I joined a gym, and I went there

So the other day my dad I were out in the park playing tennis. We play about two or three times a week, sometimes more, usually around 3 pm when my dad has a break from work. After we play two sets, we take a break so that I can drink some water and my dad can smoke. You may be thinking that it's kind of gross to take a smoke break while playing tennis, because tennis is so physical and such a healthy, good thing to do for your body and smoking is a disgusting, dirty, bad habit that can contribute to yellow teeth and wrinkles, but god, why do you have to be so uptight all the time? My dad likes smoking, mmmkay? And he works hard. He deserves to smoke. Plus, I mean, it's cool, because sometimes my dad skips smoking. One time, there was this guy on one of the other courts and my dad knew him. The guy was a priest, so my dad didn't smoke that day because of the shame factor. Plus, he can quit any time he wants to. So just lay off.

Usually, I like to use our break time as a free therapy session. I store up all the pain and anguish that is inside me, and I unleash it on my dad during break time. And let me tell you, there is a lot of pain and anguish inside me. Sometimes, when I'm driving to work, even when the sun is setting and the sky is pink and beautiful and the trees and fields are lush and green with life, I feel this sense of heaviness, this emptiness, this pervasive blackness inside of me. I try to dig deep within myself to bring up some joy, a happy memory, or a shred of hope, but all I find is loneliness and despair. But let's not get off topic--so, we were taking a our usual break after the second set, and we starting chatting like always.

Dad said, "Hey, you know what I was thinking about today?"

Me: "What?"

Dad: "How come, when you're at a funeral, you never see the person laid out in the casket with a full-tooth smile?"

I laughed, "Um...probably because that would be super creepy and unnatural looking. I'll make sure, though, that we give you a full-tooth smile when we bury you."

Dad: "That'd be good."

Next, my dad started talking about how earlier in the day when he was at work, he was outside taking a smoke break and a random guy was staring at him for no apparent reason.

Dad: "I mean, he just stood there for a really long time. I started to think he was probably a hit man. I positioned myself next to this chair and I was planning on smashing it over his head if he came at me."

Me: "He probably wasn't even looking at you. He was probably looking past you. Why do you always go to such a dark place?"

Dad: "I think of it as being prepared. If you're gonna attack, I'm gonna pull out my switchblade and I'm gonna shove it down your throat. I don't panic. I do not panic. Because that's when people die. In the split second that you take to start screa--"

Me: "But I feel like I'm getting a lot better at tennis, don't you think?"

Dad: "No, you're not getting better. You've peaked. You're as good as you are ever going to be."

He stared at me, dead serious. I looked away, shattered. I was sitting Indian-style on the hot concrete, surrounded by dead caterpillars and dried up leaves.

I chuckled, "Come on..."

He cracked a smile, "No, you haven't peaked. But I think you've given up."

Me: "What? No I haven't!"

Dad: "On the whole weight loss thing, I mean."

Me: "No I have not!"

You see, pretty much my whole life has been defined (in a negative way) by my weight. I have always, always struggled with being a fat slop hog. It makes me hate myself. Truly. And I have always oscillated between being on a weight loss kick--running every day, eating Greek yogurt and almonds, and pretending to be horrified by processed foods like Doritos and Twinkies--and being completely and utterly consumed by my food addiction--sneaking pints of vanilla swiss almond ice cream and bags of Tostitos Hint of Lime into my room and shamelessly eating them in bed while watching one of the Real Housewives installments. Recently, I've been on a weight loss kick, mostly because my fear of dying alone has finally taken a firm hold on my soul and is starting to edge out my fear of living a life free of untethered overindulgence.

Dad: "Well you're not losing 5 pounds a week anymore like you were."

Me: "I was never losing 5 pounds a week. Anyway, it's good to lose weight slowly. I have a better chance of keeping it off that way."

He gave me a long look, and I could see, from behind a cloud of smoke, how tired he was--tired of my excuses.

Me: "I don't know what you want from me. I joined a gym and I went there. What else can I do? I joined a gym and I went there."

Dad: "Yeah..."

It's true. I did join a gym, and I did go there. Mostly, I joined the gym because it had indoor tennis courts and I didn't want to have to give up tennis this winter. But there was a part of me, a tiny sliver of my heart, that joined the gym because I was trying to give myself some chance at a better life. I'm not too proud to tell you that my thought process when I was deciding whether or not to join a gym went something like this: If I join a gym I'll have to pay money, but I'll have somewhere to go on the days that are so soul-shatteringly boring and depressing that even a Parks and Rec marathon won't help, and I'd have access to a hot tub, but I might have to make hot-tub small talk with strangers, and if I joined a gym and paid money I'd feel obligated to go there, and that might make me thinner, and if I was thinner I might be worthy of love and I might not die alone. So yeah, I joined a gym.

My dad snuffed out his cigarette on the court, which made a high-pitched squeaky sound that made me want to chew my own finger to the bone. He was quiet for a while, and I knew it was because he was choosing his words carefully. He thinks I hate him for even mentioning my weight to me, but I don't hate him that much. I only hate him as much as you hate a mirror for highlighting how fat you look in your bathing suit. Ok, ok. I don't hate him at all. I pretty much love him more than anyone. After all, he is my tennis partner. And I know he just wants me to be healthy for the same reasons I want myself to be healthy--so I can land a rich husband. 

Me: "I'm not giving up."

Dad: "I know. You joined a gym and you went there."

Me: "And don't you forget it."