by Erin Spencer
There’s one space open, I nudge Bex to go for it and indicate that I’ll wait in the lobby. She looks at me with a killer “don’t you even think about it” stare.
“Summer Lotus! You made it! What’s up, girl?” Alex whispers as he squeezes past us with a wink. “Glad you two are here. Don’t worry, Skip won’t bite. Go on up to the front.”
In resignation, we carefully tiptoe our way to the front of the class, past row after row of toned bodies lying on their mats, breathing intensely and apparently releasing toxins. Does that mean we’re inhaling them? I hold my breath until we make it to the front of the studio.
We unfurl our mats and get into position, basically the position I get into when I crash into bed after a night of partying. Arms out to the side, hands facing upward in a “God forgive me pose,” legs straight out, eyes closed. Hmm, I could get used to this. Except, I think to myself as if noticing it for the first time since we walked into the room, it’s hot. I mean really hot. I don’t know what infrared is, but it’s at least the third circle of Dante’s Hell. I’m already beginning to sweat and see that the “perspiration towel” is more like a washcloth. I’m going to need something the size of an industrial tarp to wipe up my sweat.
But if Skip is an endorsement for this yoga path, then maybe I should just feel the flow. He’s lean and muscled like a lightweight boxer, while the deep tan and bleach blond dreads make him appear more surfer than yogi. Bex is checking him out too.
Maybe I could get Ethan to do yoga? Would it help us to align our chakras, whatever that means. If I couldn’t get him to stick to therapy, then I know there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of us going to a yoga class together, but I still think it might be fun. Something totally different for us to do together. Something that’s not networking at one of his work cocktail events.
As Skip gradually builds up the pace of the class and we move through more poses, I’m impressed by Bex. She’s fit and barely seems to be sweating. It’s hard to tell she’s even had a kid. Sure, she has a little bit of flab around her waist but at our age don’t we all. And her purple ensemble really does look good. Meanwhile, I peel off my T-shirt, which has been sweatily hanging on me like I’ve just taken a not-so-refreshing dip in the pool. The sweatpants are a problem, and I’m desperately trying to remember what underwear I have on in case they can pass as yoga bottoms. I look around the class and can’t believe what I’m seeing. Every tight and toned fame seeker in town must be here, and they’re all an eleven out of ten. In the midst of all this athletic exhibitionism, I feel like a turtle stripped of its shell.
While suffering through a downward dog stretch, I see a curtain of flowing blond locks on the mat behind us. This is hot yoga, put the hair extensions away! I think to myself. Beside blondie, two bro types, who look like aspiring Men’s Health cover models, are trying to topple each other over during a balancing pose. Meanwhile, I roll my soggy sweatpants up around my knees.
“And one long exhale through the mouth. Sigh everything out. One, two, three. Aaaaahhhhhhhh.” I ran out of breath thirty seconds ago but the people around me continue to drone on with their aaaahhhh. The last remaining “ahh-er” finishes and smiles like he just received a medal of honor when Skip commands, “And relax into savasana.”
Everyone begins to unfold back onto their mats, lying down as they were in the beginning of class. I look around, not knowing what savasana means, then gladly relax as I see it’s the “passed out drunk” pose from the very beginning of class. Skip walks around the mats, stopping every now and then to adjust someone’s leg or arm. He kneels over Bex and places his hands on her shoulders, right near her collarbones and presses gently, then brushes his hands down her arms. I thought he was finished but no. He holds her head in his hands and slowly moves it from side to side.
“There’s so much tension in this life. Let it all roll away. Roll away. Open yourself to peace, to love.” Is Skip Stone hitting on Bex? From that angle he’s got a clear view down her tank top. Maybe this was a date after all, but with someone other than we thought. I smirk to myself as Bex is sending me SOS eyes.
The door to the studio opens and a whiff of that marijuana/rainforest incense comes pouring in. Could this be the infamous Guru Stan? The class seems to silently rouse itself with anticipation and reverence. People move their mats closer to the front of the studio. Some have brought little pillows to sit on and proceed to sit cross-legged, straight backs in an exaggerated state of attention. Bex and I are surrounded, caught in a sea of searching souls at a Hollywood yoga studio.
