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visit.”
    I didn’t think she was kidding, which gave me an odd sort of pride at the unexpected accomplishment.  As I departed, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had just found a guide through the minefield of recovery or if I was being “Punk’d” by Ashton Kutcher—if it was the latter, this would have made for some great TV programming.  I glanced around to make sure there were no cameramen hiding in the bushes.  Nope.  Thia was a therapist unlike any I had encountered thus far.  I resolved to follow her directives and get a jump on my homework assignments. 
    After a stop at New York Sports Club (NYSC), I was officially a card-carrying gym member and planned to institute my workout schedule beginning tomorrow.  I had been to the gym at Hensley with Ev before, but all we ever attempted was the treadmill, elliptical, stair-climber, and stationary bike—the rest was a complete mystery to me.  Most of the equipment in the gym looked like it belonged in Christian’s “Red Room of Pain.”  I didn’t think NYSC was a front for a BDSM club, so there must be another purpose behind the various contraptions; I was just clueless as to what that purpose was.  While there, I was tempted to explore some of the machinery, but felt uneasy with the vast number of shirtless men, all grunting and sweaty.  I didn’t know these men and felt unprepared to put myself within arm’s reach. 
    I took a deep breath to calm myself and tried to survey the room with Old Sam’s eyes.  The selection of man-candy was spectacular.  I was mentally stripping off a wide array of tank tops and exercise shorts—from a distance.  A glimmer of hope shined, despite my initial panic, and there was the slightest stirring, a twinge really, which registered in my neglected lady bits.  Hell yeah, it may only be a twinge, but it was the first sign of life from her royal highness in five months.
    As I left the gym, I pondered my response—was there hope?  I feared my goodies had dried up, petrified from lack of use.  My relief at the possibility of reanimation was palpable.  I indulged in a brief parking lot happy dance, only to find a snickering couple approaching me.
    “What?  You’d dance too if you just realized your years of kegels weren’t wasted.”
    I left them in open-mouthed shock, a smile painted on my face and extra bounce in my step.
    My added confidence spurred me to bite the bullet and call my parents.  Elsa, their housekeeper, advised me that they were not available, so I left a message confirming my presence at the family dinner the following week.  Homework item number two completed.
    I needed time to consider employment prospects where I would feel secure and enjoy the work—well, if not enjoy, then at least not despise.
    I stopped at Chipotle for a spicy chicken burrito—food consumption.  Homework item number four accomplished.  Then I headed to the mall to acquire new gear for my athletic intents.  I had no problem working out and sweating, but you can be damn sure I was going to look my best doing it.  I struck gold with a selection of outfits from Heidi Klum’s workout line.  One of the pieces was even featured on “Project Runway,” a show my DVR was programmed to always record and never delete without my prior authorization. 
    When I was satisfied I had appropriately rewarded my homework initiative, I finally headed home.  Ev arrived shortly after and rushed to the bathroom to shower before Hunter arrived for dinner. 
     
     

 
    "I make mistakes, I'm out of control, and at times hard to handle.  But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."  -Marilyn Monroe
     
     
     
    I was organizing my new purchases in the appropriate dresser drawers when the doorbell rang.  I could hear the shower running, leaving me to answer.  Hunter had a key to our apartment, but he usually rang the bell so I was forewarned of his entry, a lesson learned the first time