me?’
‘Why? I’ve got a gym membership.’
‘Last visit was when?’
‘Hmm ... I had highlights in my hair – I remember because I drove to the gym after my hair appointment then drove back out of the car park because I didn’t want to waste a good blow-dry.’
‘You had highlights last year.’
‘Yeah ... I really need to go in to cancel my membership.’
‘Jesus, Esma, you need to get fit again.’
‘I run all the time. You know I do. And since when do you like exercising? I can barely get you to take a flight of stairs in the shops.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she laughs. ‘This is boot camp with a difference. The trainer is Greek and, I’m told on good authority, dazzling. Lots of the Greek crowd from our local church go there. It’s become a social thing too. Well, at least according to Pina, who’s been doing it for the last year. So I’m going to sign us up. Maybe we’ll meet someone.’
‘How can we meet someone when we’re puffy and red-faced? I don’t care how hot your body is, nobody looks attractive doing star jumps.’
‘Good point. But I’m sure it’s not
that
intense. We’ll just take it easy. We’re not there to actually get fit or anything. You’ve got to learn to be strategic, Esma. Slot yourself into groups and scenes where you’re more likely to meet someone who meets your criteria.’
‘That sounds so sad and pathetic.’
‘No, it’s about having a proactive attitude. All those movies we’ve seen have given us a warped view of reality. We’re waiting for our destiny to bump into us at Coles, probably in the tampon aisle knowing my bad luck.’
‘It’ll be the herbal tea section for me. We’ll both be reaching up for the orange-flavoured laxative tea. Our hands will brush, we’ll gaze into each other’s eyes, and we’ll click over a conversation about which tea produces the best results ... Are they all from your church?’
‘Nah. There’s a mix. I’m sure you can meet a Muslim there.’
‘Wonderful. So he’ll be Muslim and enjoy a good workout too. We were meant for each other.’
‘I’m booking us in, okay? Mondays, six in the morning in Ryde, starting in a fortnight. I’m changing my shift at the legal centre, so you can’t bail on me. Deal?’
I say yes. Because sometimes you’ve got to seize fate rather than wait for it to seize you.
‘How’s the online scene going?’ I ask Ruby the following week.
‘An infinite source of laughs. Which is, I know, unfair to those who do meet with success. But clearly my online profile is attracting the nutters.’
‘I told you so.’
She whips out her phone and scrolls through her messages. ‘The other day I got this one,’ she says, and starts to read aloud: ‘
I am a healthy, prosperous engineer in the USA for thirty-two years from Greece, sixty years old. I am healthy like a thirty-year-old man. I jog two kilometres a day. I am better than others because a) older men don’t cheat, b) older men have more time and money, and c) I’m fun-loving with still a lot of hair
.’
‘What a turn-on.’
I enjoy teasing Ruby about her online disaster, but as adamant as I’ve been about never veering into online dating territory, I’m starting to reconsider. That’s what happens when the offline scene is so woeful – you change strategy and become more flexible. Even if the thought of meeting in person a stranger I first met in cyberspace freaks me out.
When Dad quit gambling he started to pray the five daily prayers. It was new to us, as we hadn’t grown up with him or Mum praying. Even now Mum only prays on special occasions.
It wasn’t an overnight conversion for Dad. At first he started praying at the mosque on Fridays, when he could make it. Then he started waking up for the pre-dawn prayer, going straight to work after that. Then, before I knew it, he was maintaining all five prayers. He hasn’t become a zealot. I’ve never heard him ask Mum to join him and he’s never bothered me about
‘Why? I’ve got a gym membership.’
‘Last visit was when?’
‘Hmm ... I had highlights in my hair – I remember because I drove to the gym after my hair appointment then drove back out of the car park because I didn’t want to waste a good blow-dry.’
‘You had highlights last year.’
‘Yeah ... I really need to go in to cancel my membership.’
‘Jesus, Esma, you need to get fit again.’
‘I run all the time. You know I do. And since when do you like exercising? I can barely get you to take a flight of stairs in the shops.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she laughs. ‘This is boot camp with a difference. The trainer is Greek and, I’m told on good authority, dazzling. Lots of the Greek crowd from our local church go there. It’s become a social thing too. Well, at least according to Pina, who’s been doing it for the last year. So I’m going to sign us up. Maybe we’ll meet someone.’
‘How can we meet someone when we’re puffy and red-faced? I don’t care how hot your body is, nobody looks attractive doing star jumps.’
‘Good point. But I’m sure it’s not
that
intense. We’ll just take it easy. We’re not there to actually get fit or anything. You’ve got to learn to be strategic, Esma. Slot yourself into groups and scenes where you’re more likely to meet someone who meets your criteria.’
‘That sounds so sad and pathetic.’
‘No, it’s about having a proactive attitude. All those movies we’ve seen have given us a warped view of reality. We’re waiting for our destiny to bump into us at Coles, probably in the tampon aisle knowing my bad luck.’
‘It’ll be the herbal tea section for me. We’ll both be reaching up for the orange-flavoured laxative tea. Our hands will brush, we’ll gaze into each other’s eyes, and we’ll click over a conversation about which tea produces the best results ... Are they all from your church?’
‘Nah. There’s a mix. I’m sure you can meet a Muslim there.’
‘Wonderful. So he’ll be Muslim and enjoy a good workout too. We were meant for each other.’
‘I’m booking us in, okay? Mondays, six in the morning in Ryde, starting in a fortnight. I’m changing my shift at the legal centre, so you can’t bail on me. Deal?’
I say yes. Because sometimes you’ve got to seize fate rather than wait for it to seize you.
‘How’s the online scene going?’ I ask Ruby the following week.
‘An infinite source of laughs. Which is, I know, unfair to those who do meet with success. But clearly my online profile is attracting the nutters.’
‘I told you so.’
She whips out her phone and scrolls through her messages. ‘The other day I got this one,’ she says, and starts to read aloud: ‘
I am a healthy, prosperous engineer in the USA for thirty-two years from Greece, sixty years old. I am healthy like a thirty-year-old man. I jog two kilometres a day. I am better than others because a) older men don’t cheat, b) older men have more time and money, and c) I’m fun-loving with still a lot of hair
.’
‘What a turn-on.’
I enjoy teasing Ruby about her online disaster, but as adamant as I’ve been about never veering into online dating territory, I’m starting to reconsider. That’s what happens when the offline scene is so woeful – you change strategy and become more flexible. Even if the thought of meeting in person a stranger I first met in cyberspace freaks me out.
When Dad quit gambling he started to pray the five daily prayers. It was new to us, as we hadn’t grown up with him or Mum praying. Even now Mum only prays on special occasions.
It wasn’t an overnight conversion for Dad. At first he started praying at the mosque on Fridays, when he could make it. Then he started waking up for the pre-dawn prayer, going straight to work after that. Then, before I knew it, he was maintaining all five prayers. He hasn’t become a zealot. I’ve never heard him ask Mum to join him and he’s never bothered me about
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