On the large flat screen display,
two cheeky instructors direct
— and distract —
me through
a walk + run workout.
Something to do about a booty shot
and getting the camera crew to angle up.
My hand, however, glows blue.
I’m volleying between
three distinctly
different conversations:
A text window blinks
with my streaming consciousness
as I correspond synchronously
with my remote running
accountability partner.
We’re processing
our run in real time:
"OMG they're trying to slay us!"
"He looks cute--"
"Not cute enough to kill us though!"
"Is 6.8 mph really 'conversation pace'?!"
Meanwhile
in a thread with my husband,
we storm through banal logistics
pertaining to heat wave camp delays
and mid-week dinner options.
In a third little screen
I swipe over to an emergent chat
with a soul sister in need
of being held and seen.
I hear her words, and I know before she knows.
Her marriage is over.
She needs an egress, and swiftly.
I navigate her through
the departure of her marriage
like an airport marshaller with glow sticks
guiding her up and away
with calm arm motions
fly far, fly fast, fly clean,
don't look back.
By the time I enter Cool Down
in my Peloton class,
I have saved a woman's dignity
planned two meals
adjusted for camp chaos
cheered on a fitness buddy
and completed enough cardio
to hit my Apple Watch goals for the day.
Split Screens - never calming,
but productive.