As he enters the studio, he runs his hands over his scalp and tightens his one-inch ponytail. “Namaste and welcome to the beginning of enlightenment. It will always be a beginning. Enlightenment is something you will never know you’ve achieved. The journey is the enlightenment.” Guru Stan says this with the seriousness of an undertaker while looking like a lost, balding member of Kajagoogoo.
“Thank you for leading the class, Skip. I sense we have some new energy here today. Welcome.” Guru Stan nods to Bex and me, keeping his eyes on Bex as Skip spritzes scented rose water around her.
I’m seriously starting to feel dizzy, like I’m hallucinating, the hot air and heavy incense going to my head. I better leave this infrared heat a size four and without one wrinkle on my face because this is torture. My perspiration towel and T-shirt are balled up in a wet pile at the top of my mat, and the bikini top that’s a sorry excuse for a sports bra is itching like hell. Bex meanwhile still looks fresh. Maybe I should think about buying some proper sportswear after all.
“Now, everyone, close your eyes. Embrace the release of letting go.” Guru Stan waves his hand as if it is a magic wand. I can’t help but close my eyes.
“Everyone, tap into the deep well of your subconsciousness. Release the first word that comes to your mind.”
Amidst a chorus of “Love,” “Harmony,” and “Peace,” I blurt out “Bacon!” I clasp my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that out loud. The girl with the blond mane of extensions actually starts to move her mat away from me. Guru Stan looks physically repulsed, and out of the corner of my eye I see that other students are shaking their heads in disappointment. Skip looks at Bex, then me, then back at Bex with a confused look on his face as if he’s been betrayed.
Without even having to say a word to each other, Bex and I pick up our things and make our way out of the studio, trying to disappear in an awkward series of backward steps. We’ve hardly closed the studio door behind us when we both burst out laughing. Making a fast escape, we head downstairs and almost make it out of reception.
“Are you okay?” Jennifer says. “Guru Stan’s meditation lasts for one more hour. The vegan buffet hasn’t even been set up yet. Do you want to try some dried rosemary kale? It’s got roasted chia seeds. We sell them for eight fifty a box…” Her voice fades as we race out to Bex’s car, that even without air-conditioning feels like an ice box compared to the hot yoga studio.
“One with extra bacon!” Bex leans into the counter. “And a side of chili fries and onion rings. Oh, and two cokes please. Thank you!” We couldn’t have made it to Pink’s faster than we did. We were practically levitating through traffic. A glorious escape!
“See what happens when you don’t make me pancakes?”
“Well, this still counts as carbs. Namaste.” Bex takes a huge bite of her chili cheese dog.
“Bon appetite.” Damn, this hot dog tastes good. “Do you ever think about becoming vegetarian? Or vegan?”
“Sometimes. I tried being vegetarian for a few months. Some of Maddie’s friends are vegan. I do admire them for being so disciplined and conscientious at such a young age. But no, come on, we grew up in Tennessee. I’m not sure I could live without bar-b-que!”
“I suppose we’ll have to try Guru Stan’s vegan brunch another time. Hey, on Wednesday night I want to check out this place called Glamour & State. Have you heard of it?” I say, in between a bite of my extra bacon hotdog,
hoping that my suggestion sounds casual.
“You’ll fit right in. You look really glamorous right now.” Bex points to sauerkraut that’s dripping down my face. “How do you know about Glamour & State? It opened like a month ago.”
“Uh, I read about it in a Conde Nast travel blog. Isn’t it supposed to be really trendy? I need a bit of Hollywood glamour. I’m a tourist, you know.” I didn’t read it in a Conde Nast travel blog, and I have no idea if it’s trendy or not. But if Jason the Channing Tatum Look-Alike wants to meet Bex there on Wednesday night, then it’s the trendiest joint in town. Besides, what’s a little white lie to help out a friend?
“How could I say no?” Bex says. “To Bacon!” We clink our Coke cans and take a swig.
