Lucy Wagner Gets In Shape (A Romantic Comedy) (2 page)

A month after we started dating, we moved in together, and our lives began to gel quite nicely. Things that most couples see as negatives, we were able to spin into positives--like, we had no mutual friends (other than Nate and Katy), so there was no fighting about who to go out with, or which friends “trumped” the others at parties—we usually just went out separately, and we never had parties, because Paul hated the noise and mess. Also, we never really made each other laugh (Paul was much too serious for silly games or goofy romantic gestures), but that was okay, because I had Jen and Will to make me laugh, all day long. By the time I got home, I was tired of laughing. Really, sometimes all that giggling and snorting can be exhausting.

Anyway, Paul was beautiful, and smart, and sexy as hell, and much more refined than me. Plus, he was mature, and reliable, and could make a kid with a broken arm smile with nothing more than a Jolly Rancher lollipop and a Magic 8 Ball. (“Will Brandon’s arm be as good as new in six weeks?” “All signs point to yes!”)

Our biggest conflict centered on, of all things, working out. Paul was pretty much addicted to exercise. When we met, he was training for a marathon, but after he finished a few of those, he moved on to bigger and better things—triathlons, cross-country relays, endurance swimming. When we first started dating, it was a joke between us—Paul, with his macrobiotic meals and two-a-day workouts, would tease me for being such a couch potato. But after a few months, I could tell it really bugged him that I wasn’t more active. I tried to join the gym a few times, and even took a power yoga class with Jen, but the instructor…okay, there’s no other way to say it, he had a real girly butt, and he’d wear these white biking shorts that totally accentuated it, and Jen and I would laugh so hard at downward facing dog that eventually we had to quit going, since we were a distraction to the rest of the class.

By year two of our three-year relationship, we had come to an impasse, by which I mean I never worked out, and Paul made sarcastic remarks about my laziness, which I pretended to ignore. His last attempt at getting me moving was when he started preparing for an extreme racing event about four months ago. He asked me three or four times to join him, but I refused. It’s one thing to join the gym and do a forty-five minute aerobics class, but this was crazy—running ten miles, plus God knows how many miles of kayaking, and some insane bike ride through the hills. There was no way I could do it, and there was certainly no way I could do it with Paul—he was so much faster than me, he’d be nothing but a sexy speck of ass over the horizon as I gasped in his muddy, wet wake.

So he began training, after work and on weekends, which suited me just fine, because I was finishing up my dissertation anyway, spending hours in the library, or in Will’s office while he helped me edit and refine my last three chapters before I sent them off to the committee. Looking back, I suppose I should have been suspicious of all the time he spent away from home, but I was too busy watching Glee with Jenny, and eating Taco Bell Nachos Bel Grande without hearing the calorie and fat gram count quoted to me in Paul’s disapproving voice. (“God, Luce—thirty grams of fat? Seriously, that should be illegal. Corporate America is literally profiting off the early death of the fast-food-addicted public.”) Paul used to tell me that even though I was thin on the outside, thanks to my blessedly forgiving genes, I was fat on the inside, my arteries a veritable sludgefest of Crisco and plaque.

He was right. Of course he was right. And everything he said was because he cared about me, and wanted me to be healthy and happy.

It’s true!

So now I’m sitting with Will and Jenny, on the day that I should be indulging in beer and making jokes about Paul’s inferior penis size, but instead I’m wondering what I’ve done to help bring about the downfall of our relationship.

“Do you think it’s possible to be thin on the outside and fat on the inside?” I ask this with an onion ring in my mouth, and the irony is not lost on me.

“Holy shit, that’s a Paul platitude, isn’t it?” Jenny says accusingly.

“No way,” Will interrupts. “If you’re thin on the outside and fat on the inside, your inside would start oozing out of your outside. I mean, you’d eventually explode, right?” Jenny and I stare at him blankly.

“Will, you’re an idiot.” That’s Jenny. Jenny and Will get along quite well most of the time, but she doesn’t really “get” him like I do. Like, when he’s being a smart-ass to try to cheer me up, Jenny just thinks he’s being a smart-ass, period.

“True, but I really think I’m right on this ‘fat on the inside’ thing.”

Jenny ignores him, and points her fiery gaze at me. “I don’t know if you’re going through some kind of ‘stages of grief’ thing or what, but do
not
, under any circumstances, make excuses for that asshole. He’s a lying, cheating piece of shit. Good riddance. You are now a fabulous, multi-degreed political economist, and at the very least you should pick a piece eye candy from the teaching assistant pool and have some meaningless youngster sex.”

“Jenny, she’s not going to sleep with a TA,” Will reiterates. “Unless it’s Melissa Rollins. In which case I’m totally on board with the idea.”

“God, you and your situational lesbian fantasies….She is pretty, though,” I say thoughtfully, finishing my onion ring and walking into the kitchen to wash the grease off my fingers.

“Well, Rich Duncan is
not
an option.” I’m sprawled on the couch now, feeling the onion rings settle, not too pleasantly, in the pit of my stomach.

“Why not?”

“Socks and sandals.” Will and I say simultaneously.

