by Dee Detarsio
I settled my sitz bones right in on my yoga mat, grabbing the fleshy parts of my ass out of the way and shifting to ground myself. Hell yeah! I crossed my legs and cupped my palms facing up on my knees, ready to grab whatever the universe had to dish out.
I jammed my eyelids together and started my ashtanga breathing, pretending I was roaring waves in the ocean. Inhaling peace, exhaling anxiety. I heard someone’s bare feet pad up next to me. Even though my third eye was dying to take a peek, I remained still. I heard whoever it was unroll their sticky matt beside me, a whipping flick that for some reason, irritated the snot out of me. Inhaling peace, I fluttered my left eyelashes just a smidge, the better to judge. I knew it!
“Namaste,” came her whispered greeting.
“Namaste,” I repeated back, not moving my teeth. Rats. I hadn’t been to yoga in like three weeks, and now I’m next to Gumby? She said her name was Kavya, which means poetry, so someone in the class, Jef One-f, (a really cute guy, but I made it a rule to never date anyone more flexible than myself, and/or, if truth be told, one who never asked me out) made up a rhyme about her:
There once was a girl named Kavya,
Who wore on our last nirvana.
Throw your downward dog a bone
And leave the rest of us alone.
Even though you’re hot, I wouldn’t wanna be-ya.
I’m not proud to say that I laughed along with everyone else after class at that. I honestly tried to like her, until she once tried to adjust my half-pigeon pose. Then it was ‘hands-off, beyotch.’ She knew all the proper pronunciations of the poses, too, and even liked to correct the teachers. Susie, who sometimes came to this class with me swore that Kavya was really born in Cleveland and her real name was Peggy. For ones seeking enlightenment, being stuck next to Kavya probably meant it wasn’t going to happen.
The class was crowded and you could practically see everyone projecting their private force field around their mats. We began our sun salutations and I kept spying on Kavya to make sure mine were better, straighter, deeper. I held the poses until my hamstrings cried uncle. My downward dog was flawless and the teacher even pointed it out to newcomers as a picture perfect pose to strive for. Nirvana that, Kavya!
My root chakra was getting on down with its own bad self. I was breathing and snorting, Kavya was hitching a ride on my rhythms, and soon began to sound like a gored bull in her attempts to breathe louder than me.
Our yogini, Dobby, yeah, like in Harry Potter, go figure, was really good and intuitive, in spite of her name, and began to sense something was up in our corner of the universe. Dobby was tall, pretty in a ‘don’t ever need any make-up kind of way’ which is as pretty as one can get, and would never be mistaken for anything other than a yoga instructor. The only thing Dobby had in common with Harry Potter’s house-elf was the baggy white knotted tank shirt she wore. I guess we were just a mean-spirited class, because to my knowledge we never did ask how she spelled her name, it could have been D-A-B-I for all I knew, which was sort of pretty. Or maybe she was a “Debi” from Appalachia, trying to escape her roots.
“Set your minds free,” Dobby’s voice was as soothing as if she had just sucked on several Dove milk chocolate candies and melted them into the roof of her mouth, “and set your intentions for your practice.” She was now standing between mine and Kavya’s mats. “Inhale peace,” she inhaled deeply, “exhale warmth and lightness to all the beings sharing our journey tonight.”
I exhaled, purposefully directing my golden beams of love everywhere except to the left of me. Petty? Yes. Deserved? Entirely. I busted Kavya watching me, trying to stretch deeper and deeper as the poses became more difficult.
We stood in eagle pose, one of my favorites, I think because I have really wide feet. I crossed my arms, holding my entwined limbs in front of my face. I kicked off and crossed my right leg over my left thigh, wrapping my foot around my standing calf, balancing on my left foot. I sank lower and lower, lower than Kavya at any rate, and channeled all the strength, flexibility, and endurance I could muster. I stared ahead but my peripheral vision picked up Kavya’s wavering concentration.
Dobby, her ankle bones cracking as her bare feet purposely circled near our mats, chanted: “Yoga is not a competition. What happens on your mat, stays on your mat.” Kavya and I paid no attention, sweat dripping off our elbows onto our mats, stripes of strain staining beneath our breasts.
