“There are a couple of people who are dying to meet you, Lee. They all want to start doing yoga.”
Lee grabs a glass of wine, takes Alan’s hand, and follows Lorraine. There’s a group of three women, probably in their forties, standing near the back of the gallery, laughing uproariously about something, maybe a little sloshed. Lorraine introduces Lee, and the first thing one of them says is: “You drink?”
“In moderation,” Lee says.
“That’s so funny. I thought you yoga teachers were all so pure.”
Uh-oh. Lee can hear the drip of condescension in her voice, as if Lee has been berating her with a lecture on temperance for hours.
“I guess it depends how you define purity,” Lee says. She’d love to tell them she has a pack of cigarettes stashed in her glove compartment, but she’d rather Alan didn’t find out about that. “This is my husband, Alan.”
“Now he doesn’t look so pure.”
“Alan’s a musician,” Lee says. “And a songwriter.”
“How interesting. Anything we’ve heard?”
This question is always a slap in the face to Alan. People assume that you’re legitimate only if they’ve heard something you’ve written on the sound system at Trader Joe’s. Lee rattles off the name of a song that was used over the end credits of a movie five years ago.
“Don’t know it,” one of the women says.
It was a hit with young people, Lee longs to say, but that’s so catty and also, sadly, untrue.
“Do you ever worry,” a woman with bracelets says, “that the yoga ‘thing’ is like the aerobics fad, and it’s going to die out in a year or two?”
This again.
“The practice has been around for thousands of years,” Lee says, “so it’s already outlived Jane Fonda.”
“Really? I heard the Indians cobbled it all together from watching the British soldiers do calisthenics. I’d happily stand on my head if it made me look as good as you two. You’re so fit.”
Somehow or other, this woman makes the word sound obscene. Lee is all too familiar with this kind of thing, being treated with envy and, at the same time, as if she were a freak. It’s easy enough to ignore, and at least the condescension toward her balances out a little of the sting Alan probably feels right now.
“I’ll bet it’s good for your marriage,” one of the others leers.
“You’re welcome to come by the studio anytime you like,” Lee says. “Try it out. Bring your husbands.”
“There’s a laugh,” one says. “I’d have as much luck trying to get him to wear a tutu!”
Lee smiles and takes Alan’s hand. They go over to Birdy and Garth and congratulate him on the show. He puts his arms around Lee’s waist in a way that makes everyone uncomfortable.
“Do you like the incumbent ardency?” he asks.
Lee doesn’t say anything and Garth winks. “It’s all showbiz, folks. You gotta pay the bills somehow. Nothing sells like selling out!”
Lee is relieved. This is the first time he’s given any indication that he knows how all the pretentious talk about his work sounds. It’s really the first time he’s ever been ironic about himself. “How do you like your daddy’s paintings?” she asks Birdy.
Birdy stares at her with her limpid, ethereal gaze. “Mommy said you were getting divorced. How come you’re here together? ”
Lee tries to smile and looks at Alan. It’s definitely time to make a move. If talking with YogaHappens brings Alan home sooner, she’s all for it. She’ll make an appointment with them tomorrow.
I mani is driving through Beverly Hills when she decides to check out a cupcake bakery that opened last month and maybe get a couple of treats. The whole cupcake craze is annoying—and brilliant. She would never allow herself to stop at a bakery and buy a slab of chocolate cake, but a nice little bite-size treat seems way less decadent. She’s telling herself the second one she intends to buy is for Glenn, but she knows for certain she’ll have it finished before she’s anywhere near Los Feliz and home.
The bakery (Cookie’s Cakes) is owned by Cookie, a super-skinny white girl who probably wears a surgical mask when she’s baking, just in case it turns out smells have calories. Everything in the place is white, and Cookie’s dressed in a white lab coat. It feels more like a weight-loss clinic than a place to indulge. Cookie (as likely to be her real name as Imani is hers!) has her head practically shaved, with the remaining stubble dyed platinum blond. This makes her look even skinnier but strangely feminine and girly, too.
