Running in Place- The Barry’s Bootcamp Literary Fiction No One Asked For

“Damn, there are a lot of Brads and Chads here.” I text this to my husband from the lobby of the boutique fitness class I’m about to experience for the third time this week. My phone helpfully suggests an emoji as I type — the national flag of the Republic of Chad, a vertical tricolor of blue, gold, and red. I decided to include it in my message for good measure.

“It looks like France has jaundice,” he replies. I consider whether this is offensive as I watch Chad — indistinguishable from the other affluent white men — crouch to the floor, one leg extended laterally for the most extreme of groin stretches. He takes up the floor space meant for three.

Incredibly, Chad’s reservation in this exact exercise class was made 31 years ago at birth. His future, preordained by bone structure alone. The nurse noted the brow ridge, the square jaw, the long feet that foreshadow a height of 74 inches. “It’s a boy!” she announced to the proud parents before dutifully notifying all stakeholders that a new one is coming down the line. She’ll need to alert Stanford, then Barnaby Asset Management, and then finally this fitness studio where 40 of San Francisco’s most privileged adults pay 80 cents per minute to atone for their earthly indulgences. I squint at the blond swirl of leg hair where his inner thigh connects…