I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. My breathing was so labored I probably could have brought forth a child with less fanfare. And there it was! Kavya, wobbled, tilted, and touched down! Her right foot hit the floor. I won!
Dobby clanged her brass chimes together, bringing the class to an end with a unifying ohm. “Ohm....” her lyrical voice infused with love echoed around the room.
“Ohhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...” I had enough oxygen left to wipe up the floor with Kavya. We sat there, only a few feet apart, separated by my obvious victory. Our hands were on our knees, middle fingers grinding into our thumbs. People started rolling up their mats but Kavya and I were still on the final mmmmmmmm note. After what seemed like an eternity, Kavya gasped, like a drowning woman breaking through the waves.
“Namaste,” I said sweetly, my hands in prayer position, my fingers lighting touching my third eye. Kavya ripped her mat from the floor and stomped out. I don’t even think she said Namaste back to me. How rude.
I rolled up my mat with what I am afraid was a most unpleasant smirk on my face. I was so fired up I felt like I could go take a spin class. Did Rapunzel and Ph-uX really have anything to do with this feeling?
Dobby came over to me. She was rubbing her hands with a lavendar/lemon grass essential oil. Her eyes honed in on mine as her subconscious asked for, and was granted, permission to touch me. She dotted my third eye with a fragrant finger. I sat on the floor as she stood in front of me and pushed my shoulders down. She muttered some yogini bullshit that sounded like boom-shaka-laka-boom-shaka-laka which probably meant, ‘my peace is better than yours.’ Even though I was looking down I felt her smile.
“Are you OK MaryBeth?”
“Yeah, thanks. Great class.”
“You just seemed so frantic tonight.”
“I thought I did good.”
She laughed. “Yoga is not about doing good, or reaching perfection. It’s about harmony and balance, and finding our place in the universe. You’re not graded on your performance. It’s about achieving personal growth, enlightenment. Judging others only serves to harm yourself.
That hurt, because I knew she was right.
Her eyebrows arched. “Namaste,” she said hands folded. As I repeated it back to her, she recited, “the peace in me honors the peace in you.”
I went out of the room to get my purse and to pull on my sweatshirt. A couple of people from the class were waiting and high-fived me. “You won,” Jef One-f told me. “Righteous.”
“Kavya was pissed,” Anna added. “No one ever out-does her.”
Even I-Can-Do-The-Splits-Lady smiled at me on her way out.
I shrugged my shoulders.
Floating like a saint who didn’t need to bend her knees when she walked, Dobby came out into the hall, putting an end to any trash talk with the mere sweetness of her smile.
“I’ll be taking my hollow victory and heading home, then, Dobby.”
She nodded.
Chapter 7
The Jig Is Up
I had a hard time getting to sleep that night, and I felt pretty shitty abusing my yoga class like that. It didn’t stop me from jumping out of bed the next morning before my alarm went off, and digging for my elixir in my purse. I repeated my ritual from the day before, ‘doop, doop’, I dabbed on the precious serum behind each ear and wished myself luck in the mirror. I didn’t look like had I tossed and turned all night, and that even my tried and true go-to fantasy of me and Dino doing it to put myself to sleep, didn’t work.
I loved my bed. Even when I couldn’t sl
eep. It cocooned me in its soft fluffy cotton embrace, encouraging me in ever more far-fetched fantasies with Dino. On restless nights, I’d usually start out with a believable scenario, say Dino needs something from me at work. Since last Friday, and our dance combo that segued into the horizontal mambo, I had been incorporating that scenario into my sweet dreams at night. It doesn’t get any better than that when reality actually makes it into your fantasies.
I applied a swoop of lip gloss, blew a kiss to myself and headed off to work. If I didn’t know me, I would swear I was some sort of femme fatale. Men were holding doors, standing when I entered a room, almost sniffing the air as I went by. I told myself it couldn’t really be Rapunzel and the Ph-uX factor, but the truth is, I knew it could be nothing else.