Imani forces herself to smile at her and orders a Banana Daiquiri and a Dulce de Leche and then, because the name sounds kind of light and semi-low-cal and the swirl of frosting on top is an appealing pale purple, something called a Lavender Breeze.
“Oh, that’s my favorite,” Cookie says.
“Really? You eat a lot of these?”
“I taste tiny slivers.” She holds up thumb and index finger to the thickness of a credit card. “I’m totally neurotic about my weight, and basically, I started baking because I like being around the temptation, and proving to myself I can resist it. I know, total eating-disorder kind of thing, but not dangerous or life-threatening.”
This is such a brutally honest, full-disclosure mouthful, Imani immediately shifts from finding Cookie irritating to being touched by her and admiring of the way she’s efficiently packing the cupcakes into a little white box. “At a certain point,” she says, “you gotta figure a few pounds don’t matter one way or the other.”
“Not there yet. But working on it.” She hands Imani the box, tied up with a silver ribbon.
“It’s brilliant the way you have the place decorated,” Imani says. “So clinical, it feels like it’s good for you to eat this stuff.”
“I know. Smart, right? And feel how chilly it is in here? Same thing. Like someplace you’d do surgery. And I hope you don’t mind me saying, but X. C.I.A. went way downhill after you left.”
“Mind? I’m surprised she didn’t pay you to say it!”
Imani spins around, and Becky Antrim is standing there, beaming. Imani gives her a big hug, and they walk out to the sidewalk, arm in arm. “Damn, you look good,” Imani says. “What’s your secret?”
“I don’t buy cupcakes,” Becky says and flips her world-famous hair off her shoulder. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t eat them. I just walk back and forth in front of this place until I spot someone I know buying them. Give me one of those little fuckers.”
Becky has been holding the title of America’s Sweetheart for longer than Imani can remember. She skyrocketed to fame on Roommates, one of those iconic TV hits that actually deserved its reputation. Imani met her when Becky was dating one of the guys on X.C.I.A. and used to come by the set. Two things surprised Imani: Becky’s way more gorgeous in person than she is on screen and, despite being trashed by the tabloids for fifteen years now, despite having more money than God and Oprah, despite having had her heart broken in the most public way possible by the most handsome (white) man on the planet, she’s still one of the sweetest people Imani’s ever met.
They go to a Starbucks around the corner and sit at a sidewalk table, open up the box, look at each other, and start laughing.
“Straight to hell,” Becky says. “Let’s go, mon amie!”
By the time they’ve polished off the third cupcake, Becky has brought her up to date on the latest love disaster in her life, not in a self-pitying way, but with the ironic, “what else is new” stoicism she uses to deal with everything. No interest in another TV series, she explains, but lots of interest in continuing to do quirky little indie films. “They keep me relevant,” she says. “Whatever that means. And they’re fun and I’ve learned more about acting from doing them than I learned all those years on Roommates.”
“But don’t they hurt your career?”
“There are two ways for someone like me to get respect in this town,” Becky says. “One is to get paid a fortune for a blockbuster and the other is to get paid not
hing for a smart little indie that hits big at Sundance. I alternate between the two.”
She licks off the last of the frosting from her fingertips and rests her cheek against her fist. “What about you, sweetie? Are you doing okay?”
Becky’s tone, soft and gentle, leaves no doubt that she’s asking about the miscarriage and subsequent meltdown. What else would she be asking about?
“I’m doing a lot better,” Imani says. She’s not sure the “lot” is accurate, but it might help to say so. And eight months after all that, she’s started to realize that people expect her to be better, so she’s doing her best to fake it until she makes it.
“You know what?” Imani says. “I finally started doing yoga.”
Becky pops up out of her chair and gives a little cheer. Becky is a famous yoga fanatic. Someone on the street snaps a picture with a cell phone, and Becky turns and gives them a goofy grin and then the finger. She’s definitely made peace with the gawkers, something Imani needs a little help with.
“Are you loving it? Where are you practicing? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to start practicing?”
