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Page 4
If I could talk to my 12-year-old self, I’d tell her she’s worth so much more than just the number on the scale. I’d tell her to practice eating until she’s full, not stuffed. To eat what makes her feel good, not just because she’s sad or bored. To go out for lunch with friends and just have fun instead of worrying about how many calories one Subway sandwich is.
A massive part of fitness is mental health. If you’re unhappy, stressed, and constantly being hard on yourself, your body will reject progress. And you certainly won’t be as inspired to keep pushing forward when it’s tough.
That’s why I’m challenging you to join the Size Positive campaign by ignoring the haters and the numbers, and living your best life. Your size means nothing if you aren’t happy. Who’s with me?
Comment by trainerrachel_1990: I love this!! So joining in. Screw the scales.
Comment by BradRcerrr: So u think its ok for ppl to be obese as long as they’re “happy”? LOL
Comment by _jillianmcleod_: Can relate. I hated getting changed in the locker room too.
Comment by Pilatesgirl1016: Thanks for sharing your story and this amazing campaign! So inspirational. I agree, I feel so much better when I’m not weighing myself. Haven’t done it in years. I just focus on my progress at the gym.
Comment by Kelsey_Bilson: How do I track my progress without dieting or weighing myself? Isn’t it calories in, calories out?
Reply by CurvyFitnessCrystal: @Kelsey_Bilson I’m not saying to stop tracking these things outright if it’s working for you. But if it’s starting to upset you or stress you out, stop for a few weeks and just listen and respect your body.
chapter four
EVERY YEAR ON Easter Sunday, the following things happen like clockwork:
Mom’s side of the family, the McCarthys, congregates at Grandma Flo’s bungalow. We watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, the original version, squished on the stiff floral couch while indulging in a week’s worth of Mini Eggs.
Tara entertains the family with her uncanny (and eerily accurate) impression of Veruca Salt singing, “I want the world. I want the whole world. I want to lock it all up in my pocket. It’s my bar of chocolate. Give it to me now!” while I plug my ears.
Mom’s “third child,” a dreadful five-pound Chihuahua named Hillary (yes, Mom named her after Hillary Clinton), incessantly whines at all the male family members for attention. And when she doesn’t get it, she lashes out by peeing on Grandma’s Persian rug.
By dinnertime, everyone is already too sick of each other to bother with polite conversation. Dad chokes down Grandma’s dry turkey, while Mom stomps his foot under the table when his happy-go-lucky façade begins to wear thin. Then, Mom and Uncle Bill toss passive-aggressive comments back and forth over who does more for Grandma Flo.
This year is different.
Grandma Flo didn’t invite us for dinner. Instead, she and her two childhood girlfriends took an impromptu road trip to the Plainridge Park Casino, which is entirely out of character. She doesn’t even approve of bingo or scratch tickets. Tara is convinced she’s going through an elderly life crisis.
Since no one was aware of Grandma’s wild casino plans until two days ago, we’re having a low-key hot pot dinner at my parents’ place in the suburbs.
Dad is pleased about the food because he gets to dodge Grandma’s turkey until Thanksgiving. His side of the family owns a popular Chinese restaurant, so he’s impossibly picky about food quality.
“Do you have at least six months’ salary in your emergency fund?” Dad asks me, patting the corner of his mouth with one of the carefully halved takeout napkins he has a habit of hoarding.
I groan. “Dad, seriously. Stop worrying. I’m not spending frivolously. My gym membership and all my clothes are sponsored. I have a huge check coming in the mail from Nike. And I have more than enough money saved and invested for the future, just in case.”
Since the beef broth started simmering, Dad has been on a well-intentioned rant about how I need to reevaluate my career options, given my current income is “temporary.” He constantly badgers me about getting a “real job” for the sake of “long-term financial security.” Even after the success of his commercial cleaning business, he still pinches pennies, to the extreme. Tara and I even signed him up to be on TLC’s Extreme Cheapskates. When the producers called him and asked him to be on the show, he declined and refused to speak to us for five days.