I wasn’t myself, and that was causing people to stop and take notice. My laugh floated on air, nearly visible ripples of joy, my skin was perfect, my pores were miniscule, my hair bounced with je ne sais quoi, and I don’t even speak French, for Pete’s sake. I had on my highest pair of heels and unlike the beautiful mermaid sacrificing all for her one true love, my feet didn’t hurt a bit. I shook my fanny when I walked, shimmied my shoulders when I talked, and praised the universe for the nerd scientist who developed Ph-uX. Note to self: buy stock in that company.
I was humming to myself so at first I didn’t hear the incoming missile of doom.
“Ahem,” La-ura said, obviously repeating something to me. “What are you so happy about?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. I believe I even simpered for the first time in my life. Pity to waste it on La-ura. I even looked over her shoulder to see if Dino was anywhere in the vicinity.
La-ura snapped her fingers in my face. Day-um I hated when she did that.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
“Obviously, you.” She said, staring me down with a concentrated look. “Did you get your hair cut?”
As if. I wouldn’t need a haircut until sometime in the Fall of 2020. “No,” I shook my head.
“Botox?” Her necked stretched out, pushing her face even closer to mine.
I laughed. She didn’t.
I even blew out a breath, not even self-conscious about the coffee fumes that had to be there. Even my bad breath felt cute.
“So,” I tried to make boss talk. “We’re all ready for the presentation tomorrow.”
“Yeah, right,” La-ura said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“What?”
“Hand it over?”
“What?”
“Give it to me.”
Sweat spurted between my breasts, which had been bouncy and perky only moments before. My mouth went dry. Acidy oily coffee residue sprung from my tongue, making me want to gag. I could feel grease build up flattening my hair. I itched my scalp, making it worse. My left eye started to twitch, and itch. My chin was sore.
“Give you what?” My voice wobbled.
“The jig is up,” La-ura said. She held out her hand slowly, palm up, her perfectly french-manicured nails gently unfolding to seek, and receive their treasure. She wiggled her fingers. “Gimme.”
My eyelids twitched, rapidly, and not in a flirty motion, either, more like in the frenetic spasm of a moth caught on a hot strobe before it fried. I had always been way too good at playing stupid before, but I couldn’t speak a word to save my life. “Gggg,” was the only sound that came out as I tried to manufacture a little saliva.
“Come on, MaryBeth. Give me the Rapunzel. I want to see what this Phux is all about.”
In hindsight, I should have at least said I forgot it at home, or it was stolen, or I didn’t have any change and I gave it to a homeless man on the street. Not known for being a fast thinker, the fear of losing my beloved potion rendered me even slower on the uptake than usual.
In slow motion, my hand reached for my purse under my desk. As my hand passed by my feet, I felt my toes throb and swell as my heart churned out extra beats in sorrow, mourning the loss of the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Goodbye, sweet Ph-uX, I thought. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
My eyes were watering as I handed her the most magnificent little brown bottle in the whole world.
“Are you crying?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “My contacts are just bothering me.”
She grabbed the bottle, no ceremony, how blasphemous, and turned and marched back to her office. She didn’t even say thank you.
Chapter 8
Good Sir Knight
The next morning, I overslept. Bad thing, too, because I sure could have used an extra hour or two just to try to become presentable. Unhappy face here. I yawned, stumbled into the bathroom, took one look in the mirror and screamed. Should I start with the itchy, giant stye in my left eye that refused to accept my contact lens? I would either have to try to tough it out and look like a squinting Popeye, or wear my glasses. Fudge. Glasses it was. I do not look edgy or hip in my glasses. I look like I’m about to go scuba diving.
I showered and went to blow dry my hair and my blow dryer made a sad sizzle. I smelled burnt hair, as it said ‘sayonara.’ “No, no, oh no.” I felt like turning on my oven and sticking my head inside. Instead, I towel dried my locks, trying to swipe the towel down, followed by pulling my brush through. It took forever for my hair to dry, but even forever wasn’t long enough. I looked like someone’s mom with an at-home perm got caught in the wax cycle of a drive-thru car wash. Obviously the pomade I utilized was not just the trick. Heavy sigh.
