“You’ve got opinions, man, we’re all entitled to them, but I never asked”

I sit in an arm chair in the exquisite, yet understated, formal living room of an inn. My attention is focused on the stemless glass of red wine in my hand and the gas fire blazing behind a pane of glass to my left. Every so often, I nod at the conversation around me, wishing for the couple to my right to retreat to wherever they had exited. He sits with a know-it-all expression. He’s pompous, but tries to be unassuming. He wears a long-sleeved black top and black jeans. His legs are crossed. His face is unshaven, his nose sticks out, and his head is balding. He holds a near-empty glass of scotch and gestures toward his black Canon camera. He announces he and his wife are photographers, but as conversation progresses, he shyly admits they’re hobbyists. He’s an accountant from Fairfield County and she works in a pathology lab. He wants to be seen and heard. He speaks with an air of distinction or a desperate plea for attention when he boldly implies I’ve hung my red jacket on the coat rack by the door. “Yes,” I reply. My tone is caught between confused and quizzical. It’s not a secret. It’s there for all to see.

His wife, named “Kate,” is dressed entirely in white – sweater and jeans – and is guided by her vanity – the perfectly coifed stringy blonde hair, the subtle makeup, and the eyes that are a bit too close together much like American producer manager Tish Cyrus, the mom of singer and actress Miley Cyrus. Her eyes have seen a tad too much cosmetic work and are sunken in like Kenny Rogers after his botched eyelid surgery. It’s such an oddity in comparison to the rest of her face, I can’t look away. Her movements, expressions, and gestures are grand and remind me of actress Katherine Helmond’s “Mona Robinson” character in “Who’s the Boss?”

She chats with the down-to-earth couple to her right. They are visiting from Cheshire and talk about their daughter, a newly-graduated nurse who works the overnight shift in the intensive care unit at a local hospital. The husband dressed in a gray hoodie with matching hair, blue jeans, and gray sneakers sits in the match to my cream-colored cushy armchair across from me. His wife with blond feathered shoulder-length hair sits in the upright neutral straight back chair. I’m focused on her knee-high leather boots that are flat yet chic. She pairs them with black leggings and a black sweater with red and gold embellishments.

I feel a bit too casual, dressed in gray sweats and a purple fleece long-sleeved shirt with thumb holes and sneakers.

The conversation seems innocent when it suddenly takes a nosedive.

“Kate,” the blonde dressed in white turns to me. “You know,” she quietly says staring at me. “If you exercise every day, you won’t fall. I,” she enunciates, “work out five days a week. I row and use my Peloton.”

Congratulations, I want to say. You can strap your feet into a contraption and move your body. Well, then. There’s nothing that can top that level of excellence. You must make Olympic athletes jealous.

Only I don’t say that. “I work with a trainer three times a week." My tone is snarky or rather annoyed. Really annoyed.

She doesn’t listen to me. She looks me over and adds, “It’s not about health or weigh …”

She stops speaking. I glance at the man across from me. We share a look – a silent conversation and reach the same conclusion. He’s stunned into silence.

This is the third time I’ve heard Kate’s spiel and I’m not entirely sure that it has to do with this morning.

Leaving breakfast in the dining room, I stepped outside and slid on the unobstructed dry slate stair. Losing my balance, I tumbled. First, my knee hit a pile of white stone, then the palms of my hands broke my fall when they hit the leftover mulch in the flowerbed. Like a cartoon character belly flopping into a pool of water, I perfect the move onto solid ground after falling maybe four inches. I rolled over onto my back.

Instantaneously, a crowd gathered around me. It grew. The inn’s guests, all but the blonde named Kate, stand on the stoop, in front of me, in the circular driveway. One exclaims, “I saw what happened.”

“I really wish you hadn’t,” I yell back.

“Don’t be embarrassed! Are you hurt? Are you crying?”

I lift my head, waiting for the townspeople to gather and witness my utter embarrassment.

“Not crying,” I answer, laughing. “How am I not supposed to be embarrassed??” My laugh resembles that which you might hear roar through a comedy club.

My partner and a passerby help me to my feet. I stumble off, later examining my skinned and bloody knee, and scratched hands. After tending to my wounds and reassuring the owner I won’t sue, I go about my day hoping the moment is forgotten.

Until here. Now. With Kate who rows and uses her Peleton five days a week.

The conversation continues only for the man sitting across from me to mention he has taken a spill or two. Immediately, Kate interrupts. “You know, if you exercise every day like me. I row and use my Peleton …” She looks him up and down, about to add something about his weight.

I playfully mock Kate adding, “If you just move every day,” I say.

The man across from me looks at me like “Oh no, not you too.” I see his mental path and add, “Coming from me, it’s funny. Coming from that direction,” I say with a nod to the woman in white, “it’s just cruel.”

Kate’s balding husband shoots me a glare.

Yes, yes, we know. She exercises five days a week – rowing and on her Peleton. She’s perfect. We get it.

I want to add more, but that would just be cruel.