“I don’t mean to cut you down. Your fitness account is a great hobby. But I’m your father. It’s my job to worry about you.” He casts a grim glance at me as I mix my dipping sauce.
He never hides his disappointment that I didn’t follow the plan of joining corporate America after getting my business degree at Northeastern like a good Chinese girl. But by my third year, I was already making significantly more than a typical entrance salary through endorsements and paid posts alone. It seemed ridiculous to settle for less money, being stuck in a bland cubicle from nine to five, and taking orders from a disgruntled baby boomer who doesn’t know my name.
Mom would usually echo Dad’s grievances, but tonight, she’s visibly shook over Grandma Flo. “I just find it bizarre,” she says out of nowhere, clumsily dipping her beef into the soy sauce. After almost thirty years of marriage to Dad, she has yet to master the art of chopsticks. Dexterity isn’t her thing.
“Maybe she wanted to have a relaxed Easter this year, since Bill and Shannon are with the kids in Europe,” Dad suggests.
“But a casino? On a religious weekend? She’s a devout Catholic.” Mom shakes her head, clutching a trembling Hillary in her arms. The rest of us detest having Hillary at the table like a human, but Mom refuses to relent, taking it as a personal attack when we complain. In fact, she spends half her time talking to her instead of us.
I nod, swallowing a mushroom while avoiding Hillary’s beady little black eyes. “You’re right. Something doesn’t add up.”
Tara struggles to extract a fish ball from the hot pot. “Give Grandma a break. The holidays have been tough on her since Grandpa.”
I’d never really thought about it like that. Grandpa’s death three years ago has been rough on everyone, particularly Grandma. “Maybe. But I thought she loved hosting.”
“She does,” Tara agrees. “If she didn’t want to stick around to host this year, there must be a reason.”
A mental image of a grieving Grandma Flo makes my heart ache. “What if I try to call her right now? See how she’s doing?” I suggest.
Mom leans in, cradling Hillary, practically digging her elbow into mine. “Yeah. Let’s check in on her.”
Dad lets out an extended sigh before taking a gulp of his water.
Before Tara or Dad can protest, I’ve already hit Call and set it to speakerphone. It trills five times before she picks up.
“Hello?” Her shrill voice shatters my eardrum.
Cringing, I hold the phone farther away from my ear. “Hi, Grandma. It’s Crystal.”
“Oh, Crystal. Hi.” Awkward silence. It’s quiet wherever she is. There aren’t any of the dings and chimes you’d expect to hear in a casino. “Listen, I got your text on Facebook about my appointment next week and I meant to put a thumbs-up, but I hit the poop button instead. You know how I am with those darn touch screens. Good thing you didn’t inherit my wide McCarthy thumbs. I hope you weren’t too offended, dear.” Tara and I look at each other and try not to crack up. These emoji blunders are commonplace for Grandma Flo. Last month, she inserted five Laugh-Crying Face emojis on a Rest in Peace Facebook eulogy post for her recently deceased friend. She’d mistaken it for a sad face. “Happy Easter, by the way,” she adds.
“No worries. I figured the poop emoji was a mistake. And happy Easter to you too. I was just calling to see how your girls’ trip is going. Any big casino winnings?”
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“Casino?” She pauses for a moment, as if I’ve just inquired about life on Mars. I meet my family’s suspicious gazes as she bumbles on. “Oh, right. Yes. The casino. It’s good. No winnings, though,” she says with shaky laughter.
“What games have you played?” Mom pipes in. She sets Hillary down, which results in more incessant whining. “Patience! Don’t be rude,” she fury-whispers to her, as if Hillary is a human child.
There’s another pause from Grandma. “Uh, bridge.”
“Bridge? At a casino?” Mom’s nostrils flare.
“Oh, sugar. I meant blackjack.”
Silence lingers as Dad stands to dump more broth into the hot pot. Grandma has never set foot in a casino in her entire life. She’s clearly lying. But why?
