Losers Always Win

In the early days of our relationship, my husband played soccer. I’m sure Victoria Beckham will back me up when I say soccer players are hot. John loved the game for its own sake. I, on the other hand was categorically bad at any sport involving a ball; I just wanted to work out. I tried every aerobic exercise fad there was. If there was a VHS made for it during the 80’s and 90’s, I did it. When John professed a fondness for exercise, we consummated our commitment by joining a club together. He wore his soccer jersey and I sported a fluorescent thong over black biker shorts. We were extra sexy. And in shape. We even played walleyball. Top that.

However, as men often do in the courting phase, my beloved was only pretending. He didn’t really enjoy working out. Over the years we’ve belonged to half a dozen health clubs, and while I kept busy boxing, belly dancing, and step aerobicising myself into superior bone density, the most consistent thing about my husband’s exercise routine has been his line, “I go to the gym once a month—to pay the bill.” If he’d logged as many workouts as he has that tired joke, I’d be sleeping with a romance novel cover model.

But I’m not.

John has long since passed the appropriate age to run sweating up and down a soccer field, but a few years ago he took up the sport once again. And by this I mean he played a game with the guys after work. Something had made him feel thirty again. With his new youthful delusion came sprints down a field made for younger men. It was longer than he remembered. And more painful. It ended with some mumbling about pain and “…every muscle in my body.” Can you say Achilles tendonitis?

When I finally convinced him to see a doctor about it, he received this warning:

“You’d better start shopping for a good cardiologist.”

Turns out his foot wasn’t the only thing out of shape. Lucky for him, losing weight is trendy. Just before Christmas last year, everyone at his office made plans for their annual weight loss competition. They had even cut a deal to get a group discount with the gym not two miles from our house. It is a flagship facility we’ll call Biggest Gym Ever. According to the guy in the muscle-hugging spandex who tried to sell us a membership, it is the largest, Biggest Gym Ever, in the world. Though he baited us with executive locker rooms and personal training—all free with 30-year fixed-rate minimum monthly auto-draft—my husband declined, opting instead to spend our hard-earned cash on running shoes and lunch from greasy taco joints.

But there was that discount…

My husband waffled for a month. “I don’t know. Do you think I should?”

“Will you go?” I asked

“I should.”

“But will you?”

He half shrugged. “It’s fifteen dollars off.” As if the price of a meat lover’s pizza were really the determining factor in his longevity.

I tried everything—appeals to his vanity, morbid talk of cardiac events, and even an offer to get up at five in the morning and join him at the gym. When he still couldn’t decide, I reminded him that there are always hot girls at Biggest Gym Ever.

Sold.

This was mid-December. “So,” I said, “you getting up early tomorrow?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I can’t work out now.”

“Why not?”

“I’m in training.” His expression told me this statement made sense to him. Relationship experts will tell you that communication is the key to a lasting relationship. Nearly twenty years in, I can state with confidence that they are wrong. A lot of things are more important—sex, steady paychecks, and division of labor to name a few. However, I have learned to communicate entire paragraphs with just one look, which I did. So, he explained.

“I can’t lose weight now—not before the weigh-in!” His goal was to gain ten pounds before the first of the year—before the weigh-in—and then lose the extra pounds quickly and take home the prize. And we wonder what’s wrong with Corporate America?

John lost his training weight. Then he gained it back, misplaced it again on the treadmill, and finally found it at Sonic. He did not win, or lose, as it were.

As for the gym? He still goes.

At least once a month.

Lela Davidson is the author of Blacklisted from the PTA. Her writing is featured regularly in family and parenting magazines throughout the United States and Canada. She blogs about marriage, motherhood, and life-after-40 on her blog, After the Bubbly.