Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

“Bryn, you manage the scheduling. What’s it gonna take for you to evenly schedule the clients with all the trainers?”

“Well, uhm, Gia, clients pay for the trainer of their choice. I can’t help it that Jordan is our highest requested—she’s the owner, after all.” Bryn looks from me to Gia.

This has been Gia’s chief complaint for months, but Bryn is right. Every client has the option of choosing the trainer they prefer to work with. Why she’s bickering at Bryn about this is beyond me. Gia’s client roster is small, but to no fault but her own.

“You could always teach a class, Gia,” I suggest.

“Oh really, what exactly do you suggest I teach? No positions are open!”

“That’s not what your clients say…” The words trail off as I walk away.

Jordan—1

Gia—0

I can’t help it. I shouldn’t be ugly and insult an employee like this, but her argument is void, and she kinda stumbled into this whole mess. She only wants to train the gym rats—you know, the men who have already achieved their ideal figure and workout simply to maintain. Always chasing a man for his looks and body. She’s been written up before for being rude to a client, and two more strikes and she’s out. Gia doesn’t have the same goals for her clients as I have. She certainly isn’t the ideal role model for Dumb Belles … well, maybe the dumb part. I question my sanity often on why I hired her to begin with. I wanted to believe that Gia had actually grown up since high school. That she wasn’t the mean girl she was all those years ago. Each day she reveals just a little more that she is, in fact, that the same girl has always been.

Gia and I have never seen eye to eye—literally or figuratively. She’s a five-feet-nine Barbie with blonde hair that is always tied back in a thick ballerina bun, her baby blue eyes shining bright against sun-kissed skin—or the UV rays from bed four, your call. And of course with her height, you know she has legs for days.

Me, I’m just a plain Jane with dark brown hair that is always a rat’s nest on top of my head, fair-skinned with a smattering of freckles where the sun kissed but didn’t tan, and friendly honey brown eyes. We’re worlds apart, and I’m okay with that.

I’m finally at a point in my life where I’m okay in my skin and try not to compare myself to others. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and no two people ever see with the same set of eyes.

I reach the row of elliptical machines and take the one in the corner, farthest from the group of cheer moms who walk every night while their daughters are in the gym for practice. They seem like a friendly crew, though I’m sure that’s wine in their water bottles.

I plug my earbuds into my ears, the workout playlist already blaring, and set my pace. I need to clear the negative energy that Gia consumed me with. My workouts are sacred. I push the stress away and focus on happy thoughts that can only strengthen me. Demi is only half-way through, “Sorry not Sorry” and I’m already in my zone, out here feeling like a ten.

As the negativity dissipates, I find myself thinking back to Madden. Sure, he has a friendly and flirty presence, but he comes across as confident and fun-loving, where most of my male clients are cocky and overbearing in the way they communicate with me. Most don’t listen to instruction and try to outdo their reps just to look macho, and that’s a major turnoff.

I was certain that was exactly the rocky road our trainer/client relationship was headed down after our first interaction. The fact that he came back, apologized, and paid such close attention during our session leads me to believe that he’s invested in making this work and improving his health. Madden is different, I can sense it. There is more to him than meets the eye. I bet his little girl is a firecracker. I’ll have to remember to ask Laney about her and give her hell about the prank they pulled on him.

I finish up my workout with some reps on the ab machines and call it a day. If I go home now, I can hopefully get a full eight hours of sleep tonight. After an evening with Netflix, of course.

I pull into the driveway to find my sister’s husband and five-year-old nephew shooting hoops. No, I don’t live with my sister; I’d kill her if I had to live with her OCD tendencies day in and day out. Kyle, my brother-in-law, has more patience than a saint. Not just any man would be able to co-exist with Erin. I love my older sister more than anything, so it is completely fine for me to point out that she can be a bit stubborn and aggressive, but she has a heart of gold. That is what makes her such a good lawyer.

“Aunt JoJo,” my nephew Kenny screeches as I climb from my Jeep. “I beats me daddy by two whole points.” Excitement jumps in his eyes.

“Yassss! Ken-Man for the win!”

He throws himself into my arms full speed, wraps his arms around my neck, and pulls on my earlobe with his chunky little fingers. I reciprocate by pulling his lobe as well, it’s kinda our thing, and his laughter is infectious. This kid, he is always the best part of my day—he’s my best friend. I set him down and ask, “How was school today?”

“Ms. Laney says, uh … uh, she says that I’m too curious for my own good sometimes.”

Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good. Kenny is a good kid; he’s just a little more mischievous than most. Erin says that he reminds her of me at that age, so that may be why Kenny and I share such a strong bond.

“What are you curious about?”

“Ms. Laney said that she was taking dollas from her husband and candy from babies.” His face is so serious while he says, “I told her it wasn’t nice to take things that don’t belong to you.”

I can’t hold in my laughter. This is freaking great! I can’t wait to talk to my friend. I have lots to aggravate her over. Gambling and stealing—Laney has been busy. After five minutes of shooting hoops with Kenny, Kyle finally manages to drag him inside for his bath and some dinner. I politely decline their invite to join them for “basghetti” and make my way up the stairs to the apartment above their garage that I call home.

Once I have showered and eaten a healthy dinner of salmon and veggies that I meal prepped earlier in the week, I pull out my cell phone to ca

tch up with my good friend and preschool tamer.

Laney is already giggling when she answers the phone. “Good evening, Jordan, with a clit, not a dick.”

What the what? My friend has no filter, and it often makes me wonder how many times she must have to come up with crazy explanations on the daily in order to not completely corrupt the class of young minds she’s supposed to be molding.