How to Be Single

by Liz Tuccillo

  This particular yoga center was very old-school. This was not cardio yoga or yoga done in a room the temperature of Hell. This was good old-fashioned yoga, and now they were doing their leg lifts. “Left leg up, and down. Right leg up, and down.” As she spoke, her mind wandered. She planned how she was going to talk to him. She decided she would break the cardinal rule and go into Swami Swaroop’s bedroom after class. She would gently and sweetly just tell him what they both already knew and felt. She would describe the depth of her emotions, not to ask for any decisions or commitments, but just wanting a release from the secret. It should be a celebration, this feeling, and she needed to be able to celebrate it, even if only between the two of them. Just then, as she looked out onto her class and all the legs that were being raised in the air, she saw something that made her gasp. It sounded something like this: “Now both legs, up, and down…up, and…kahhh!”

  Of the twelve raised female legs in the yoga class, four of them were sporting little black strings around the ankle.

  Serena immediately tried to control her breathing—she was a swami and yoga teacher after all. She recovered enough to say, “Excuse me. Now both legs up, and down, up and down.”

  She searched her mind for an explanation. Maybe it was some kind of new trend that Britney Spears or some other celebrity created to honor some disease. Wait! Don’t the people who are into Kabbalah wear little strings? These women were all Kabbalists. That’s the answer. She got through the class, peacefully and with equanimity. She comforted herself with the knowledge that these women all changed in the same dressing room before and after class—surely they would have noticed the strings. Swami Swaroop knew she taught these women yoga, he knew she was bound to see their ankles during a leg raise or shoulder stand. What kind of man would give all the women he slept with a black string? No. There was some other explanation and she was in love and she was still going to tell him how she felt.

  Right after class, Serena looked in the different yoga rooms and offices to see if he was around, but didn’t see him anywhere. She went to his room and heard the familiar sound of Swami Swaroop’s heavy breathing, doing his morning Pranayama. She walked in without knocking.

  The first thing she saw was the black string. On the ankle of Prema, the nineteen-year-old intern who worked in their tiny bookstore/boutique. That string was raised high above Prema’s head. Swami Swaroop was on top of her on the bed, thrusting and Pranayamaing away. He looked up and saw Serena staring at him. With incredible equanimity, her breath slow and steady, even as her heart was racing and her hands were shaking, Serena quietly shut the door, making sure she didn’t disturb anyone at the center.

  She then walked lightly down the stairs to the basement and slipped into the dressing room. There were three women left there—three whom she saw with strings on their ankles. They all looked like they were just about to leave.

  “Hi, Swamiji,” said the thin twenty-two-year-old girl with the light brown hair and the long brown hairy armpits. She was putting her coat on. “That was a great class.”

  “Yeah, really great,” said the thirty-five-year-old blond-haired woman. She was now wearing a business suit and putting on her lipstick in the mirror.

  “Thanks, I was just…was there a sweatshirt in here? Someone called and said they left it.”

  The ladies, including a fifty-something woman with an outrageously hot buff body, all started helpfully looking. Serena didn’t know exactly what she wanted to do or say, but she knew she had to do or say something.

  “Wow. That’s so funny. I noticed in class you all have black strings around your ankles. Are you all into Kabbalah?”

  The women looked at one another and smiled mischievously.

  “I think that’s a red string,” the hairy-armpits girl said.

  They all started giggling. The fifty-something politely said, “Actually, we belong to a different kind of cult.”

  “Really?”

  The women looked at one another, not saying another word. They all started collecting their bags and getting ready to scurry out of there as quickly as possible. The blond business-suit lady opened the door to the dressing room, about to make her exit.

  Before she realized it, Serena had kicked the door shut and was keeping it closed, her right foot flat against it. The black string on Serena’s right ankle was now completely in view. The women’s eyes got wide at the sight of it. The hairy-armpitted girl was incredulous. She pointed at Serena.

  “But…you’re a swami,” she said, outraged.

  “So is Swami Swaroopananda!” Serena shouted back. “I don’t get it! You all knew about each other and didn’t care? Did he hit on you all at once and you guys decided to go for it as a group?”

  The buff woman spoke, calmly. “Swami Swaroop came on to me about six months ago, actually, in this very dressing room.”

  Been there, done that, thought Serena, as the twenty-two-year-old at the same time giggled, “Been there, done that!”

  “Anyway,” the buff hottie continued, “when he gave me the string, I thought it was sweet. Soon enough I saw Gina had one,” she said as she gestured to the blonde, “and so did Ricki,” as she gestured to the armpit. I didn’t care because I’m married; it’s just for fun. We talked about it one day in the dressing room and we had a big laugh.”

