Tell Me. M. Colette Jane

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       Day 2 Did she just?

       Tuesday, December 4

      Alex brings me coffee up to bed before he leaves for the firm. I stumble out of bed and into the shower. The brood’s already up, the boys fighting over who gets to play Minecraft first, the girls curled up on the couch with books, one reading, the other carefully, seriously imitating her sister. I look at them intensely. Feel my love for them reverberate in waves, through me, throughout the room.

      No one wants to do much of anything in the short hour or two of the morning before I have to bundle the kids into the car to drop them off at school. They just chill. I consider it an ultimate test of character not to check Facebook.

      It causes me physical pain.

      I drop the elder three at school and Annie at my mom’s for the morning, and then head off to the gym. If I was a woman nearing 40 somewhere sexy like New York City, say, I’d probably have a therapist. But I’m a skiing Calgarian so I have a personal trainer. Also a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. And a massage therapist. Winter sports kill the spine…and our tendency to drive SUVs and mega-trucks any distances over 0.6 kilometres when we’re not on the hills means we need fucking treadmills to get exercise.

      There really is no hope for humanity, I think as I careen down one overpass, then another. It’s my usual think as I drive to the gym. That if I just went for a (free) bike ride, (free) run or did some real physical work – chopped wood, I don’t know, laid some bricks or something – I’d achieve the same result in a less self-centred, narcissistic environment.

      I keep on getting distracted from my self-inflicted lecture by imagining Matt’s tongue between my thighs.

      Fuck. Focus.

      I park. Wave to Jesse as I run to the changing room. Jesse. My trainer. The very very very junior fourth partner, as he puts it, in a very clean, very bright, very Zen gym, filled with inspirational quotes and a dizzying array of equipment. The gym runs classes, sells memberships and all that other stuff, but its real draw is the personal training services – or just going to the gym to ogle the trainers. The personal trainers, male and female, look like Greek – in one case, Nubian – gods.

      Mine is, not to put too much of a point on it, the prettiest. He was a gift from Alex for my birthday a couple of years ago.

      ‘So I saw Nicola yesterday,’ he says as he loads up weights for me. I stare at him blankly. What the fuck is he talking about. Nicola? Nicola! Who is Nicola?

       Not important. What’s important is how you will look in those fuck-me heels when we meet.

      —Go away. Not in my head. Not now.

      I know Nicola. Jesse knows Nicola. I introduced Nicola to Jesse, actually. Before the gong-show of a divorce, when her own struggle with careening towards 40 resulted in a fitness-must-lose-weight-and-look-hotter craze. I don’t judge: I don’t come to Jesse because it’s fun or because I enjoy exercise. I too have no desire to be a fat, frumpy middle-aged woman who wears yoga pants СКАЧАТЬ