It’s not that sweet

Working out at Pop Physique feels like what I imagine being a sweaty piece of bubble gum in the back pocket of someone’s spandex pants feels like. You squat in front of a mirror a lot with a hot pink ball between your thighs while Oksana shouts, “Tuck! Tuck!”

Oksana is a real cutie pie. She teaches the eleven o’clock Pop Sculpt class on Saturdays that I promise myself I will attend but rarely do.

Tucking is basically the same motion as humping. I can never make it through a class without needing to stifle a giggle. There inevitably comes a point when Oksana yells “Tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck” with such astounding speed that my pelvis cannot possibly keep pace. Unable to face my sorry reflection in the giant mirrors, I look around to see if any of my moderately fit, superbly dressed classmates are still thrusting like a metronome. Nope. Nobody. It’s impossible.

When class is over, we clean our mats and put away the bizarrely sexy props. I thank Oksana for the hour’s torture. She asks my name (again) and we laugh. Then I waddle out the door on Jell-O legs in pursuit of an iced latte. I guess you could say I like my bourgeois weekend activities crammed back-to-back.

I pass the Charm City Circulator stop by the Washington Monument, iced beverage in hand, as I  search for my car. By that point, I am so goddamn confident and eager that I will introduce myself to anyone. If you just spent an hour squeezing your buns to pop music, you might feel pretty self-assured, too.

One particular Sunday, I noticed a middle aged lady sitting on the bus bench. She was following me unabashedly with her steady eyes. “Good morning! How’s it goin’?” I bubbled.

“Hey, you got any money? I need something to eat.”

These are the moments I await like a lioness. I’ve got change, food, cigarettes and gum neatly squared away in my purse and a relentless arsenal of friendliness. But this day, regrettably, I had left my purse at home.

“I’m sorry, hon. I don’t have any cash on me. You take care. Have a blessed day.”

“Have a blessed day” is an expression I learned here in Baltimore. I never heard it anywhere else although I don’t imagine it’s a totally uncommon salutation. I adopted this the same way I embraced the local custom of jaywalking through moving traffic.

“Well, what about that? What’s that?”

I froze. “You want this? It’s an iced latte.”

As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them. I held out the caramel-colored drink for her examination with an apparent readiness that disobeyed my immense hesitation. I recalled the milky, cocoa flavor of the drink in my mouth as I prepared to sacrifice it.

“Is it sweet?” she asked, gripping the cool plastic cup with indifference.

Here was my out. “No, it’s not really that sweet.”

I looked down at her clothes. She wore an old-fashioned dress that reminded me of my friend from elementary school who regularly donned Colonial era clothing to show her enthusiasm for American history. I swallowed hard.

“Do you want to try it and see if you like it?”

She hesitated. “It’s not sweet?”

“No. It’s not that sweet.”

“No thank you.” She handed back the cup.

“Okay. Sorry!” I complained.

She said nothing as I strolled away. When I looked back several minutes later, she was still upright on the bench waiting for the free bus. Her brown eyes had already relinquished their hold of my being and my coffee was gone.