I’m dressed for a workout, but this time I’ve splashed on
a little make-up and done my hair. My usual tunnel vision at the gym is
replaced with a panoramic view of The Rock patrons pedaling, treading, lifting,
and grabbing tootsie-rolled towels when they check in or dropping their limp
remains in a hamper on the way to the shower. I sit at a round table near the
desk where my husband has fanned a dozen or so copies of my book before a
plastic display frame with my picture in it and a bunch of cards in the pocket.
The book cover looks really beautiful. I open one and admire the design, then
close it so I can attend to business. What business?
“It feels like doing a trade show,” my husband muses,
recalling a familiar blend of adrenalin and lethargy.
There is absolutely no action at my first book signing
event. I muse that one of the most powerful spiritual postures for any new
undertaking is to assume “nothing may happen.” I know this is supposed to feel
weird, and it really does. I’m a 76-year-old woman in black Under Amour trying
to drum up interest in passersby: a curious 3-year-old on her way to the
supervised playroom, a new mom on her first day trying to get back in shape, a
70-year-old Bangladeshi marathon runner with a torn cartilage in his knee, and
– the most promising – a guy in a do-rag who exclaims: “Wow! I know you work
out here – it must work!” I give a card to the Latina who tidies the ladies
dressing room and always greets me warmly, and tell her “I’d love to translate
it into Spanish.”
Finally, three young hunks gather near the door and one
balls up his towel, tosses it at the hamper, misses, and looks embarrassed when
it rolls to my feet. He dives, apologizing.
“No problem,” I soothe, “but it’s a heck of a way to make
a pass at a girl.” The three guys crack up.
Ah, well. As Cole Porter would write it: “Love . . . for
sale.”
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