sitting one out

There was a brief moment of breath holding. We were both sitting at a patio. Someone I have not seen for many years - how long has it been anyway? 10 years at least, I'm sure. There is a reason we have not seen each other, yet it surprises me a little that we have never run each each other until now.
There was no sign of recognition. No flicker of of the eyes, or a quick turn of the head to follow my progress to the table in the sunny corner. Nothing to show that I was at all familiar. I was ignored and I ignored back.
I read my book, drank my coffee and listened to their conversation. It was not enlightening, nor even remotely interesting. I thought about how I would respond when I got up to leave. Would I be tempted to nudge the chair as I squeezed past? Would my bag accidentally hit a head? Would I stand in front of the table, directly in line of vision and dare to be noticed? Would I deign to speak?
But I realized there was no desire for contact. There was really nothing I wanted to say.
That feeling in the pit of my stomach never actually materialized.
And that felt good.

Except, how could I not be recognized???

woman in pink

There were only two of us in the gym, on an afternoon during +3oC temperatures.

I have decided that my new regimen will include spending a certain amount of time every day using the treadmill or elliptical, especially since walking in this heat just drains me of the will to live move.

I settled onto the more taxing of the machines with my water bottle and a newspaper section. Because the only way I can manage the elliptical is to be distracted from the fact that I am on an elliptical. I politely say hello to the woman in pink on the machine far off to my right. She is watching the television with subtitles for All My Children. I ask if I am blocking her view, because if I was I would gladly have used that excuse to move to the easier machine. But, no, she was fine. I notice that she is standing tall and elegant and I want to emulate this instead of gripping the bar for dear life.

I spend a fair bit of time programming the machine, organizing my water bottle on the little shelf and holding my newspaper as I pedal. I stare out the window, I read for a bit, I glance at the television, I read a bit more. I wipe off the sweat that is pouring down my forehead. I slow for a drink, but the water bottle is one of those with a wide mouth, and I have not slowed enough so it sploshes on my t-shirt. I check the time. 4 minutes. I realize I am panting. I furiously read a book review about a book I will never read by an author I have never heard of. Keep moving.

I decide I need a towel at the 6 minute mark and as I get off the machine I glance at the woman in pink. She is steadily doing what you do on her elliptical machine. Very fast. She has long, straight blonde hair. Not a strand seemed to be frizzed. I see no beads of perspiration. I am fascinated.

My hair is uncomfortably damp. My face, I know, is flushed (one reason I NEVER wear pink when I exercise). Keep moving. My legs are shaking, but to slow down is actually more difficult so I keep pedalling. I stop to drink some water. And rest. I cannot keep moving. It has been 16 minutes. Oh wait, plus the original 6 minutes. Yay, I actually went over the 20 minute level! I smile in pride. I wipe the sweat from my brow, my arms, my chest, my neck, my head... I try to stand upright as get off the machine. I try to breathe more slowly and less obviously. The woman in pink is still steadily pedalling. I feel a bit intimidated.

I move to the treadmill...

I move to the steam bath...

I move to the shower....

As I am drying my hair, the woman in pink comes into the change room. Still no beads of sweat, no frizzy hair. Still standing tall and elegant. She changes into street clothes and leaves, looking for all the world refreshed. I wonder if she was an illusion.

I think about another woman in pink, Pinklea.

She may or may not be an illusion, but she has bestowed upon me an award, so I like to think she must be real. And she lives in Vancouver where I hope to visit again some day....

A Prolific Blogger Award.

I'm not always particularly prolific, but now I have a responsibility to try harder.

And, of course, there are rules.

A Prolific Blogger must link back to the person who awarded them. That would be Pinklea. Done.

A Prolific Blogger must link to the original blog where the award is explained and add your blogname to Mr Linky so everyone else can read your prolificness. Done. I am #347.

Then, a Prolific Blogger must pass this award on to 7 other Prolific Bloggers.

Hmm. Well, if you think you are a prolific blogger and would like this award, it is yours. Take from me with my blessing. And keep blogging. Keep moving. And stand tall and elegant. And proud of your accomplishment.

Thank you Pinklea!