I contemplate going full detective mode, picturing Squat Rack Thief’s penetrating glare when I hid his phone. But I blink myself back, suddenly feeling guilty. If Grandma feels the need to come up with an elaborate lie to get some space this Easter, who am I to be bothered?
“Well, um, I’m glad you’re having fun.” I decide to let her off the hook, given that Mom is leaning halfway across the dining table, ready to launch into an interrogation. “We miss you.”
“I miss you guys too. Your dad must be pleased he doesn’t have to eat my turkey this year,” Grandma says knowingly.
Dad’s eyes grow wide. “Did you tell her?” he whispers to Mom, who shakes her head in unconvincing denial.
“Well, I’d better get going. Love you, dear!” Grandma says, before the line cuts.
I blink slowly, stirring my dipping sauce as I digest the bizarre conversation. “What was that all about?”
Mom flattens her lips, hoisting Hillary back onto her lap. “She was definitely not at the casino.”
* * *
• • •
FOLLOWING THE STRANGE call with Grandma Flo last night, as well as some nasty comments on the launch of my Size Positive campaign, I distract myself at the gym. It’s empty, as expected on Easter weekend. Even the staff are off, making the facility accessible solely via swipe pass. Apparently, gym bros also take Easter off to celebrate, because it’s only me and two other women killing it in the Gym Bro Zone.
This positive female energy is diluted the moment Squat Rack Thief stomps through the turnstiles, emitting enough testosterone to fill the entire facility. He’s wearing his normal ball cap, track pants, and a dark green hoodie, which brings out the mossy hues in his eyes. We make reluctant eye contact as he stalks past me, prowling his way to the changing room.
Despite glowering at each other several times during our respective workouts, we keep our distance. He’s doing a leg day. I’m focusing on biceps and shoulders.
This strange, silent truce is actually tolerable. Maybe now we can return to being complete strangers, despite the fact that he knows my name, profession, and Instagram handle, all of which are easily exploitable pieces of information.
Speaking of Instagram, I need to check my emails. I’m waiting for Maxine, a particularly needy client, to confirm our virtual check-in this afternoon. But when I come up for air from my downward dog position to grab my phone, it isn’t on the mat where I left it. To ensure I’m not delusional, I retrace my steps, scanning the floor around all the machines I used today. But it’s nowhere in sight.
Unless my phone disappeared into thin air, there’s only one other explanation. I zero in on Squat Rack Thief, who’s currently occupied on the inner and outer thigh machine. Seemingly, our truce is null and void.
Tired and grouchy, I march in front of him, hand on hip. “Alright, I’m done with this game. Just give me back my phone.”
He stares at me, mid-set. “You’d have to be sick and deranged to steal someone’s phone at the gym.”
“I didn’t take your phone. I simply stored it for safekeeping.”
“I didn’t take your phone either, Crystal.” He smiles ever so slightly, drunk with power when he says my name.
“You did,” I shoot back. “I had it with me the entire time. Except when I was stretching. I left it on the mat.”
He grimaces as he completes his last rep. Letting the tension go on the machine, he leans forward, breathing hard. “Someone else must have taken it, then, because I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, believe it. I don’t have it.” He opens his palms to proclaim his fake innocence. “Although I kind of wish I did. Imagine all the Tindering I could do on your behalf.” He’s overcome with glee at the very thought.
Ignoring him, I nod toward his lower half, which looks far too appealing in those low-hanging Under Armour shorts. “Empty your pockets,” I demand.
He gets up from the machine, shoving his hands in his pockets, extracting his own phone. “See?”
I don’t know what’s come over me, but I reach out to pat both of his pockets myself, like an overzealous TSA agent at the airport. His pockets are light and empty, except for the jingle of his keys. No sign of my phone.
“Did you just frisk me?” His deep, rumbling laughter makes my insides coil in a way it shouldn’t.
I scoff, quickly losing interest. My phone is definitely not in his pockets. If he didn’t take it, who the heck did?
