Gold's Gym Special Needs

We’re fat, the husband and I. It’s this thing that happened when we got married. Calorie-burning activities like desperate flirting at parties were no longer necessary, and we found ourselves doing COUPLE activities all the time… you know… like eating lots of shave ice and reading Harry Potter.

So now we’re in Provo. The first day we got here, we got a doorknob brochure reading GOLD’S GYM SPECIAL with a really fit looking woman in a tanktop for emphasis. I thought, “Wow… I want to be a Gold’s Gym kind of special,” and Kendon agreed. I bet the Gold’s Gym doorknob brochure-disperser must have known that married housing is the place where people go to stop burning calories. They should probably give that guy a raise.

HOWEVER. As much as I wanted to look as sweaty and toned and summer-licious as the chick on the brochure, I was hesitant. Simply put, I hate gyms. I hate the muscle heads and the smell. I have always felt that if I want to get exercise, I can step out of my doors for FREE and go for a run in some fresh, friendly, unpolluted-by-muscle-head air. Most of all, though, I hate the salesmen. They pretend like you’re their friend, even though they don’t even know you, and even though there are dollar signs in their eyes, and even though if you don’t do what they say they will lock you in a room and use their tactics until you die of old age or give in to them. Not my idea of a very friendly friend, thank you.

But alas. My brother gets married in a month and I have a gut that must disappear before people start asking pregnancy questions when it protrudes like a watermelon in my tight new dress. So we went to inquire about the special.

When we stepped through the doors, the receptionist gave us papers to fill out with all our information, starting with our date of birth, social security number, disease history, pin numbers, deepest secrets, and expected cause of death. I’m still not sure what they do with those. Maybe it was just to give us something to do during the vast amount of time we spent waiting around for the sales guy…. in which case I probably should have just drawn some pictures.

Finally Adam, our salesman, arrived, unnecessarily wearing a windbreaker (I’ve noticed that buildings are generally windproof in the 21^st century) and a smug expression. He didn’t have to lock us in a room. Luckily for him – and us – we knew as well as he did that we are a fat couple with Gold’s Gym Special Needs, so we patiently listened as he explained the pricing by writing numbers upside down from across the table (showoff!). At several points I nearly burst out, “NEVER MIND!!” Just to surprise him and make him feel less smug. But I looked down at my gut and it told me to behave.

After hearing the pricing, we did the part where we signed our souls away. I didn't take the time to read the 10-page contract, but I’m pretty sure I agreed to never hit a salesman, to donate my organs to exercise science, and to give Gold’s Gym my firstborn child if I ever stop making payments.

Once I’d signed my name 27 times and given 49 initials for small clauses, Adam handed us another sheet and said, “Part of the special is that you must refer at least three friends.” I looked at him, astounded, and said, “I don’t have friends.” (Seriously, what do they do about the sad people who have no one in life? Talk about rubbing it in). But Adam insisted, so I referred Ronald McDonald, Ronald Weasley, and Adam the sales guy. Ha! Who’s feeling smug now?

But my victory was short lived, for we were then immediately attacked by Cameron, the personal trainer. He was also wearing a windbreaker. He looked at us with a sappy smile, crouched down to our sitting level, and said in his I’m-talking-to-amateurs voice, “When can we get you guys in for some one-on-one training?” He had his pen ready against a big important calendar. Again, I nearly yelled “NEVER!!!!” Just to wipe that overly sympathetic smile off his face. But instead I said, “Friday at 10 looks good.” When we left, I felt as though my time could have been better spent going for a jog.

But never mind, now we are official Gold's Gym members with shiny official Gold's Gym barcodes that give us identity and a sense of belonging. And this morning at 10 a.m. we attended our first official Gold's Gym personal training session. It felt good. But I could just be saying that because Gold’s Gym owns my soul.

A ride down memory lane

I rode my beach cruiser for the last time.

I took my usual route, riding past Kekela Beach Park, where Kendon and I went on our first beach walk as a married couple.

There was the beachside mansion, with its weed-covered tennis courts, broken windows, and chipped paint. I used to think it was haunted. I later found out an old woman lives there who is simply lonely and eccentric.

The sea breeze hit my nose again as I glided past Pounder's Beach, where Kendon and I spent our first Christmas afternoon building a snowman... out of sand.

There was the otai stand, where a kind local family sells carved wooden art and tapa mats and, most of all, delicious, refreshing, otai on Fridays and Saturdays. Perfect for date night.