In truth, Imani only went the one time. And even though she liked it, the idea of getting it all together to go again has kept her from a return visit. Figuring out when to eat and shower and which level class to take and then loading the mat and towels and all that into the car makes her feel exhausted. She got such a warm welcome, she was afraid she was going to get sucked into a social scene she’s not sure she’s ready for or interested in. It just seemed simpler not to go.
“I’m not exactly a fanatic yet,” she says.
“Doesn’t matter. You will be. What style?”
Shit. How’s she supposed to know? “Masala? ” she says, snatching the only Hindi-sounding word that comes into her mind.
From the look on Becky’s face, she’s trying to decide if Imani is joking or not. There have been rumors for a while now that Becky is a big pothead, but Imani’s never paid attention to them. If she’s stoned right now, there’s at least a chance she’ll forget the comment. Or maybe she just saw through Imani’s exaggeration.
“Well . . .” She waves it off. “The style doesn’t matter. It’s all good. I have no plans for this afternoon. Let’s make a day of it. I have got tons to show you. It’s really a good thing we had that high-protein snack!”
Becky takes her to a store in Beverly Hills where she says she does all her shopping these days. It’s packed with customers, and not only women, and has a staff of the most fit and beautiful clerks she’s seen in a while. The really crazy thing is, they’re actually nice. Imani feels like asking if she could have a serving of that Kool-Aid, for sure, and maybe they could distribute it around town?
“What do you wear to classes?” Becky asks.
Imani isn’t about to tell her that the one time she took class, she wore a tank top and a pair of silk boxers that she bought for Glenn but that he refused to wear. She’d heard you were supposed to wear something loose and they were that!
“Oh, the usual,” she says.
Becky purses her lips. “I can tell we’re going to need everything,” she says. “Let’s start off with pants.”
She holds up a pair of what look to Imani like pedal pushers. “These are amazing, They hug your legs, but don’t bind or anything. They’re great when you’re doing, I don’t know, let’s say ardha chandrasana,” Becky says.
“Let’s you say,” Imani tells her, “because I have no idea what you just said.”
“And look.” She holds out the tag. “Not that you need them, but ‘anti-muffin top.’ Is that awesome or what?”
What Imani notices mostly is that the customers, all these women of assorted ages and shapes, seem so completely confident about themselves when they’re trying on the clothes, even the tight pants and the tank tops. It’s the exact opposite of the way she usually sees women acting in sportswear stores. Almost as if they like their bodies . . .
The other thing she notices is that while there’s the usual flurry of giggles and double takes upon spotting Becky—and, to a lesser extent, her—there’s a palpable camaraderie in the air. People just talk to them. “Did I see you at that Rodney Yee workshop last month?” “Have you tried the new ashtanga studio that opened in Brentwood?” “You have got to check out this teacher at the Sports Club. He’s amazing!”
One hour and more money than she wants to think about later, they leave the store loaded down with enough equipment to nearly fill the backseat of Imani’s car. Pants, tops, underwear guaranteed not to give her a wedgie. Maybe she went overboard, but she figures if it inspires her to actually get to classes (to show off all the damned stuff) it will be money well spent.
Becky tells her to follow her, and so they wend their way down Santa Monica Boulevard in tandem. Becky, who never uses her directionals, makes a sharp right that Imani nearly misses, and they end up on a quiet side street. Imani’s been expecting her to take her to some yoga palace out here for an extravagant class, but Becky turns into the parking lot of a little stucco church.
“I know,” she says as she gets out of her Prius. “I know it’s not exactly glamorous, but don’t say anything until afterwards. I’m on a list, and they e-mail notices of new classes. This one’s supposed to be incredible. The teacher is descended from Swami Somebody or Other. At least, that’s the buzz.”
They go in a side entrance to a little assembly hall that looks and smells like the kind of place Imani’s mother used to take her for rummage sales when she was a kid back in Texas. There are about twenty people sprawled around the room, mostly ultra-skinny women that look vaguely familiar. Fashion models, is what she’d guess. There are a few aging trophy wives thrown in, too. Same shape and basic package as the models, but a little more worn and weary looking. A few people smile at them, but it’s all in an “I’m not impressed” kind of way.