I dart away to conduct one last thorough inspection of the gym. I rack my brain for possible explanations. Did one of the ladies lifting steal it? Both of them were completely unassuming. Normal. Middle-aged. Mom-energy. Matching low-maintenance hairstyles. One was even wearing a tennis visor. Certainly not the type who would conspire to steal a dented iPhone 10 with a tacky bedazzled case from a clearance bin in Chinatown. But then again, anyone can be a klepto.
The chilling possibilities linger up until Squat Rack Thief slinks past me, snickering as I’m bent over like an idiot, peering into the dirt-filled crevices of the shoulder press.
I whip around, following him like a dog to a bone. “You hid it somewhere, didn’t you?”
He spins on his heel, walking backward past the treadmills at a snail’s pace. “Believe me, if I wanted to mess with you, I could think of much better ways to get under your skin.” The wicked way he says get under your skin, so deep and velvety smooth, nearly knocks the wind out of my chest. But only momentarily.
I let out a literal growl as he ducks into the men’s changing room, out of sight.
A waft of Axe body spray assaults my senses when I come to an abrupt halt in the doorway. I take a quick scan around. There are no other men in the gym right now except for Squat Rack Thief. And I need my phone. My client is waiting for me. I can’t be a no-show. I pride myself on being reliable, on time, and always there for my clients. My entire brand and reputation rest on this.
Screw it.
chapter five
ENTERING THE MEN’S changing room is foreign. The layout is identical to the women’s changing room—rows of lockers in the front, showers and toilets in the back. But it’s like I’ve stepped into Narnia, or a beast’s lair. The simple fact that I’m not supposed to be in here sends a pang of nervous energy trickling down my spine as I creep past the first row of lockers.
On the brink of aborting this entire mission, I spot Squat Rack Thief in the second row. He’s rifling around in his locker, his bare back to me. I take a moment to admire the hard ridges of muscle over muscle that make up his torso. He has one of those tapered shapes. Broad shoulders and narrow waist.
I’m not supposed to see this. My palms aren’t supposed to get clammy. My ears aren’t supposed to burn. My body isn’t supposed to be tingly south of my belly button. I’ve officially become a Peeping Tom, a creeper, a voyeur. I squeeze my eyes shut. I really ought to turn around and get out of Dodge. If I leave now, I can forget I ever saw this. But I can allow myself one more look, right? Just one.
I bet he’s one of those guys with the damn V. The outline that goes straight down
to the . . .
Shit. He is. Life is cruel. What did I do to deserve this harsh fate?
He’s fully facing me now and I have no idea where to cast my eyes. His prominent six-pack? The dusting of light brown hair on his chest? His V? His hulking shoulder muscles? His gorgeous eyes, wide with surprise when he sees me standing there like the stalker I am? His body is a work of art. It belongs in a Parisian museum, protected by velvet rope and an armored guard.
He appraises me, lips curving into a half smile. He’s both amused and understandably confused. “Crystal. How can I be of assistance to you?”
I widen my stance, recalling the real reason I’m here, which does not involve hungrily admiring Squat Rack Thief’s body in any way, shape, or form. And I’m definitely not going to fantasize about it later.
“I know you took my phone. Stop messing with me and give it back now.”
He lets out a half laugh, as if I’m certifiably insane. And maybe I am. But my entire life is on that phone. Photos. Pre-edited business content. Videos. My clients’ workout plans. The worst part: I ran out of iCloud storage months ago and was too lazy to buy more. If I lose this phone, I lose it all.
“You sure you’re not a little confused and exhausted from all those shoulder presses?” he asks, unable to squash his patronizing amusement.
“I don’t get exhausted. Ever. I appreciate the concern, though,” I add, voice sweeter than Grandma Flo’s sugar pie.
“Oh, I could exhaust you.” His eyes blaze, and I nearly choke at the innuendo (whether he intended it or not). “In fact, I think you’re already at the end of your rope with me right now.”
“Not even close.”
“It really doesn’t take much to get you all riled up.” His gravelly voice almost distracts me as he inches in front of his open locker.