This Is Not A Heart

I am wearing a sports bra and spandex leggings. There are mirrors reflecting my body in every direction. The room is 106 degrees with 40 percent humidity.  My mind is relaxed. My heart is open. I am engaging every muscle in my body, from head to toe, bones to skin.  The sweat trickles down my body. For 90 minutes, I watch myself twist, bend, stretch, and contort. It is like doing Kegels for the whole body. I love to stand in the front row and watch  the beads of sweat roll down my body and drip off the tips of my fingers, elbows, and nose. It gives me an enormous sense of well-being, stamina, and sex appeal. For 90 minutes, I stare at myself sweat; I challenge my flexibility and strength; I look tauter, toner, and thinner everyday; I will look so good in a bikini this summer. I will look so good at the bar tonite.

I ran into a guy I used to have sex with at “Oldies Night.” We met at a party. I tried to get him to makeout with one of my friends because it was her birthday, but he said he wasn’t into Asian girls. I asked him what he wanted to do. He said, “You.” I took him home, and we fucked everyday for a month. It was wonderful. One nite, we had a party, he left early to meet up with some other girl. He said he was over it. A year or so later, I was standing outside the bar smoking a cigarette, and he came up to me. He was a fountain of compliments.  How did I look so good, he asked. I go to to yoga everyday now. He wanted to catch up, hangout. He asked for my number again, he txted and called, and I never responded.  I wanted to say, “I am a chance that comes only once, asshole,” but I am a bigger person that that. I can do something more fulfilling.