Moving On

Only nineteen and one year out of high school, Ginger Harper is already concerned about her weight. She isn't obese, not even pleasantly plump. In fact, she's a beautiful college girl, "unofficially" engaged to Victor Jordon ("VJ") Slagle, her high school sweetheart. But her forty-something mom is heavy, and Ginger doesn't want to look like her when she reaches middle-age. Because they're of similar body type, Ginger can see herself gaining weight later on if she doesn't do something about it while she's young. Her mom was once trim also. But she doesn't exercise, nor has she changed her eating habits from when she was younger, when her metabolism ran faster. The result: she's twenty-five pounds heavier than her youthful self. Her fifty-something, unemployed dad is even in worse shape. He lives off disability social security and money won from a civil suit brought against the railroad where he once worked. That was over ten years ago. These days, he's a professional couch potato with an ever expanding waistline. Her mom Yamaris, a native Spanish speaker, works as a translator.

"That's not happening to me," Ginger says, thinking about her parents. She's alone in her room, posing in front of her full-length mirror in bra and panties. She twirls and does half-turns. She pats her tummy and shakes her head, less than pleased with what her beautiful blue-green eyes see. Fat she isn't. However, her lower abdomen protrudes more than she likes and her butt could be firmer, her legs slimmer. Up until middle school, she played sports—soccer and softball mostly. In high school, the most exercise she got was beating the drums in her school band. Now? Not much, save for walking back and forth from her car to her part time job at Starbucks and short weekend hikes through state parks with her boyfriend. She's pursuing a college degree online, sitting behind her computer, adding to her sedentary existence. Exercise: ugh! She's tried it on her own, took out a trial membership at Brick Bodies, enrolled in spin classes using her family membership at the Y. But she couldn't stick with it, couldn't marshal the discipline required to make it a regular part of her life. Moreover, she isn't sure what sort of regimen would be best for her. What she needs is a personal trainer, someone to keep her going and motivated.

She plops on her bed, opens her laptop and googles in personal trainers in her region. Finding four pages worth, she spends the better part of an hour reading the reviews. She goes from page to page and finds herself returning to this handsome guy on page one, Brad Stover. He's got mostly five star reviews and a degree in kinesiology. Best of all, he curbs his fee to his clients' income. "No one who I feel I can help is turned away because of their finances," he proclaims. That's great news, because her parents aren't rich, nor does her part time work bring in enough income for her to support herself. She lives at home, hopes that she and VJ can one day look for engagement rings. Also nineteen, he's an electrician's apprentice who is expected to earn good money once he's licensed and established.

*****

Brad Stover sits behind his Dell desktop, reviewing inquiries from people interested in signing on to his program. He accepts only those he feels are sincere about improving their appearance and overall well being. His web page isn't just a bunch of hype—he really does curb his fees to fit his clients' income. He's turned wealthy would-be clients away because their goals weren't in sync with his philosophy of exercise. He's all about getting clients to make healthy eating and exercise a regular part of their life, like brushing their hair or teeth. Weight control is part of it. However, he's rejected more women than he can count whose goal is simply to shed inches and pounds so they can fit into a dress for some special event. "This is a lifetime commitment," he tells them, "a lifestyle choice that should help define the person you are."

Of course, he looks the part, a living, breathing billboard for his profession. He's twenty-nine, stands just under six-feet—muscular, needless to say, but not like those hulking, juiced-up monsters that strut about the stage of top bodybuilding events. He's run half marathons, competed in triathlons and even in power lifting meets. He can't bench press four-hundred like some of his power lifting friends. On the other hand, those friends can't run a mile in just over six minutes or maintain a speed of twenty miles an hour on a bicycle for over twenty miles. He's benched three-fifty and leg-pressed six-hundred for reps, not bad for a guy who weighs around one-seventy five and whose focus is more on cardio than brute strength.