I passed the dirt road I used to run down in my single days. Eventually it can take you to a beautiful waterfall perfect for a hot day, but follow it a different direction and it leads to the most blissful banyan tree, which stretches its strong arms down a cliff and invites passersby to climb up, up, up.

I smelled barbecue wafting from one of the houses nearby -- probably for a plate lunch sale later -- and remembered all the times I've had plate lunches at the cafe up the road. My friend Jon once challenged me that I couldn't eat an entire pancake platter from there. He said he would pay for breakfast if I could. Four 12-inch pancakes churned in my belly for hours.... but they were so deliciously free.

I rode past the Polynesian Cultural Center, watching dancers in costume race by the back fence to perform in the daily canoe show. When I worked here, I would delight in walking out of my small gift shop and yelling, "Aloha!" with a shaka to Japanese high school groups. Their response was always an enthusiastic "Arohaaaaa!!" that never failed to make my day. Later I would see a prophet of God -- Thomas S. Monson -- pay a visit here. I would surprise Kendon with a Haunted Lagoon ride here during Halloween. And I would sit in awe every time I saw the night show -- a classic tale of the soul of man and land; of the "Ha: Breath of Life" that lives in all of us.

I approached campus and memories flooded from all sides. Here I gained a new sense of confidence; made friends that changed my life; had teachers that changed my perspective; held my dream job; received a bachelor's degree; and learned to understand Aloha.

In the distance I saw the Laie Temple. On the hill behind it, I sought shelter when a tsunami threatened to overtake our little town. My house never floated away (though I was prepared with my camera to document this), but I did manage one of my best sunburns after that long day of waiting. The temple resting beneath bears perhaps the greatest significance of all the structures in this diverse little town. Here I held hands with my best friend and listened to the words that made him my husband -- my eternal best friend. I cried as it occurred to me that our relationship literally had God's stamp of approval.

I thought of these things on my last bike ride. I looked down at Mufi, the rusting, turquoise beach cruiser, gripped his sticky handle bars, and said one last thank you for all the rides.

Then, under the weight of all the memories, I biffed it. For the first time ever, my feet slipped off the pedals and I bruised my knee in a mad attempt not to crash. I took it as a sign. It's time to move on, I thought. Time to make new memories. Time to ride a new bike past new landscapes.

As I arrived at this new epiphany, I also arrived at the house of Mufi's new owner. I handed him over to Megumi, who gave me a big "arigato" smile that made everything OK. It was time for her to discover Laie by beach cruiser.

Goodbye Laie.

Hello fresh start.

Fertility

There is something in the water in the BYU-Hawaii LDS 14^th ward. And it might be sperm.

Gross. Pretending I didn’t say that, let me start over by announcing that I belong to the most hazardously fertile ward in the world. We’re talking more than all the married wards in Provo, Utah or Rexberg, Idaho COMBINED.

Each week, a list is passed around for more women to sign up announcing their due date. Every other week, another stroller becomes the new caboose of a long train of baby carriages stretching all the way down the hall. Every couple of weeks, another wife suddenly develops a belly growth, as though hiding (not well) a large watermelon under her shirt.

It’s as though there’s a secret fertility club, and to become a member you have to get pregnant, and after you get pregnant you must bear heartfelt testimony to everyone about the newness and exuberance one feels when she has on her belly a large watermelon growth.

Certainly this is a wonderful thing. I hope to grow a watermelon of my own one day... one distant, distant day long after forfeiting my chance of joining the super secret not-so-exclusive 14^th ward fertility club.

Last Fast Sunday, as is custom, a great many members of the club, including fruitful new daddies, stood up to extol the virtues of parenthood and encourage childless newlyweds (like we Bagleys) to try making watermelon Bagley bellies. I was deeply engrossed in a doodle of a giant ice cream cone when Kendon got my attention and looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “I want one,” he mouthed. “Ice cream? Me too,” I said, my tummy growling in agreement. “No, a baby,” he replied, his eyes so puppy-doggy now I could have scratched his ears. “We’ll get one. Someday,” I assured him, patting his leg as I carefully made criss-cross waffle cone lines on my program. He poked me again. “No. Now.”

I looked around me, from the babies in bellies to the babies on bouncing mama laps to the newly-liberated aisle-walking babies, then back to Kendon and thought, Heaven help us, they’ve indoctrinated him. I swallowed hard and tried to look sympathetic.

Then he burst out laughing. Kendon’s laugh can sometimes exceed baby scream decibels. As half a dozen disapproving baby bellies turned and looked at us, I breathed a sigh of relief and began to daydream about puppies.