The Boyfriend Plan Read online

  Color me embarrassed. Today was a bit of a disaster. Gayle must have watched another therapy show because she is stepping up the intensity and frequency of her emails. Her first email this morning contained a countdown of large flashing numbers, and I almost jumped out of my chair when the accompanying music started to play. “159 days to go until the race, 159 days to go until the race,” the screen shouted at me. It made me feel guilty, a bit nervous, and extremely scared. I need to get on the running thing quickly. Otherwise, Gayle is going to kick my ass, and I am going to look like a fool on marathon day. I guess the countdown worked at actually getting me into action because I decided that I would go to the gym right after work. I even skipped happy hour with Jim (the computer guru), Ben (my office love), and Lola (queen of the know-it-alls).

  I was pretty excited to get to the gym. They have a sauna there, so I was thinking that I could run a little on the treadmill, ok walk, and then go relax in the sauna for a bit. I’d even downloaded some new songs to my iPod and was pretty excited about having a chance to listen to some music uninterrupted. The new Rihanna song I had downloaded had me pumped up to work out, and I walked into the gym feeling pretty jazzed up. My feeling of contentment only rose when I saw all the hot guys working out.

  At first, I didn’t even notice that everyone in there was perfect except me. I was so mesmerized by how many good-looking men were there. I’m talking about bodies that are usually only seen in action movies, with faces to match. I’d never seen such perfection in so many men who weren’t on TV screens, and well, it definitely put an added pep in my step. I was walking to the treadmills when it happened. This guy, who looked like a young George Clooney (yes, I will go on a date with you right now if you ask me to, kind sir), smiled at me, and winked. I was thinking to myself, “Wow, my new, slightly too-tight gym pants and white t-shirt (that’s so thin that you can see my hot-pink sports bra clearly through it) were worth the buy.” So, I did what any slightly shy but excited girl in her late 20’s would do. Well, at least what I think they would also do. I gave him, GC’s twin, a big smile and winked my left eye back at him. Next thing I know, this cute petite blonde goes running up to him and gives him a kiss on the cheek and starts talking animatedly. I didn’t stick around to find out what the conversation was about. But the pep in my step had decidedly less bounce after that.

  I should have just gone to the sauna after that incident. I could have let the hot air sweat away my embarrassment, but no, I don’t always think rationally. I decided to keep my head high, and with my cheeks burning a deep red, I hurried over to the nearest machine, which was a treadmill, and jumped on. It was then that I noticed that not only were all the guys super hot, but so were the girls. Every single one of them. I felt like I was Daffy Duck in Ocean’s Eleven, completely out of my natural environment. To make matters worse, GC’s twin and the blonde were laughing over something pretty loudly, and I could only think that, of course, it was about me and my stupid wink.

  Being the smart person that I am, I made things even worse. I, of course, did the stupidest thing that I could have done. I started running. On the treadmill. At 11 MPH. Me, who could barely keep up with the walk at 3 MPH. And within 10 seconds, I was flying off the treadmill and sitting on my ass. My slightly big, and to some just plain fat, ass. Not embarrassing at all. My too-tight pants were happily displaying my stomach, which seemed to proudly bulge out, while my t-shirt played the peek-a-boo game with my bellybutton. And then to make matters worse, the best-looking guy in the whole gym of already gorgeous guys comes by to help me up. And I just sit there on the floor and stare at him, because his face looks slightly familiar and I am trying to place him from a movie or TV show. And I just sit there staring for what seems like hours but was likely just a minute. And while that may not sound like a long time, it really is very long. Count it. Measure a minute. See! Imagine staring at someone for a whole minute. And then imagine that someone is a gorgeous man, standing in front of you, with this hand stretched out to help you up, and you are just sitting there staring at him, with your heart beating loudly. A whole minute. No, that wasn’t embarrassing at all.

  I’ve decided that I’m not going back to that gym again. Never again. So what if I just paid $200 for a membership that came out of my savings account, which now has a balance of $33.60? I am not going to put myself through that embarrassment again. And so what if I have to deal with Gayle spewing all sorts of TV-induced therapy at me. And so what if I go and run the marathon and can only manage running for 1 minute before I run out of breath and stop? I can always pretend to have a panic attack or something.

