First time I saw my wife

The gym is dead at this hour. It's completely silent except for the muffled thud of a bass-beat coming from down the hall. I wander in the direction of the music, which gets louder with each step. The door to the aerobics room flies open, pouring a million decibles of hip-hop out at once.

Terri, a petite aerobics instructor with spiky hair, notices me as she props the door open. “Hey Steve!” she says loudly. Her eyes are so big and bedecked with lashes, they almost look cartoonish.“You’ve got to come here and see this,” she says. Her movements are fast and I imagine every sentence she’s ever written ended in exclamation points with little smiley faces where the period should be. “Quick,” she says, gesturing with her hand that I need to hurry, “She’s about to run through her routine again.” From inside the aerobics room, the music stops, and I hear someone say, “That last one was great, Elizabeth. A couple more times from the top.”

In my early teenage years, there was a popular sci-fi artist named Boris Vallejo, who created oil-portraits of mythical, warrior-goddesses being attacked by monsters. The heroines in Vallejo's work had impossibly sculpted bodies - the personification of beauty, health, power and vitality - and wore next to nothing. They were rendered in absurdly erotic positions with body-parts that defied all natural laws of geometry and gravity. These women captured my imagination and became the benchmark, however unfairly, that all others would be measured against.

As I pass through the doorway of the aerobics room to see what Terri is so damned excited about, I’m astonished to find, there in front of me, a Boris Vallejo Warrior Princess come to life. Under the spotlights, she’s even posed like one, waiting for the music to start again. Her toned back, glistening with sweat, is towards us. Chestnut hair, in a ponytail, cascades over her shoulders. One arm is flexed and she's staring at her open hand, dramatically, revealing a hint of profile. Her other hand reaches forcefully out in the opposite direction, shifting her weight. My eyes follow the line of every taut muscle, from her calf up to her perfectly shaped bottom. One leg is gracefully elongated, creating a sense of movement even though she’s completely motionless. “That’s Elizabeth,” says Terri, “she’s got a competition in three weeks.”

Angie, another instructor, finishes fiddling with the tape-deck and commands, “Here we go. Make sure you hit that straddle-press higher this time, and remember to point you toes.”Angie hits play and Miami Bass comes blaring over the PA system. Elizabeth flies into action: an explosion of kicks, springs, presses, jacks and splits, in time with the music. Her sapphire eyes are sparkling and a smile that would make a toothpaste model jealous is glued to her face - both of which make this combination of a gymnastics floor routine and dance seem all the more effortless.

The way she’s capable of contorting her body, the way she’s breathing heavily, the way she whips her hair around flirtatiously, the way everything's bouncing with just the right amount of resilience - I’m not sure if the routine is meant to be sexy, but it’s certainly having that effect on me. I find a lack of rhythm or coordination repulsive (for me it’s the equivalent to a finger up the nose) but this woman, in all her physical refinement, is the farthest thing from awkward I could possibly imagine. I wasn’t expecting any of this and I'm getting nervous in the presence of such greatness.

When she’s finished, Terri and I clap. Angie tells Elizabeth good job and to take a quick rest before running through it again. “That was so awesome,” Terri says, with a look of such fawning adoration it’s almost embarrassing. Angie hands Elizabeth a towel and she dabs herself off while walking in our direction. She’s at least a few years older than I am, I assume, something which only heightens her mystique to me. “Oh shit,” I’m thinking, “here she comes. Just be cool.”

Women have no appreciation for the amount of effort it takes a guy to maintain his composure in front of a woman he’s impressed with: We don’t talk with amazing women, we audition for them. I’d like to tell Elizabeth I think she’s the most incredible creature I’ve ever seen. And creature is the appropriate word. I’m convinced that, hundreds of years ago, she would've been burned at the stake for being a witch. She’s that unusual. Mere mortals just aren’t supposed to look like this. I feel like telling her all that, but when she holds out her hand to shake mine and says, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth,” in a raspy, still breathless southern accent, I’m mercifully able to muster up enough restraint to answer only with, “Hi, I’m Steve.”

When she grasps my hand firmly, I look into her eyes and smile to create the illusion of self-confidence. We exchange pleasantries and I ask her about the competition she’s doing. She begins a detailed description of the contest but I really have no idea what she’s talking about. All my energies are concentrated, instead, on how I’m standing, how much eye contact is too much, and how I might be able to slip in a witty line or two. I just nod along with her, pretending to be interested. I look for openings to keep things rolling, but to my disappointment, we’re cut short by Angie who says it’s time for another run-through.

I could stay and watch, I suppose. But I’m satisfied with my performance here, not having said or done anything that might betray the impression I’m reasonably self-assured and together. I opt, instead, not to push my luck, and simply say, “It was nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” I wave and leave with my dignity intact.