I put on my glasses and tried to survey the damage. “Good Sweet Mother Mary of God in Heaven,” I said, my horror compounded by the fact that I subconsciously quoted my own mother in forming a half-baked entreaty of prayer. Had the thick fleshy pimple rooted into my chin been a new wild strawberry, it would have been ripe for the picking. Note to self: acne surgery five minutes before you have to leave for work is best left to the professionals, like a plastic surgeon, or a spackle specialist. All I had to do the job was my trusty tweezers. Upon botching that, all I had left was bronzing cream. You try camouflaging a bloody Mt. Vesuvius spewing hillock on the outermost jutting portion of your face with bronzing cream. Brown and angry red make a delightful mahogany color, that would be perfect if my chin were a mantle piece in my friend’s parents’ rustic ski lodge. Boo. Boo hoo. I refused to let myself cry; God knows what would happen to the stye in my eye. My Mr. Magoo glasses did nothing but magnify the bags under my eyes; it looked like I had hot-glue gunned Chinese potstickers to my face.
My feet already hurt. I put on my low black grandma heels, the ones that had been featured on What Not To Wear as what not to wear. I squeezed my suddenly gargantuan ass into my black pencil skirt and tried to find my lucky cream colored polka dot silk blouse. It had done absolutely nothing to earn that distinction except that I had been wearing it once when I found my favorite pair of shoes on sale, for half-price! It was high time it stepped up to the plate.
If I didn’t leave that exact moment, I was going to be late. The smells on the El made me sick to my stomach. Whereas the past few days I had been so open and appreciative of all that nature had to offer, now I wanted to hogtie every blasted gross odor--I’m talking about you Mr. BO hanging on for dear life in front of me--and bag it up in a Hefty-Hefty-cinch sack and give it the old heave-ho right into Lake Michigan.
I shuffled in my granny shoes the rest of the way down the sidewalk to my building. Mr. McGrimace, the man who had seen me nearly every day for the past 8 months barked at me to show him my ID. The only whistles I got that morning were the ones coming from my squeaking shoes.
I plunked my purse on my desk and tried to calm myself down. La-ura was actually expecting me to have a speaking role this morning. I pulled out the report and started to fan my face.
“Good God! What happened to you?”
“Hi, La-ura. I couldn’t wear my contacts this morning, and uh, yeah...” She had already thankfully stopped listening.
She shoved her bony wris
t under my nose, above my pimple. “Lovin’ this Rapunzel.”
I sniffed. It smelled entirely different on her. I inhaled again. It smelled normal, like a regular old perfume, one that you’d buy for your great aunt on Christmas Eve from the drugstore. Granted, I couldn’t define what the scent was when it was interacting with my skin, I just knew I loved the smell on me. It was something different, special. But as I held La-ura’s wrist I made my fatal mistake. I sniffed it a third time. The putrid vapors hijacked my nose. I couldn’t breathe. I watched La-ura lean in and smell her wrist for herself. I waited, but she merely nodded. “Nice.”
I swallowed and clapped my hand to my mouth. “Be right back.” I ran for the ladies room. I almost didn’t make it. I dashed into a stall. I squeezed my nose, panted through my mouth and sank into a crouch. I let go of my nose and tried a gentle puff in. A violent wave of nausea shook me. Oh no. Heat flushed up my body, threatening to boil over with the cold egg roll I had eaten on my way to work. I hiked up my skirt, pulled down my panties, sat down and prayed for the smell to pass. It reminded me of the time when I had been about thirteen years old. I had visited my great aunt (of the cheap perfume recipient notoriety) and she had insisted I have a piece of gum. I had been all proud that I didn’t think being nice to old people was that hard after all, and cheerfully shoved the stick into my mouth, whole.
My taste buds had sent up the Abort! Abort! siren immediately, trying to flood my mouth with saliva to wash away the decaying mouthful of shattered shards of history; it must have been the first piece of gum ever invented. It was the worst thing I had ever tasted; I couldn’t even recognize the dizzying rankness of the petrified particles in my mouth. It had been so bad, for a horrifying second I imagined I was chewing the rotting bones of one of her 97-year-old fingers. The perfume on La-ura smelled like that long-lost but never forgotten zombie crunch, and clung to my nose hairs.