In fact, he plans to hit the weights later this morning after reviewing these potential clients, including one that catches his eye right away, Ginger Harper. She's included a photo with her "resume." Wow! Look at that face, a picture of beautiful sweetness—that sexy mouth and warm smile and those beautifully formed cheek bones. She's in maroon cap and gown and standing next to a boy wearing the same thing. "Taken two years ago at my high school graduation," she writes. Her brown hair, wavy from the top and middle, curled at the ends, drops just below her shoulders and forms a lovely frame for her lovely face. "I need someone to motivate me," she writes, "because I'd like to exercise into old age if possible." A teen preparing for old age? He finds that cute. She goes on about her parents and limited finances. This Ginger, he realizes, is the youngest potential client that's ever contacted him. Most of them are at least in their thirties and older.

Brad resists becoming romantically involved with his female clients—no mean feat when, like him, you're conventionally good looking as well as fit. He's been hit on by a quite a few of "his" women. Thus far, he's been able to resist, thinking it best to keep a professional distance. Mixing business with pleasure, he reasons, would compromise his objectivity. So it will be with Ginger. He calls her listed cell number, leaving a message on her voice mail.

*****

Ginger's both nervous and excited. She's on her way to Walbrook Fitness, the place where Brad meets with clients by appointment only. She'd been there before, took a couple free workouts but never returned. He sounded nice on the phone, told her their first meeting will be to discuss her goals and expectations. "We'll see if you're a good fit for what I do," he had said. "Then, if you feel comfortable, we can talk finances."

Walbrook stands in a strip mall next to a deli, a health food store, 7 Eleven and Giant Food. She parks her aging Mazda hatch and enters wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. Brad did say there'd be no training today, just a meeting. A buffed, pony-tailed, twenty-something woman at the front desk takes her past the vast exercise room, noisy with the hum of cardio machines and weights clanging, and then directs her to a room in back. "Brad rents this room from us," she reveals.

Ginger peaks her head into the half-opened door. "Brad?"

He looks up from his desk, then stands and welcomes her with a warm smile. "You must be Ginger."

"Yes."

He extends his hand. "Right on time, that's half the battle." He invites her to take a seat beside his desk in this cubicle of a room.

She thinks he looks as hot as the photos on his web page. He's wearing the "uniform" of his trade, tight-fitting white T-shirt, blue sweat pants and running shoes. He's got a strong chin and jaw, and those dark eyes match his dark, close-cropped hair which he doesn't part. She thinks his beard, barely thicker than the proverbial five o'clock shadow, lends a distinguished accent to his image. Then there's his ripped muscularity. No surprise there. She crosses her legs and watches him bring up her email. "That guy in the photo," she says, referring to her high school graduation ceremony picture, "is my boyfriend VJ." He nods, then asks if VJ works out. "On occasion," she says, "though not like he did when he played football. He has been supportive of me doing this."

He nods again, turns from the screen and faces her. "Good, because support from family and friends is important. But ninety-nine percent of the motivation needs to come from you. Hopefully, I can help motivate and also educate, but ultimately it's up to you to make this work. Your inquiry impressed me because your stated goals appear in sync with my program, a lifetime commitment to health and fitness. To me, regular exercise is like brushing your teeth. You don't really think about it, you just do it because it's a vital part of your life, a routine you wouldn't think of dropping."

She nods. "And I guess you also read the part about me not wanting to get heavy and out of shape like my parents."

"Yes, and not an unusual thing to wish to avoid. What makes you different is your apparent willingness to make good on that at such a young age. Most people your age don't think that far ahead. Or if they do, they feel they can put it off until years down the road. Sweat equity isn't much different than investing in stocks or mutual funds or a simple bank account early on. Maintain your investment and you'll collect interest and dividends for the rest of your life."

It makes sense to her. But can she afford it? "It all sounds wonderful, Brad, and I can't wait to start. But speaking of money matters, I'm not sure I can swing it financially. Do you really adjust your fees to a client's income?"

"Absolutely. Nobody goes broke paying for my services. Now, Walbrook does charge a membership fee. But it's a nominal amount compared with what members pay who don't work with personal trainers. It's a somewhat complicated financial arrangement between me and Walbrook—I won't bore you with the details. From your stated income, you can afford this. Trust me." He takes out a pocket calculator, crunches some numbers, then scribbles them on a yellow legal pad. "How's that look?"

