The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet

it’s hard to maintain a dignified air when you constantly need to seek out a mop in order to clean up after yourself and everyone around you. At least I enjoy my work.

Chapter One

    “ M aggie, I think it’s clean enough.” Sylvia stood with her hands on her hips, a scowl marring her classic features. In that pose, wearing a purple leotard and turquoise tights, she could have petitioned for membership to the Justice League.
    Work-out Woman, battling the bulge one frumpy housewife at a time!
    “You’re supposed to be toning with the abdominal machine, not rubbing it down for the night.”
    “Can I help it if it’s dusty?” I swiped at the pulley system with my paper towel, obviously the first to do so in quite a while. “You want me to be comfortable doing the reps, then let me get to know the machine first.”
    Sylvia snorted. “This isn’t a date, even though there will be a bit of skin-to-vinyl contact.”
    “Exactly! And how many other patrons have indulged in the same? Hairy, sweaty pimply-assed patrons.” I squinted at the crunch machine. “You’re the whore of the fitness world.”
    Sylvia let out a bark of laughter. “You’re terrible—stalling because you don’t want to do the exercises.”
    Well, give the woman a cigar! I wondered what tipped her off, my sloth-like movements or whining like a seven-year-old girl in Toys-R-Us’s Barbie section. Usually, my bevy of complaints was enough to convince Sylvia to hang at the juice bar and gab, but for some unknown reason, she’d decided to stick to her guns.
    “I can’t believe you bring your own bottle of cleanser. The gym provides plenty of anti-fungal, anti-bacterial spray solutions for people to use.”
    I snorted and scrubbed the levers under the seat. “Yeah, I’ve been watching and I have yet to see anyone replace the liquid in those spray bottles. Besides, have you taken a look at the unsavory sorts who frequent this dive?”
    “Like your husband?” Sylvia smirked. “Maggie, you need to get a grip. You’re becoming a paranoid recluse and it’s not doing a thing for your figure.”
    I ignored her brutal observation, mostly because she was right. This obsessive creature I’d become wasn’t fit or fun, but I couldn’t keep from indulging my fears—I’d seen too many horrors and looked evil in the eye.
    Sylvia nabbed my cleanser and pointed to the seat. “Sit and crunch, now.”
    Fine, but I didn’t have to like it. I sat and lowered the shoulder harness, then gripped the handles. Struggling, I tried to contract my abdominal muscles and make the motion to rock my upper body toward my lap, but couldn’t do it. “What weight is this thing set for?”
    Sylvia glanced over me and the corner of her mouth kicked up. “You’re only pulling ten pounds in addition to your own body weight. Still want to argue about your state of physical fitness?”
    Or lack thereof. Damn, she was right. I was a mess. Fervently, I tried again and managed to lift the weight about three quarters of an inch, before gravity bested me. I released the handles, huffing at the indignity and the exertion.
    “Great job, now do fourteen more reps, take a breather and then two more sets.”
    “You’re joking, right?”
    “If you want to tone, you need lower weight, higher reps. Of course if you want to build muscle I could always add some more weight.”
    “Sylvie, at this rate, we’ll be here all night! I want to get home in time for House .”
    She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m getting a headache. How about you do your scrub-n-scour routine, while I run out to my car and see if I have any ibuprofen? I’ll meet you in the ballroom in five, but you’re going to do the exercises.”
    I’d never heard Sylvia this agitated before and it unnerved me. Usually she radiated inner calm, a self-possessed rock to my sea of turbulent emotion. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
    Sylvia shook her head. She took what she referred to a cleansing breath. Since she wasn’t huffing Lysol, I was clueless to the cleansing part. “Maybe another day, I’m a little tired.”
    And I wasn’t helping, acting like a petulant five-year-old. The purplish smudges under her eyes matched her leotard, but I doubted she’d set out to make that fashion statement. Maybe this work-out was more for her benefit than mine. Guilt flayed me and I made a silent vow to keep the pithy commentary to a minimum.
    “I’m here if you need to vent,” I offered and spritzed the