Becky helps her set up her mat along one wall and goes to sit cross-legged in the middle of her own mat, with her eyes closed. For some reason, Imani starts to get nervous. There’s an unspoken intensity wafting off these women that is palpable and a little threatening. She slipped into one of the funky little bathrooms and put on one of her new outfits, but she looks down and realizes she didn’t take off the tags. Look at me! I’ve never done this before! Why has she been pretending with Becky all day? What’s the point? She feels as if she’s about to be thrown into the middle of a very wide lake and told to swim to shore.
She leans over and whispers, “I was exaggerating about the yoga thing. I’ve only taken one class. And I wasn’t very good. I think I should leave.”
Becky touches her hand. “You’re not going anywhere. Just start breathing and everything else will be fine.”
When Lee walks into the lounge at the studio, Tina is loading a carton with tank tops and yoga shorts. They’re from a small local company that makes simple, nicely designed workout clothes in cotton. They’ve been after Lee for months to sell their line and, given the quality of the clothes, she’s disappointed to see they’re going back.
“No interest?” she asks Tina.
“Not in these.”
Lee takes a tank top out of the carton. It’s a beautiful shade of light blue, and the body is long so it goes past the hips and doesn’t expose your stomach when you’re doing inversions. “It’s too bad,” Lee says. “They’re nice.”
“It’s the company’s own fault,” Tina says. “I told them they wouldn’t sell, and they sent them anyway, and now I’m the one who has to ship them back.”
“And it’s their own fault because?”
“Because they sent a bunch of mediums. Do you think anyone in here is going to buy medium? They really need to size them right.”
Lee thinks it over. She’s proud of the fact that her classes attract both men and women, and people of all sizes and shapes. “I’m sure a lot of people would fit into these.”
“No kidding. But I told them that women who do yo
ga aren’t going to buy something labeled ‘medium.’ It’s like a slap in the face. Even ‘small’ is beginning to get iffy. They have to start at XXXS. Some companies have what they call 4XS.”
There was a time, Lee thinks, when this kind of thing made sense to me. But fortunately, that time is over.
She goes into her office and tries to focus. It’s shaping up to be a full day. She has a class in twenty minutes and after that, she has to head up to the house to meet with Alan and the business-people from YogaHappens for a preliminary discussion.
She used to prepare for class by making notes on index cards with poses she wanted to cover, metaphors she wanted to use, and, sometimes, a quote or part of a poem she wanted to read during savasana. She trained with a yogi in New York, has all that med school anatomy background, and studied dance semiseriously when she was in college. But she’s convinced that what makes her a good teacher is a strange ability she has to look at someone’s body and be able to tell where they’re holding tension, where they’re being fearful, and how they could let go of both. She doesn’t make as many notes anymore, preferring instead to have a rough outline of what she wants to cover in her head then simply going with what feels right during class.
There are only eight people in the room today, Graciela included. Lee knew she had potential, but she truly didn’t expect her to be as diligent and restrained as she’s being. Lee sits on the floor at the front of the room, rests her hands on her knees, and says, “Does anyone have any issues or injuries I should know about? ”
In the silence that follows, Lee hears a voice from somewhere inside her own head saying: Me! I have injuries. You should know about them. I want to be taken care of! Give me a modification and an adjustment. Me, me, me! But she does her best to ignore the voice and says, “Remember, this is your practice. I’m just here to guide you and take care of you when you need assistance. Let’s begin.”
Under Lee’s guidance, Graciela has been sticking to restorative poses. What this translates to is settling into a pose—one that wasn’t that hard to begin with—for a very long time. While the rest of the class is doing something else (like moving!) Lee keeps checking on Graciela to make sure she’s . . . restoring. The weirdest part of the whole experience is that it’s physically some of the easiest stuff Graciela has done in years, and, at the same time, relaxing and remaining quiet and patient feels almost impossibly difficult.
Tales from the Yoga Studio Page 6
