I got to the gym at 7:30 this morning, put my things in a locker, stretched, and at 7:45, I got a treadmill.
As I climb on and start pushing buttons, the woman on the next treadmill pulls out one earbud, looks over, and asks, “Is it hot in here?”
“What’s that,” I ask.
“Is it hot in here,” she repeats, “or is it just me?”
“I don’t know…” I say, simultaneously disoriented by, and relishing, the innuendo. “I’m not feeling it, but ask me again in 15 minutes, and I might be right there with you.”
She replaces her earbud and resumes her trotting. I crank up the lewdest music RockMyRun has to offer and get on with it, amazed, yes, that I’d been hit on at the gym, but more so by the pickup line itself. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” Like maybe everything was supposed to become that Usher song after. Or like I’d answer. “Baby, I’m pretty sure you’re the source of all heat in this cold, dark universe.” And then maybe Usher?
My thoughts drift. I run pretty hard for a while, then slow down to drink some water.
“Now are you hot,” she asks, pointing at my treadmill display.
I’ve been at it a little over 15 minutes, I’m drenched in sweat, red in the face, breathing heavy.
“Now I’m hot,” I tell her. “Right on schedule.”
I’m feeling pretty good about now. I’ve got game, I think. Who would have thunk. Pointy finger. Wink. Tongue click.
“Well you’ve been running your ass off,” she continues. “With me, it’s all hormonal!”
I manage not to fall off the treadmill. She keeps going.
“For two years now. I’m on medicine and everything, but nothing’s any good against hot flashes.”
My heart doesn’t know whether to sink or soar.
“I’m just happy to be here,” she says. “Plenty of women my age are slowing down! But not me! Yeah!”
We make small talk for the remainder of a minute or so, while I drink water and sympathize with her, so grateful that I’ll never have to experience menopause.
“Well,” I interrupt, in an act of tough love, “my break’s over,” and I crank the music back up resume running.
Not from anything. Not toward anything. It’s a fucking treadmill. That’s the thing to remember.