Love Island

I’d never considered working with a personal trainer because it seemed like a vain luxury beyond my means, then I met Sevada. I was waiting for my friend Leila on the patio of a coffee shop in the foothills north of Glendale, when a handsome young man with curly black hair and a full beard asked if the table next to me was free. I said “Sure,” then he said, “That’s a pretty blouse. What’s that pattern?” His friendliness surprised me. I looked down at my blouse.

            “Thanks, it’s some kind of paisley, I guess.”

            “Your watch is nice too. It’s elegant, like you.” He smiled.

“Thank you.” I felt my face get red. Who is this guy?

“So, what brings you here today?” he asked.

            “I’m waiting for a friend. And you?”

            “I’m working on my website and designing business cards. I’m a personal trainer.” He said proudly.

            “That’s cool.” I knew nothing about personal trainers, but I imagined him teaching me how to do push-ups. “So, where do you do this personal training?”

            “In different gyms all over the city. Sorry I don’t have my business cards yet, but if you give me your phone, I’ll type in my website.” I’d never given my phone to a complete stranger, but he was so nice, it seemed like the polite thing to do. As he typed his info into my phone, I thought, wouldn’t it be hysterical if I trained with this guy and got my scrawny, 62-year-old body looking really buff?

He finished and handed me my phone.

“I’m Sevada.”

            “Zevada?” I repeated.

            “No, Sevada, with an S.”  For a second I wondered if he was Turkish because ‘Sev ada’ in Turkish would literally mean ‘love island,” which suited him because he was so flirty. I almost told him but remembered we were in an Armenian neighborhood. “Nice to meet you, Sevada, I’m Martha.”

            I knew a little Armenian from volunteering at a local hospital, so I asked him, “Duk Hayek?” “Are you Armenian?”

            “Yeah,” he answered, a little puzzled. “You speak Armenian?”

            “Mi keech,” I said, “A little bit,” then explained why. This got my adrenalin flowing wildly, which often happened when my brain changed languages and I wanted to hang out with this guy, but I remembered I was meeting Leila and glanced toward the door of the coffee shop.

            “You better go find your friend,” he read my mind.

“Yeah, shnorhagalatyun!” I thanked him and went inside.

As soon as I said goodbye to Leila, I pulled out my phone, tapped Sevada’s link. An image of him looking very fit in gym shorts and a T-shirt popped up. I scrolled down to find several more photos of him working with female clients of different ages and wondered if he flirted with them too.

At the bottom of the page, a banner said I could schedule my first personal training appointment with him for free. Free??? I’m in! I made an appointment and received confirmation with the address of a gym near the coffee shop where we met.

I’d always avoided gyms because of all the germs and sweaty people, but this place had numerous pristine workout machines, a spotless, matt-covered floor and no sweaty bodies. Sevada greeted me with outstretched arms and hugged me like we were old friends. I returned his warmth, then stepped back and thought, “Not too tall, not too short, just my size.”

Then a voice in my head asked, “Just your size for what? You’re a happily married woman, old enough to be this guy’s mom!” 

“Oh, shut up,” I said to this buzz kill voice, “you’re no fun.”

I greeted Sevada in Armenian, “Barev, inch besek?” hoping this would endear me to him, but he ignored my efforts and replied in English, “I’m good, let’s get started.” Buzzkill voice chimed in, “He doesn’t care that you speak Armenian. You probably just remind him of his mom.” Shut up!

He steered my focus to his agenda and asked what my goals were for personal training. I wanted to say, “Flirt with you in Armenian,” but instead I said, “I dunno, maybe build my upper body strength?”

“We can do that.” As we entered the workout area the mirrored walls reminded me of how old and skinny I was.

“God, I look emaciated!”

“You look perfect, come on, let’s do some stretches. But if you’re concerned about nutrition, I can help with that too.” He laid down on the floor and patted it for me to lay down next to him. He demonstrated a full body stretch with his arms above his head, then had me do the same. As we brought our arms back down to our sides, my left hand brushed his right.

            “Sorry,” I said, pulling my hand away, worried he’d think I was trying to hold his hand.

            He turned his face toward me, smiled and said, “It’s okay, I don’t bite.” I stretched my arm back out; he took my hand and tickled my palm. We both started laughing and I felt young and cute again.

            He showed me a few more stretches then had me stand up so he could look at my posture. He put one hand on my lower back and the other near my collar bones and said something about alignment. I stopped listening when I felt his hands on me. He stood so close I could smell his freshly shampooed hair.

            Once I was warmed up, he taught me how to use some of the machines. I particularly liked the rowing machine because it worked my arms, legs, core and heart, giving me an amazing endorphin high. When our session came to an end, he asked, “So how did you like your session?”

“I loved it!”

“Would you like to sign up for some more?”