“
Once!”
Jen exclaims. “He wore socks and sandals
once
. And it was freezing outside.”

“Once is one time too many,” says Will. “He must have a pair of big boy shoes lying around somewhere. What is he, like, twenty-five?”

Jenny rolls her eyes at me, but I just giggle. I can’t help it, he cracks me up. “Yes, that’s
exactly
it.”

“Hey.” Will turns as he opens the front door, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s going to ask a favor. And I already know I’ll say yes. “Would you mind looking over my packet later tonight? I’ve got everything together except the research agenda and the student evaluations.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Luce. I’ll drop it off before basketball tonight.” He offers me a wink before shooting out the door. He’s left the beer behind for us, bless his heart.

Will’s an assistant professor in the department, and he’s up for tenure next month. He’s been working furiously on his review packet, and I’ve been helping him out, proofreading his documents and basically being a sounding board for his basketful of insecurities. Will came from Michigan, and he’s an expert in the legislative process. He teaches a few classes per semester, in addition to his research agenda. Jenny and I are lowly lecturers, although now that I have my PhD in hand, my rank will go up to ‘visiting professor,” which is odd, since I have, in fact, been hanging around this place for the better part of four years. Also, since Jenny and I are not on tenure track, we are forced to teach loads more classes than Will to make a decent living. All in all, Will’s life is gravy, and ours is more like…ketchup.

“So, what’s on tap for the rest of the day, Lucy-in-the-sky?” Jen loves to play with my name.

I grin at her from the edge of the couch. “Well, I suppose we’ve put off the bra-and-panty tickle fight long enough.”

Jen rolls her eyes and frowns. “Will is such a
guy
. It’s about time that he and Dax evolved, you know?” She looks suddenly guilty, talking about her boyfriend when Paul has just betrayed and abandoned me, but I wave my hand in front of her face, my “don’t even worry about it, I’m fine” gesture.

“I
am
wanting a manicure…and some ice cream. I promise I won’t tell Will. We’ll take it to the grave.”

Chapter Three

It’s funny—you have the best day of your life, that quickly spirals into the worst day of your life, and you convince yourself that everything has changed—the sky’s a different color; food tastes flatter; the sounds on the street are muted and dull. People must be able to see through you, to see that the person you were on Friday is gone, and the new, psychically bruised person before them has deeper thoughts, and emotional wounds that won’t soon heal.

But then you get to work on Monday morning and realize that’s all crap.

So here I am, shuffling into Farrish Hall after sleeping in the apartment alone for the first time, which means I ended up watching Time-Life infomercials for classic rock until three in the morning (every song digitally re-mastered to give listeners “studio-perfect” sound). I stumble into my office and drop my purse and briefcase on the floor with a
thud
. I have nothing prepared for my classes today. I consider giving walks, then I consider showing some boring video on developing economies in the post-9/11 era. Get it together, Lucy. I take out my notes and begin to prepare my lecture.

“Hey, Pumpkin.” Thank
God!
I’ve been at it for five minutes and I need a break.

“Hey, Schmoopie,” I answer, as Will folds his long body neatly in my “student wailing” chair. Our pet name contest has been going on all semester. The one that actually induces vomiting wins, and so far Will is in the lead with ‘Kissy Pants’. I almost got him last week with ‘Numnums’, though, so I’m not giving up yet.

“Frosted Lucky Chan’s for lunch?” Lucky Chan’s is our typical Monday lunch destination, but I’m not feeling it at the moment. Maybe because it’s ten o’clock in the morning.

“That doesn’t count, you know. They have to be pet names, not insults.” But he’s already gone, presumably to hang out in the administrative suite and flirt with the student advisors. Will is a horrible flirt, and by horrible, I mean, he’s horrible at it. But he’s such a nice guy that everyone, girls and guys, flock to him. He’ll probably wander the halls, begging breakfast off people until ten-thirty or so, and then make it to his office to do some work. Like I said: Will’s life, gravy. My life…something a lot worse than gravy.

I scrounge through my notes for ten more minutes. I am so out of time. I’m about to pack it up when I hear a quiet knock on the side of my wall. I lift my head and frown in annoyance.

“Listen, Cuddlebuns, I realize that your life is charmed, but my life is shit right now, and if I don’t get this done in the next five…” I trail off as Will produces a folder from behind his back. A thick folder, with black sharpie letters on the front--“POLS 4360—DEV POL ECON”. Lecture notes. His lecture notes. I grab them quickly and hug them to my chest, like a precious child.

“When did you ever teach Developing Political Economies?” I ask, still embracing the folder tightly. We may need a moment alone, me and the folder.

“When I was on the job market. I wanted to make it seem like I could teach anything. Boy, do I feel sorry for my students that semester. They got a lot of ‘Ritchie Rich’ analogies.”

“You. Are. A. Lifesaver!” I squeal, reaching up to hug his neck tightly. “I take back everything I ever said about your freaky fourth toe.”

“It’s my special toe,” he says good-naturedly, because Will is constitutionally incapable of being offended. It would break his stream of constant, laid-back happiness. I realize I’m still hugging him, and let go quickly.