The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Swept Under the Rug

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, before gripping 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 just do fourteen more reps, take a breather 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! And 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 ball room in five, but you’re gonna 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 and took what she referred to as a cleansing breath. Since she wasn’t huffing Lysol, I was clueless as 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 seat of the crunch machine.
    “I know, and thanks. Ball room in five.” She turned and made her way around various weight machines towards the lobby.
    Crud muffins. I really didn’t want to do calisthenics. A stroll on the treadmill or even the Stairmaster I could deal with, but calisthenics were akin to self-imposed torture. Worse even than the weight machines, since other patrons wanted a shot at those and there was a time limit. Using one’s own body for resistance could go on until the end of time. And given my state of physical fitness and Sylvia’s do or die mood, just might.
    Disheartened, I gave the crunch machine a final swipe and trundled in the direction of the ball room. The ball room was really a storage studio located in the far corner of the fitness area. Staff and members alike stored a cache of various free weights, balance balls and yoga mats while some of the personal trainers took their clients there for one-on-one instruction, but it usually remained empty. Light shone from beneath the door, and I deduced that the staff hadn’t locked it up for the night. So much for my feeble hope.
    Quit your griping. You need this exercise, My inner critic scolded and I knew it was right. As a hopeless klutz, I had no equal and I’d been avoiding any kind of obvious exercise for longer than I could remember. But I’d crossed the hill to the far side of thirty and was losing muscle tone as well as dealing with a slower metabolism. People already wondered how I’d snagged a prize stud like Neil—who at almost thirty-seven, looked more like a male underwear model than when I’d married him a decade ago. I didn’t need to add my flabby abs and saggy buns to the grisly picture.
    Resolve firmly duct-taped to the sticking place, I opened the door to the ball