  Okay, so maybe I will go back. Just one more time. I say that not only because I am scared of what Gayle will do to me if she finds out I quit the gym, but also because the gorgeous guy at the gym who helped me up after my fall gave me his business card as I hurried out of there doing the walk of shame. ‘Walk of shame’ because I promptly grabbed my gym bag and left right after that incident. I spent approximately 3 minutes working out in the gym today. I suppose that’s a step up over yesterday when I spent 0. I don’t quite understand why the guy gave me his card. It just has his name and number, no other information to give me a clue as to what his profession is, but I suppose maybe he’s a personal trainer and feels bad for me.

  He most likely sees me as an easy way to make more money each month. I mean, it had to be obvious that I had no clue what I was doing, and that I am dreadfully out of shape. I don’t know if I am going to call him, though. I’ll have to sleep on it. I wonder if his voice is as hot as his body. Plus, I don’t know what I would say if I called. I mean, “Is Blake there? This is the fat girl who made a fool of herself at the gym…” doesn’t sound too brilliant and neither does “Hi, Blake, it’s me, your fat Cinderella, calling to make all your dreams come true.” Perhaps I just won’t call at all.

  2

  Dear Diary,

  I am a pushover. I feel like I am easily pushed into things, or I try to be nice and convince others I will do things that I don’t necessarily really want to do. I also have a number of friends who seem to revel in this fact and delight in getting me to make a fool of myself. When am I ever going to learn? I thought that once you hit your mid-twenties as a woman (we all know it is much later for men), you were mature and level-headed and that magically, the ability to speak your mind came into practice. Well, it never happened. Here I am, still being bossed around like a five-year-old, putting my life in danger for a little excitement. Oh, and I guess the drama in my life doesn’t get any less with age, either.

  I just got back from lunch with Lola. She is possibly the most annoying person I know. You know the type of person she is: always has an answer for everything and is always right. No matter if you have a PhD in the subject, Lola knows more than you and loves nothing more than putting her two cents in. I’m surprised that no one in the office has punched Lola yet, but I suppose we are all professionals and well, no one wants to lose their job in this economy, especially not for putting Lola in her place.

  I’m not particularly fond of Lola, but because we work together, we tend to eat lunch together a lot. I told Lola about the gorgeous guy in the gym giving me his card. She thinks I should call him. She thinks I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and that maybe he will give me some sort of discount.

  “It’s pretty obvious, Maggie. He saw you looking so pitiful at the gym that he felt that he wouldn’t be a good trainer if he didn’t offer you some sort of help,” she explained to me.

  “But he didn’t offer me any help. I mean, he helped me to my feet, but he didn’t offer to explain any of the machines to me or anything.”

  “Well, of course he’s not going to do it there and then. If he shows you for free, how does that help him?” She looked at me like I was some sort of dumbass. I wanted to throw some of my popcorn in her face, but I didn’t want to waste any. Popcorn may be low in calories, but I can personally attest to the fact that it doesn’t fill you up and doesn�
�t really hit any spots without a nice big dollop of butter. I wasn’t about to waste any by throwing it at her.

  I thought about what Lola said and mulled it over. I don’t really know if the gorgeous man, whose name is Blake according to his card, is a personal trainer. However, Lola is convinced that he is and that he wants to provide me with his services. And I suppose I have to agree. I mean, why else would he have given me his card? I briefly thought about the possibility that he is trying to recruit me for the CIA or to join some secret society, but I decided that his being a personal trainer seems a bit more realistic.

  It was when Lola reminded me that our annual fundraiser comes up in 3 months that I capitulated and decided I will call Blake. I mean, I do want to be trimmer, especially if I have to shop for some sort of ball gown. And it would be great if I could blow everyone in the office away with my new smoking body. It could be like the reveal episode of that old TV show ‘The Swan’, only I won’t have had plastic surgery. And then, perhaps Ben will see me as more than just his best buddy at work. I often daydream about walking into a room in some sexy outfit and him gasping in surprise, shock, and awe.

