We’ve joined a hipster gym. We didn’t need to buy new workout clothes like before, when we belonged to the YMCA or that posh spot on Lincoln Avenue where everyone wore the same brand of Lycra racerback and neon sweats or, sometimes, no shirt at all. I’m in my black tights, and you bring the high-tops you had before we bought the house. At the hipster gym we wear your old shirts from when we first got pregnant and painted the office soft blue. Only, when the baby came he was a girl. But we said, She’ll be the kind of girl who doesn’t care about gender norms. Like at the hipster gym, where all the boys dress in skinny jeans and all the girls in ex-boyfriend sweaters.
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We pulled our shirts from the rag bin, where they were waiting to wipe grease from the chain of your bike. Now your bike is getting a fixed-gear modification so we can ride to the gym, always pedaling, never gliding. Salvaged rag shirts are perfect for a health-conscious hipster—holes in the armpits and a splotch across the stomach where you wiped the brush clean before a cigarette break. Then, for the baby, we quit taking those breaks. Now we’ll have to pick them up again. Even though we stopped, the smoke stayed. It accumulated near the mobile and fueled the tiny felt airplanes and shooting stars that circle the top of the room. Why didn’t we think not to smoke in the baby’s room? When we were smoking, you say, it was an office.
At home, you try to have your own class. I’m the instructor and I say, Don’t relax. Let your mind wander everywhere. Imagine your body is a lake. Fill it with things: furniture, newspapers, boom boxes, office chairs with many spinning wheels, and cribs. Make your mind choppy and listen for the reverberation. Focus on things that aren’t breathing—which is easy, because most things in our house aren’t.