“Absolutely!” I impulsively signed up for the next four Thursdays, curious to see where his flirtations would lead.

“I need you to pay in advance,” he said.

His bluntness startled me, but I didn’t show it. “Of course, can I Venmo you?”

“That works.”

He gave me his Venmo info, waited for the transaction to go through then walked me to my car. Before I got in, he gave me another hug, said, “I like this vibe,” and tapped my sternum, then his own, making my heart beat faster. Is he hitting on me?

I got in my car and drove home, fueled by dopamine and serotonin and thought there’s no harm in having a crush on someone, right?

When I arrived for my second session Sevada was carrying something wrapped in tin foil. He handed it to me and said, “I think you would benefit from eating more protein, so I made you this steak.”

“You made this for me? Aww, thank you.” He must really care about me. I worried what my husband would think of this gift, but when I explained that my PT guy had made it for me, all he said was, “You should eat it,” so I did, and it was very tasty. The following week Sevada brought me a homemade vegetable smoothie, which was also quite good.

Every week he taught me more exercises and challenged me to complete 20-30 repetitions of each one, giving me a “high five,” when I finished. My workouts were not easy, but I loved the attention I got from Sevada. I started putting on lipstick and blush to look good for him, something I hadn’t done for years. I also wore V-neck T-shirts so he could see my sternum, and sweatpants that made my butt look good.

One morning as we were getting ready to start, the song “Houdini” by Dua Lipa was playing and Sevada suddenly grabbed my hands, pulled me close and started dancing with me. I did my best to keep up with him and was having fun but wondered where this was leading. When the song ended, he didn’t say a word, he just released me and led me to the leg press machine to get our session started. Was he trying to seduce me? Why did he stop? Maybe he was waiting for me to make a move? I don’t know how to make moves!

When I got to our session the following week Sevada looked distracted, very different from his usual playful self.

“What’s up?” I asked. He shook his head and sat down on a nearby bench. I sat down next to him and took his hand. He looked at me with sad eyes and said that his girlfriend had dumped him, he’d lost his apartment and his business wasn’t growing. “Things will get better,” I assured him. “You’re smart, charming and an amazing trainer.”

“Yeah, but that’s not getting me anywhere.” We spent the rest of the session talking about how unfair life was and he confided that he struggled with depression. I shared that I’d had my own battles with depression and understood how disabling it could be. I said I believed he’d get through it with therapy and supportive friends, and that I could be one of those friends. He wrapped his arms around me, but instead of feeling sexual, his hug felt vulnerable and desperate. He needed to be loved. I can love him; I can be a good friend. Maybe he just needs a break from everything?

“I have an idea,” I grabbed his hands and looked him in the eyes. “Let’s go to Armenia together; you could visit your relatives and show me around…what do you think?” This made him smile because he thought I was joking, but a big part of me really wanted to return to the carefree wanderlust I had when I was his age.

Later that day he texted: “I need you to pay me for next month?”

His request sounded a bit insensitive, and I wanted to text back, “Am I just a Venmo transaction for you? I thought we were friends.” But instead, I Venmo-ed the money and said I looked forward to seeing him next week. Buzzkill voice took this opportunity to remind me that Sevada was running a business, and I was just a client. Shut up!

The next three weeks he showed up early, seemed like his usual self, flirted and gave me very thorough, professional workout sessions. We even joked about our plans to run away to Armenia together.

But when I arrived for our final scheduled appointment, I found him lurking in the back of the gym wearing a hoody that covered his head and much of his face.

“Are you okay?” I put my hand on his shoulder.

He sat down and put his face in his hands. I sat down next to him and rubbed his back.

“They’re after me,” he said very seriously.

“Who is?”

  “The FBI and the CIA. They’re watching my every move.” He looked painfully paranoid as he pulled his hoody over his eyes.

“What makes you think that?”

“A few years ago, I got some injections to build my muscle mass, but as it turns out one of the injections contained a microchip that enables the CIA and FBI to monitor all my behavior.” As soon as he mentioned the microchip I knew he was not in his right mind.

“Why would they want to monitor you? Have you done something illegal?”

“No, they just want to ruin my life. And they’re succeeding.”

“I’m so sorry Sevada. Is there someone you could talk to about this?”

“I went to the police, but they can’t do anything.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Do you want to just skip today’s session?” I offered.

“Okay, but I need you to pay me for the next month.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised by his demand, since he’d made it several times before but still, it hurt. Buzzkill voice returned. “You need to let go of this fantasy romance with Mr. Love Island. It’s as ridiculous as his microchip story.”     

I told Sevada I’d send the money when I got home, but as I drove, Buzzkill’s words echoed in my mind: “You need to let go of this fantasy romance…” When I got home, I brought up the Venmo app to pay him

, but I couldn’t do it. Buzzkill was right. I’d already spent too much money on this crush, which was a vain luxury beyond my means.