  That daydream usually continues with him dropping to his knees and asking me to marry him, or, alternately, just declaring his undying love for me. Don’t worry, I’m not a complete dreamer. My more realistic daydreams feature him just asking me out on a date (just because the date dream has included weekend trips to Paris and riding a white horse on the beach doesn’t mean it is any more far-fetched). And so, when confronted with the possibility that in just 3 months I could possibly be dating Ben, I decided, “What do I really have to lose by contacting Blake?” Quite frankly, I don’t want to have to buy another ugly dress, as they only seem to make me look bigger than I am. Is that the fashion industry’s way of trying to help people lose weight? Make large clothes so ugly that you’d starve yourself just for a stylish dress or pair of pants? My worry list is starting to get long again!

  Worry List

  1. Running a Marathon in 6 months.

  2. Attending formal fundraiser looking like Miss Piggy.

  3. Bank balance being dreadfully low.

  1.Haven’t been on a date in 2 years and may have forgotten how to make-out.

  Blake called me. Well, to be exact, he returned my call. I left him a voicemail earlier babbling on about how I was new to the gym and while I could see the benefits of having a personal trainer, I didn’t really have much money and I didn’t know if I could afford his services. It didn’t cross my mind until after I had hung up the phone that I didn’t actually know if Blake was a personal trainer or not and that if he wasn’t, I was coming off as a complete psychopath. I didn’t think leaving a second message telling him I wasn’t cut out for or interested in the CIA would make things any better though.

  Our conversation was pretty brief. We’re going to meet up on Sunday for brunch. Ok, let me list what I know. Just in case he turns out to be some sort of serial killer and this is a trap. If I go missing and/or die mysteriously in the next week, this may be helpful to the police.

  Name: Blake Connor

  Phone number: 310-555-1254

  Occupation: Personal Trainer or CIA Operative or possible Serial Killer

  Description: Very attractive

  Workout Spot: L.A. Fitness in Hollywood

  3

  Dear Diary,

  I cannot breathe. This morning, Gayle came over to go for a jog in the Hollywood Hills with Lucy and me. When I say jog, I mean run. I tried to pretend I was feeling sick and didn’t want to leave my bed. I shouted through the door that I was too sick to get up and open it for her. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that I had used that trick/lie on Gayle too many times before. And I’d also forgotten that she has a key to my apartment. I didn’t have time to make myself look sick because she just walked right on into my living room and caught me eating a Twix Bar while watching reruns of ‘The King of Queens’. Lucy’s fat ass was sleeping on the other end of the couch; what a great guard dog she had turned out to be. She didn’t even lift her face off the down pillow she was slobbering all over, when Gayle barged in. And now, here I am, sitting with my calves aching and a pain in my stomach like you would never believe. I have no idea how I am going to run this marathon in a few months. I may have to break something, an arm or leg perhaps. I’m still deciding which.

  “Let’s go, Mags!” Gayle was hopping from foot to foot as she talked, irritating me with her peppiness.

  “Go where?” I answered while licking the last traces of chocolate off my fingers. Why couldn’t I have just said, “Oh, I have plans for this afternoon, but maybe we can do whatever you wanted to do some other time?” But no, my mind was still thinking about the letter I was going to write to the Twix Company, complaining about how quickly the chocolate melts on your fingers and away from the cookie (I’d recently heard that companies send you lots of free products if you send letters of complaint/suggestions to them).

  “On our first run together, duh. I figured we could do a few miles today. Get our butts in shape for the race.”

  “A few miles? Huh?” I looked at her in disbelief.

  “Well, I guess we could do more than that. I wasn’t sure how far you had progressed.” Gayle had misunderstood my hesitation. Or at least she was pretending to have misunderstood.

  “Well, I don’t know. A few miles is not really what my body is used to at this point.” I tried to word my sentence carefully. I didn’t want to have to come straight out and say that there was no way in hell that my body wanted to run a few miles, not even one mile. Heck, it protests when I run down the stairs too quickly.