She grins, knowing she can afford his fee and confident that her parents will help her with the gym membership. "It looks like we can do business."

"Good, I thought so. Now for the fun part." He swings his laptop toward her and then scrolls to samples of his program, the exercises he employs and also various diet plans. She asks questions, first about the program, then about him, what college he attended (Virginia Tech), sports he competed in (triathlon, power lifting), how long he's been in the personal trainer business (six years), if he was ever married (no). Besides his "hotness," she's impressed with his friendly, non-judgmental approach. She finds herself flirting with him, sweeping back her hair, leaning into him, crossing and re-crossing her legs. If VJ wasn't in the picture...well, maybe not because he's ten years older and what would he want with a college girl living at home anyway? She's flattered that he seems to take an interest beyond what she's here for. He asks about her online college courses, her major (undecided), her future career plans (veterinarian perhaps) and how long she and VJ have been together (three years).

She gets excited when he flirts back, when he tells her how pretty he thinks she is, how he likes her coloring, somewhere between European fair and Hispanic olive. "You do? Thanks. My dad is of Polish-German descent and my mom's from Panama. They met on a train when he worked for the railroad. It's his second marriage, my mom's first."

"No kidding? Well, those cross ethnic genes seemed to work very well. Yes indeed." Pause. "Well, back to the subject at hand. Can you get down here three to four days a week? I know you're busy with work and school."

"I'll make time," she says, then thinks, 'especially if it means working with you.'

*****

Like everyone else, Brad has his shortcomings, but lack of discipline isn't one of them. He's resisted becoming romantically involved with his female clients. It hasn't always been easy given the high quality of pulchritude he works with. Ginger Harper isn't the double-take, head turner that some of them are. She IS undeniably pretty, what with those prominent cheek bones and those eyes, a stunning blue-green that he's rarely, if ever, seen. But there's more, a warm sweetness about her that he senses having known her for only minutes. He could feel that aura drawing him in during their "interview." Not good. She's looking to stay fit and healthy, not to find a boyfriend. She's already got one, this VJ who's she's been seeing for three years. Besides, she's a client, not a prospect for his date list.

Days later, he meets with her again. She's attired in long black stretch pants, a workout top and sneakers, typical of the way young women dress in fitness gyms. "You're excited to get started, I know," he says, seeing her grin in anticipation. "But first we're going to talk about your body, what you like about it, what you don't like, what about it you'd change or not change. In short, I want to get a sense of your body image, same as I do with everybody I work with."

She blushes slightly and squirms in her seat. "My body...well, to begin with, I'd like a flatter stomach," she reveals, giving it a few pats. "And I guess I could use firming up all over, my butt and thighs especially. You know, the usual spots where girls put on size. What do you..." She shakes her head. "Never mind, dumb question."

"There's no such thing as a dumb question. Ask me anything you'd like."

After more hesitation, she says, "Okay, well, I was just going to ask what YOU thought of my body, if you see areas where it needs improvement. Be kind." She giggles.

His eyes dance over her from head to toe. "Truthfully, I don't see anything that needs vital improvement. You look well proportioned, definitely not overweight. That said, as you know by your mom, many women tend to put on weight as they enter middle-age, and even in their thirties if they don't eat healthy and stay sedentary. Stick with it and you needn't worry. As far as firming up, that should come fairly quickly with my program." What he doesn't say is how cute she looks in her outfit, even if she doesn't have a Playboy playmate body, and how he wouldn't mind putting his lips to that sweet looking mouth of hers. "Any more questions?"

"Just one. Can we get started already? I'm raring to go."

*****

Victor Jordon Slagle, better known as VJ to his friends, wants to know how things went with Ginger's personal trainer. He loves Ginger, hopes one day to marry her, and would be interested in any new venture she decided to pursue. "He put me through a short, light workout," she says. "He advised me to ease into it, to take things slow for the first few weeks. He's nice and easy to talk to."