Chapter Eleven
Who Wants to Date a Millionaire?
BEX
“Liv! Look what I bought!” I toss my keys down on the kitchen counter and wave a pair of quarters in the air.
“Scratchers? Yes!” Liv eagerly reaches out for one. “I have a good feeling about this.”
Liv has been doing scratchers for as long as I’ve known her, and yet she still isn’t a millionaire. She told me she won a hundred dollars on a Lucky Fortune once, but I have my doubts.
I sit down at the table across from her and dramatically fan out the scratchers like a magician preparing a card trick, six in total, three for her and three for me. “You go first. You may choose three, and only three, so choose wisely.”
Liv proceeds to do her usual song and dance of flipping the scratchers over, holding them up to the light as if there is a chance she might see something, and chanting “Cungee, Cungee, Cungee” over and over.
Still perplexed by this strange ritual I know by heart, I ask for the fiftieth time, “Liv, what the hell does Cungee mean and why do you insist on repeating it? It drives me crazy. I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous.”
She stops me with a look. “Please. You know it was my great aunt Maeve’s good luck chant. She always won at bingo. If it worked for her why, won’t it work for me?”
Not seeing the correlation between scratchers and bingo, I shake my head and mutter, “Why not?” and grab a quarter to begin scratching at Liv’s cast off “loser” cards. After all this time, one of us is bound to win something, right? I’d run out earlier this morning to pick up some milk for coffee, and when I saw the colorful rolls of scratchers next to the cash register at 7-Eleven, I thought What the hell. I knew it’d give Liv a thrill. Back in Atlanta, after rent was paid, we’d spend our last few dollars on scratchers hoping for a miracle. Liv would only ever buy them at 7-Eleven—she was convinced that was the place to buy them if you wanted to win.
“Hey,” I say, looking to Liv mid-scratch, “if either of us wins, we split it fifty-fifty. You in?”
Scratching away at her card, she grunts, “Yup.” Then she looks up and stops mid-scratch, her voice a bit unsure, “Actually, it’s funny you bought these because I wasn’t sure how to tell you this…”
I narrow my eyes, trying to guess what she’s about to say. Either she’s already won the lottery, or she’s got something up her sleeve I’m not going to like. Judging by the guilty look on her face, my money’s on the latter.
“You know that show? The one with that woman, Stella Bancock who runs the—”
“The dating service?” I say in disgust while Liv nods slowly. “What. Did. You. Do?” I ask in staccato.
Liv bites her lip like she can’t quite bring herself to speak. I don’t blame her.
“Did you sign me up for a reality TV show?” My screech increasing in volume and panic.
She rolls her eyes as if I’ve just said the stupidest thing ever. “No! Come on! I would never do that. You know I hate that crap,” says the woman who I know is secretly addicted to The Real Housewives of Atlanta.
“Just tell me what you did. You’re starting to scare me.” Liv’s response is a mocking “who me?” look. “I’m dead serious here, Liv. What’s going on?” My patience is wearing thin.
Liv sounds a little too upbeat. “I signed you up for Stella’s matchmaking service!” I protest, but she keeps talking, just louder. “Don’t worry, it was free to sign you up since you’re an attractive single woman. It’s the millionaire men who have to pay a small fortune to Stella.”
Like the money is what I’m most worried about! I’m too flabbergasted to speak. I thought Liv couldn’t top herself after the “house party” but apparently I was wrong. She is the wingwoman from hell.
“Liv, in the future, don’t sign me up for things where single women get in for free!” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Did you learn nothing from the Chandace experience?”
“Relax, it’s no big deal. I don’t see how it’s any different from dating apps you’ve already been on. You have your first date tonight at six p.m. with Brad at The Pearl and The Girl.” Liv crosses her arms and smiles like she’s just delivered amazing news. Which she kind of has. I’ve been dying to go to The Pearl and The Girl and have never had the opportunity, or the money. The food is supposed to be stellar and the LA Times ranked it as having the best cocktails in the city. But Liv doesn’t need to know it’s been on my culinary bucket list. I can’t let her get away with this that easily.