  “Wow, I didn’t know you were really serious about this running, Mags. I am so excited. Maybe we can even sign up for a triathlon soon as well, then?” Gayle exclaimed with excitement. I looked at her suspiciously. Was this a joke? How could she believe the words that were coming out of my mouth? Unless of course she was trying to call my bluff. “Hmm,” I thought, “I’ll show Gayle Suzanne Buffett what’s what.”

  “Sounds good to me. Let me just get my stuff,” I said, jumping off the couch. “Who knows, maybe we can make this our thing. A different marathon every few months. Maybe we can even be like that man who ran 30 marathons in 30 days.”

  “That sounds great to me.” She smiled at me sweetly.

  “Maybe, we can even” (I was really getting into my stride now) “start training for triathlons, and start mountain climbing—ooh, ooh, maybe we can even climb Mount Everest one day.”

  Gayle just laughed. “Get your running shoes on, Mags. Let’s get through this run today first.”

  Argh. I didn’t even own running shoes. This was going to be a disaster. I was pretty sure Gayle knew I was fibbing, but I wasn’t going to back down now. I also knew there was no way that I was going to be able to run. Shoot. This was going to be rough; we weren’t even going to be running on a flat surface. This was in the hills. I made a last-ditch effort to get out of the run.

  “Well, I’m really meant to go shopping for some new clothes, so I’m not really...”

  “Why do you need new clothes?” Gayle interrupted me. “Aren’t you broke?”

  “Well, I, um, I have a date tomorrow.”

  “A date?” Gayle stops her rabbit hopping and stares at me.

  “Yeah, a date,” I mumble weakly. An uneasy feeling seeped into my body as I lied.

  “You have a date and you didn’t tell me? Oh my gosh. Who is he? What does he do? How did you meet him? What’s his name?” Gayle questions me furiously.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. That was all that was running through my head at that point. Oh, shit. And then of course, I made the situation even better.

  “Blake. His name is Blake Connor, and I met him at the gym, and we are going to brunch tomorrow,” I say matter-of-factly. I mean, you could kind of consider it a date. Just not a romantic one. And Gayle didn’t have to know that part.

  “Why, Maggie Lane, I do believe you have been hidi
ng things from me.”

  I looked at her suspiciously. Was she really buying this? I felt guilty, but maybe this would get her off my back.

  “First, the running and the gym, and now a new man. You are really going for it this year, huh?” Gayle smiled at me, and I felt my heart sink. I know Gayle just wants the best for me. That she wants me to lose weight so I can feel more attractive and just to be in better shape. It wasn’t her fault that I still hadn’t gotten completely motivated.

  I resolved to myself then and there that I was going to do everything I could to get into shape for this marathon.

  “Let me get my shoes,” I said. “And let me find Lucy’s leash.” Okay, okay, I know, that was naughty of me. I decided to take Lucy with me because I knew she wouldn’t be able to run. She only uses her doggie door to do her business, and Lucy’s sluggishness would make it easier for me to just walk up the hill. I mean come on now, even though my resolve had changed, my body hadn’t.

  Turns out, taking Lucy was a mistake. A huge mistake. I don’t know what it was. Maybe because she had just had a very nice, comfortable, long nap; maybe because she smelled someone barbecuing, or maybe because hills excited her, but Lucy was running her heart out like a big ol’ Doberman was after her. I’d never seen her do anything like it before. I know they say there are no lazy dogs and only lazy owners, but trust me, you’ve never met a dog like Lucy before. I take her on walks every morning and evening, and she barely wants to go up the street before she stops and turns around and is ready to go back to the apartment.

  I ended up running up the hill faster than Gayle did because Lucy was so gung-ho and pulling me. I nearly died. I may yet die tonight. In my sleep. Or my legs may just fall off. I bet Gayle would feel bad then. Being the one responsible for making me run when my body wasn’t up to it. But I guess it’s karma for my lie. Because even now, with my feet soaking in a bucket of warm water and bath salts, and my breathing still a little erratic, I realize that the running part wasn’t the worst part of the day. The lie about my date with Blake was.