Page 24 of The Comeback Summer

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the crowd, feeling strangely rattled.

Crush Your Comfort Zone

THE ULTIMATE CHALLENGE COMPANION JOURNAL

WEEK 1

Before you can leave your comfort zone, you need to know it intimately. Why did your comfort zone develop? When? What purpose does it serve? Only after you understand this can we begin to explore our reasons for remaining stuck.

Today, write about the earliest time in your life that you remember finding comfort in this metaphorical zone.

Hannah, 6/5

It was the night of GiGi’s annual holiday party for the Freedman Group—a big banquet at a hotel for all her employees and their families. Libby and I were around seven and five at the time, and Mom had dressed us in matching dresses with matching ribbons. All the adults thought we were so darling.

Libby was charming and delightful, as usual, but I was overwhelmed and tongue-tied. When an older man asked me what my name was, I froze up and couldn’t respond. Libby answered for me: “Her name is Hannah, and she’s shy.”

I remember the warm rush of relief that followed, the comfort in knowing Libby would step in for me. But also the certainty that what she said was true, and always would be true: my name is Hannah and I am shy.

Eleven

LIBBY

After a long afternoon cold-calling potential clients (only two answered their phones, and they were both a decisive but politethanks, but no, thanks), my day is about to get worse. Because today is the day we stop talking about working out and actually start doing it.

Hannah has put together a color-coded and organized torture—I mean, training—calendar, with exercises for endurance and strength and whatever other skills we’ll need to complete all the obstacles on race day.

Which is not going to be easy, seeing how much I’m struggling with my first obstacle: Getting. These. Damn. Pants. Up. I’m in a stall in our office bathroom, using all my strength to work these suckers over my hips.

I let out a roaring grunt as I yank the spandex up the last few inches. The material snaps around my waist, squeezing my flesh like a vise. Next up: the sports bra Hannah insisted I buy during our “Sister Shopping Spree.”

The whole experience was traumatic and took me back to the nightmare of my teenage years, when everyone who wasanyone hung out at the mall. Since I couldn’t fit into the sizes at the stores where my friends shopped, I’d pretend to be fascinated by the accessory section. I bought perfume from Victoria’s Secret, a wallet from Abercrombie, and earrings from Hollister, just so I could walk out of the store carrying a bag.

I was not carrying a bag when we left Lululemon this past weekend. My lord. The wall of legging-clad mannequins was enough to give me a panic attack, and even if the tiny XXL pants fit, the prices were outrageous. Athleta was a little better. The store had mannequins of all shapes and sizes and I didn’t feel like as much of an oddity. But still. I am not a fan. Of the pants, or the sports bra that is currently trying to hold me hostage.

The bra is stuck around my head, andugh, why in theugh. Were these things designed by misogynistic men trying to punish women? I can’t—ugh.

One more twist, a tug, and my head is free. A little more shimmying and some strategic yanking and my poor girls are successfully smooshed. Mission accomplished?

I throw on an old BBYO T-shirt, pull my hair into a bun, and tie the laces of my brand-new On Cloud shoes. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be—which is to say, not at all.

•••

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,we’re walking up the ramp that leads from Michigan Avenue to the lake path. I slow down under the guise of admiring the street art that marks the walls.

“You okay?” Hannah asks.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, although my bright cheeks and erratic breathing might prove otherwise. If I’m struggling this much before we’ve even started on the path, there’s no way I’ll be ready to do that stupid race in twelve weeks.

We emerge at the top by Oak Street Beach, and I take a moment to soak in the view that makes our city so uniquely beautiful: the sun sparkling over the deep blue lake, so vast and huge Hannah used to think it was the ocean, nestled right up against the high-rise office and apartment buildings of downtown. The beach—with its golden sand, water gently lapping on the shore—is a slice of paradise amid the bustle of the big city.

I wish I could trade places with the beachgoers—the ones lying out on the sand, reading—not the ones playing volleyball.

Hannah grabs my hand and leads me away from the water, toward the two-lane path that runs parallel to the shore down the length of the entire city. My chest tightens as bikers and runners whoosh by. It feels like we’re about to merge into speeding traffic.

An octogenarian who looks like Betty White (may she rest in peace) speed walks past us, looking as fresh as a daisy, which feels like a slap in the face when I’m struggling so much.

This is pointless—literally everyone is in better shape than I am. And it’s not like three months is going to change anything. I am who I am, even if the world wants me to be someone else.

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