Yes. It's true, Spark friends. I had an affair.
Let me start at the beginning...
I met him at the gym soon after I joined. I was attracted to him immediately. He was friendly and... Inviting. He beckoned me. He was smooth and suave and encouraged me to be comfortable with my body. I had nothing to be ashamed of. Next thing I knew I was standing before him wearing nothing but the tiny threadbear towel that the Y provides. I was so nervous the first time. I don't know why. I felt like a loser but he made me feel like a winner.
I was orgasmic!
I quickly became obsessed. I wanted to see him every day. And everyday after my workout, I'd use the bathroom, shower off my sweat with a scented shower gel and slip up on him wearing nothing but that tiny towel...
He knew what I was thinking. I didn't even have to speak. Did I feel down?, he murmured. Why? Because, I answered, I did everything right. I watched what I ate. I exercised. I wanted to be thin for him. I thought about him all the time...
But after a while, I started slipping. I was afraid to face him. I got dressed right after my shower and didn't visit him.
He accused me of ignoring him. I DIDN'T ignore him. I ate a tenderloin with onions last night. I didn't want to offend him. He cooed -- cajoled -- tempted me. Truth or Dare. Until I agreed once again to strip and ...
I climbed on him and locked eyes. Gently holding my breath as I caressed his arm. Slowly sliding it across. Gasp! I opened my eyes and he was smiling. I was still that loser that felt like a winner. He helped me dodge a bullet.
Confident that I was THE ONE, the special one, I watched as another woman flirted with him. She tried to get that smile from him but ultimately turned away spurned and looked forlorn.
"Down?", I asked "No", she sighed. "I don't even know why I bother"! With a smirk I thought to myself I didn't know why she bothered either...
All was fine for awhile. I quietly repeated my ritual with him everyday. Ecstatic after seeing him. Riding home from the gym on a high.
It didn't last. He eventually became more and more demanding. Jealous. Possessive. He accused me of spending more time on the treadmill. Forgetting about him. I tried to reassure him that with my workout taking a little longer, I just had to hustle to get home. I didn't want my husband to get worried and suspicious. I promised that I would try and spend time with him -- at least once a week if not more.
He pouted. When I did see him he wouldn't let me lose like he always had. He groaned when I tried to take his arm and I kept having to move it further away. I felt guilty at first. I had cheated on him with some french fries after all and not even the extra time spent with treadmill compensated. I vowed to not look lustfully after ANYTHING else - ever again.
He forgave and for awhile things stayed the same.
I caught him with that other woman. She had JUST came away from him and SHE was smirking! I held my head high as I marched past her and came up to him clutching the towel that barely covered my nakedness. I had nothing to be ashamed of. Didn't he always tell me that? It was true this time. I had been perfect. Thought of him and only him. I got on with confidence. Slowly I moved his arm to my usual favorite spot. He didn't respond. I nudged it a little further. Nothing. Panic started to set in. Confusion. You don't understand ---
I WAS PERFECT!!! How could he treat me this way? I was tempted to drop my tiny towel and humiliate myself right there in the women's locker room at the Y. Falling into my old pattern I started frantically searching my mind for what I could have done wrong. Why, I asked him, Why? What did I do to deserve this?
I must have looked dejected because smirking woman looked at me and said, "Plateau?"
Huh? I was in a daze. I looked at her and she went on, "I think he gets tired of seeing less and less of us", she chuckled at her own joke.
"It's OK", I said with false bravado, "Muscle weighs more than fat".
She burst out laughing. "How can that be? A pound is a pound is a pound..."
Only it didn't sound like mirthful laughter but more like mocking cruelty. I thought about it as I slowly dressed and she departed with a cheery wave. She was right! Weight is weight. No matter what HE says. One pound weighs one pound.
I turned and looked at him and I SWEAR he was smirking...
How could I be so stupid? I asked myself as I jerked open my car door. I felt guilty. Not for cheating on HIM. For cheating on myself. For not recognizing the signs. I was obsessed. I was self-centered and as addicted as any addict.
I didn't just not recognize the signs. I ignored them. What signs? The signs I was making progress despite "his help" ---
My clothes :
My arms and legs:
on the treadmill, I was
I was eating
I didn't need HIM to make me feel
I got home and confessed the whole saga to my husband. My obsession. My highs. My lows. The woman reminding me that a pound weighs a pound. He stopped me right there. He dug in the closet and came out with a small compact sphere of metal. He handed it to me and it was slightly heavy. It's a one pound weight he told me -- from one of his teaching science kits. He put it on the counter and got out the two BIG 8 oz. bags of marshmallows from the pantry and laid them beside the weight. They took up a goodly portion of the counter. A pound weighs a pound he said, but look at how condensed one is compared to the other. See? Muscle can weigh the same but take up a heck of a lot less room!
So even though HE said I wasn't a loser anymore, I was still a winner because I WAS thinner!
That did it. The next day after my workout I marched past him to the shower and when he called out asking if I was going to stop and see him I gave him an icy stare and said, Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe NEVER!
Ultimately, Spark friends. I gave in and assigned visitation rights on Monday -- at work -- fully clothed -- on his compadre Mr. Digital. He doesn't coo and cajole. He spits up a number and I loosely pay attention to it to insure that I'm not way off base. Otherwise, I watch my tracker to see if I'm staying in my calorie range. I notice the thighs of my favorite jeans -- still loose and comfy? Could I climb those stairs with the basket of laundry and not give it a second thought?
AND I made myself a pact to never stray again.
Yep. The Love Affair with