I left there blindly, pealing out of the driveway, stripping naked as I entered the front door rushing into the shower not waiting for warm water. There I scrubbed, like a frenzied victim on a Lifetime movie. I scrubbed almost to blister to remove the stench, the contamination, of huge rubber balls for body toning, “tubes” that looked like too short jump ropes, whose handles also soiled with the reek of rubber, and “bands” worn around the ankles like a super sized band for a broccoli bunch. The revolting noises, still replaying in my ears: Beatles’ classics, sped up until Paul sounded like Alvin, John, George and Ringo, the Chipmunks. Heavy bass superimposed itself while the windows rattled with the whump, my heart synchronized itself with the beat, the thump became my heartbeat, artificial resuscitation, nothing more. Wall to wall mirrors afforded no denial of my present circumstances. I cringed when I saw myself, red faced and dripping, tottering on my “step”. I took it in soberly, I, just one in this army of synchronized steppers. Oh yes, I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes I saw the sign. Now I lay here, curled in the tub, rinsing in this temporary refuge, mourning that it cannot end here, knowing that my own karma brought me here. I weep, wishing I could erase those days of laughter when I entertained my friends, flat-stomached, pre-stretch-marked. I mimicked their Jazzercise moves, their abdominal crunches, their non-sexual pelvic thrusts their woo-hooing and clapping while impatiently waiting for them to get their thonged, leotarded asses off the fucking court.