I dive in. “First off, that Stella woman is batshit crazy. I know reality TV isn’t real, but if she’s half as crazy as she is on TV, then we have a problem. Secondly, I already told you, I don’t care about dating someone with money. Hello! Have we met?” I shake my hand in bewilderment. “This whole thing makes me feel like a piece of meat, and frankly, I’m a little shocked you’d go there.”
Liv has pushed beyond my limits on this one. Liv has always been self-conscious about the financial struggles her family had when she was growing up. But she’s never seemed so preoccupied with money and status as she seems now. Ever since she moved to London with Ethan, it’s gotten worse. Things like this make me feel like I don’t even know who she is anymore. Where are her priorities?
She lets out a hard sigh. “Bex, I came here to leave no stone unturned. If you’re gonna fall in love, why not do it with someone rich? You just spent thirty dollars on scratchers, for God’s sake. So don’t tell me that you wouldn’t mind having money.”
Well, she isn’t totally wrong, I mean, who wouldn’t want to win the lottery. But I am not a gold digger. This big bucks Brad is probably just looking for an obedient piece of arm candy. What kind of guy wants to date a woman who’s interested in him for his money? Despite my reservations about it all, I know Liv won’t let me say no and I don’t want to get into another fight with her. And I can’t deny that there’s a little part of me that’s curious and a bigger part of me that wants to be wined and dined at The Pearl and the Girl.
“Fine. One date with Stella’s service. That’s all I’m gonna give you on this one. After tonight, you remove me from the site and we never speak of it again. Deal?”
Liv smiles in pure triumph. “Deal.”
“So did you win anything?” I blow away the silvery shavings off my scratchers.
“No. Where did you buy these from?” she asks suspiciously. “Did you get them from the gas station?”
“They’re from 7-Eleven,” I say in an “I told you so” voice.
“Humph.” Liv shrugs her shoulders. “That’s weird. Well, it doesn’t matter. We might just end up millionaires tonight anyway!”
I roll my eyes. Why do I let her get away with these schemes?
Liv is sprawled out on my bed watching me put on my makeup. Women are funny that way; we seem to love watching each other put on makeup, looking to see how we do things differently, if someone has a special trick to achieve the perfect cat eye. As I’m finishing my eyeliner flick I call out, “Liv, what do we know about Brad? Show me everything Stella sent over. I want pics, bio, everything.”
Liv laughs uneasily, which means she’s going to drop another bomb on me.
“Uh, well, that’s the thing about Stella’s
service. She doesn’t send any photos, just a short bio, not even a last name. She tries to make things as un-google-able as possible. Keeping it old-school so it’s about the immediate chemistry and connection.”
“And the money,” I grumble as I comb my eyelashes to remove a few clumps. I need some new mascara. I feel like I’ve been using this same pink and green tube of Maybelline since my twenties. But then, why am I even caring about how I look for this date? “No pics, huh? That doesn’t leave me with a very optimistic feeling. What does his bio say?” I guess Stella’s philosophy is when you’re dating a millionaire, his looks don’t matter.
Liv scrolls through her phone to find Stella’s email with the information on Brad. She reads out loud as I finish up my final touches. “Brad B. is originally from Seminole, Oklahoma. He is the heir to a successful oil drilling company that’s been in his family for generations. He’s often in California for business and recently opened a West Coast office. Brad B. enjoys golf, documentaries, and Tex-Mex.”
I put down my powder brush to give Liv a slow two-clap applause for her rousing delivery of the most boring bio I’ve ever heard. But he does like Tex-Mex. And I never say no to queso, so at least we have that in common.
I clear my throat. “Is that the best Stella can do? Jeez. I was hoping this would be more exciting. Like, a movie producer or something. Have you tried looking for him on Facebook?”
“Can’t! I told you Stella doesn’t give out last names. How am I supposed to find a ‘Brad’ on Facebook? It’s a mystery, an old-school blind date. Come on, it’s fun!” She’s clapping her hands like one of those performing sea lions at Sea World, which is exactly how this date is making me feel.
