't believe it. I still don't have my clothes, among several other items.
It's Monday afternoon. I'm heading to the fitness center after donning a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that I bought using the credit card Britney had sent to me.
If I'm going to live in New York, I'll have to go to the gym at least thrice a week. I mean, it seems to be the law or something, so this is a good way to acclimatize.
As I reach the entrance to the fitness center, I catch a glimpse of my reflection--and gasp. I look horrible: My brown hair, tied in a high ponytail, looks dry. My skin is white as chalk. And my face seems more bloated than usual.
People in New York, I've observed, are pencil thin and fit. The complete opposite of me.
"Hi, there," says a guy in a trendy black Lycra. "My name is Tony. How are you today?"
"I-I'm fine.. thanks.. Just here for a little workout."
"Do you exercise regularly?" he inquires.
"No.. This is my first time at a gym," I admit timidly. "I.. I walk sometimes." Why do I feel the need to compensate myself?
"Great!" says Tony. "On treadmill or cross-country?"
"In parks, mostly," I confess.
"Right.." he says, not looking convinced. "Well.. would you like me to show you how the machines work?"
"It's alright," I answer with a smile. "I'll be fine." I take a towel from the pile, drape it around my thick neck, then head off toward a running machine, which should be fairly simple.
I step up onto the treadmill and survey the buttons in front of me. A panel is flashing the word "Time" and after some thought, I enter "30 minutes" which sounds about right.
I mean, that's how long you'd go for a walk, isn't it? The screen flashes "Program" and after scrolling down the choices, I select "Hill Walk." Then it flashes "Level." Hmm. Level. I look around for advice, but Tony is nowhere to be seen.
A balding guy in a gray t-shirt that says Montana is getting onto the treadmill next to mine, and I lean over. "Excuse me," I say politely. "Which level do you think I should choose?"
"That depends," he replies. "How fit are you?"
I'm not sure I like this conversation. "Well, um.."
He smiles. "I'm going for level 5, if it's any help," he says, briskly punching at his machine.
"Okay," I respond. "Thanks!"
Level 5? Hmm. If I choose a higher level, maybe I'll lose weight faster. I punch in "8" and press "Start." The treadmill starts moving, and I start walking. And this is really pleasant! I should go to the gym more often. Or, in fact, join a gym.
Hang on, the machine's tilting upward. It's speeding up. And I'm running to catch up with it. Which is OK. I mean, this is the point, isn't it? Having a nice healthy jog. Running along, panting a little, but that just means my heart is working.
Which is perfect. As long as it doesn't get any--It's tilting again. And it's getting faster. And faster.
I can't do this. My chubby face is red. My chest is hurting. I'm panting frenziedly, and clutching the sides of the machine. I can't run this fast. I have to slow down a bit.
Feverishly I jab at the panel--but the treadmill keeps whirring around--then suddenly cranks up even higher. Oh no. Please no.
"Time left: 28.00" flashes brightly on a panel before me. Twenty-eight more minutes?