Of course, she stays mum about the hot physical attraction she feels for Brad Stover. The last thing she wants is to do or say anything that would hurt VJ. She's been with him for three years, can perhaps see herself married to him down the road. But they're still kids, only nineteen, and sometimes she wonders if she's making a mistake, tying herself down so young. He's her first "serious" boyfriend, and now almost her fiancé. No doubt, she loves him, still refers to him as her "All American boy next door." He sure looks the part, standing a slim, well-proportioned five-foot ten and blessed with an easy smile and pleasant features. Photogenic, almost an archaic word in this era of the selfie when everyone thinks they are, really does apply to him. Her favorite photo of VJ is still the one she took with him standing on the sidelines in his blue and white football uniform, wearing his best game face, helmet off, his brown hair drenched in sweat during a Friday night game with a rival high school. They were the proverbial two peas in a pod—the varsity football playing VJ and Ginger, his drum playing sweetheart. They were the 'prince and princess of senior prom,' some of their classmates joked. And how could she forget that golden summer following their senior year? It was the summer after they both turned eighteen, the summer they vacationed in Ocean City with her parents, her little brother and another couple, the summer she lost her virginity to her All American prince one night in the darkness of a deserted stretch of beach. "My heart belongs to you and only you from this night forward," she had said to him, sentiment only die-hard fans of romance novels could love, perhaps, but said at the time with utmost conviction.

Except now, strolling in jeans and cross-trainers through the Gettysburg battlefield, one of their favorite stomping grounds, she isn't so sure. Girls from small towns typically marry young, so she wouldn't be alone if in a couple years her last name was legally Slagle. It's something that she once anticipated with great joy. Now? Not so much, and it's not just because of her attraction to Mr. Stover but other things such as the "three or four kids" VJ says he wants—something she's hardly ready for and might never be.

She holds VJ's hand, keeping these thoughts to herself. Her stomach growls when he says he's happy about knowing that he'll have a "slim and healthy wife into our old age. Can you picture that, Ginger? The two of us, wrinkled and gray haired, bouncing grand-kids on our knees?"

She gropes for an answer, one that's honest but tactful. "Let's get through our teens first, VJ. There's my college to get through and your electrician's license to get and a million other things."

"Sure, of course," he says, "just thinking ahead, that's all."

They come to boulder-strewn Devil's Den, scene of much carnage on the second day of the Battle of Gettysburg. They're among several groups of tourists here on this early fall day, mild and partly sunny. Ginger and VJ don't consider themselves tourists. Both live within the region and have come here often—years before with their parents and now lately with each other. The contrast between the quiet solitude of today and what took place on this hallowed ground long ago isn't lost on Ginger. She sits with VJ on a rock, watching the tourists and thinking about the history of this place. "It's so beautiful and peaceful here now, it's hard to imagine all that blood spilled all those Julys ago, all those men who gave 'the last full measure of devotion' as Lincoln said."

"I can kind of see it," he says, "all that smoke from those Springfield muskets, and the men, some lying dead and others moaning from their wounds. And there was Pickett's Charge on the third day, the Rebs charging head-on into cannon and musket fire. I look forward to teaching our kids about all this. Wouldn't that be fun, imparting that knowledge to our kids? Wouldn't it?"

There it goes again, that growl in her stomach. All his talk about kids and a future together should be making her happy, if not excited. Instead, she feels uneasy. A year ago she would have jumped right in, would have been in sync with his joyful anticipation. What changed? Not VJ, that's for sure. He's the same loving boyfriend he's always been. Obviously it's her that's changed; or at least her priorities have. Their unofficial plan is to get married when VJ can support them both, whether she's completed college or not. She stares off into space as her thoughts meander.

He takes notice. "Ginger, are you still with me? You look like you're daydreaming."

She pulls up a blade of grass and begins to twirl it. "No, just thinking."

"About?"

"Well, you mentioned Pickett's Charge, the Confederate soldiers charging head-on. In life, you can charge or plunge into something that you're really not ready for. Know what I mean?"

"Sure, like the time my mom got this dingbat idea of selling South American water coolers not knowing what the hell she was doing. Remember that? She was out of business before she was even in business."