  “He’s so hot,” Ricki said, “we were happy to share.”

  “Share? Hot? He’s a swami?!”

  The blonde smiled naughtily. “His spirituality, the forbidden nature of it. It’s very hot. But you must know that. You’re a swami, too, so that’s doubly taboo.”

  “Doubly taboo. Yeah. That’s super hot,” said Ricki, who was now less incredulous and more jealous.

  The women all looked at Serena enviously and it seemed for a moment that they wished that they had shaved their heads and been sworn to celibacy and orange clothes just to get the added naughtiness of it all.

  “So, you’re all basically his harem, is that what you’re saying?” Serena asked, outraged.

  The women all kind of smiled. The blonde shrugged. “Guess you’re a part of it now, too.”

  Serena shook her head furiously. She reached down and grabbed the string around her ankle and pulled. And pulled some more. It wouldn’t budge. It’s amazing how durable a piece of string can be sometimes. She pulled a few more times until it seemed that she might start cutting through skin. Then she scanned the room, desperately looking for a sharp object. Nothing.

  “Does anyone have a fucking key?” Serena the Swami shrieked.

  The blonde quickly handed over her house keys. Serena took them, using a single key to start sawing away at her ankle string. The women watched, a little alarmed, as Serena tried to emancipate herself.

  “Here’s what I’m not a part of. Anyone’s fucking harem. This is fucking bullshit.” And as she said bullshit, the string broke. Serena turned and immediately stormed out, leaving the women standing there.

  She ran back up the stairs to Swami Swaroopananda’s bedroom, but it was empty. Serena remembered that he taught a meditation class at that time.

  Oh, fuck it, she thought. And she raced back down the stairs to the Kali Room and opened the door. Three women and two men were breathing in and out; Swami Swaroopananda was now in class leading them in an “om.” Serena walked in and threw the piece of string at him. It fell right in front of her, invisible, with the result that she looked more like she had just angrily pawed at the air. Swami Swaroopananda opened his eyes and Serena saw that at that moment, underneath the powerful spirituality that he might be always emanating, there was also a slight twinge of fear. She picked up the string and threw it at him again. It again fell right in front of her. Swami Swaroopananda blinked.

  “I loved you. Did you know that? I loved you.”

  Swami Swaroop got up to somehow stop the impending train wreck. But Serena turned and stormed out of that room as well. She ran all the way back up the stairs to Swami Swaroopananda’s room again. She walked i
n and opened up his closet, taking out every single orange thing in it. She then raced down a flight of stairs to her own room, now taking all her own orange clothes and adding them to the pile. The heap of orange clothing was towering about three feet over her head, and she wasn’t able to see very well, but Serena managed to carry it all down and out the front door, down the brick steps, and then dump it all on the sidewalk. Swami Premananda, the heavyset swami, had followed her out of the building.

  “Swami Durgananda, please, you’re creating bad karma for yourself. You are attaching too closely to your ego.”

  “Kiss my orange ass,” Serena said.

  By this point, Swami Swaroop and his students were outside on the stoop looking at Serena.

  Serena looked up at Swami Swaroop and said, “Yeah, right, you burned up your desires for God.” She then looked at the center’s van parked right next to her. There was a “clergy” sign on the dashboard. It had taken the Jayananda Center a long time to get the city to agree to give them clergy status, and it helped them immensely with parking in New York. As her last act of defiance, Serena reached in the half-open window, scraping her arm and almost dislocating her elbow as she grabbed the sign, pulled it out, and ripped it to pieces in front of her little audience on the stoop.

  “If you’re a member of the clergy so is Howard Fucking Stern,” Serena said as she ripped and ripped and ripped. She then started to stomp on the orange pile of clothes as if trying to put out a fire.

  So, this was how Serena’s career as a swami came to a spectacular end. The students and Swami Swaroop went inside, and Swami Premananda asked Serena to immediately pack her things and go before she had to call the police. Serena was only too happy to oblige.

  Back in Australia

  That night, the jet lag was at it again. At four in the morning, I got up and reread one of Fiona’s columns in the Hobart News. In this piece, she was telling a woman to mentally spoon herself—she needed to wrap her self-love around herself every night before she went to bed. I wanted to kill this woman.

  She had an email address where one could contact her, and since it was four in the morning and I was an angry and bitter woman, I decided to write. It went something like this:

  “Don’t you think it’s a little irresponsible of you to tell women that all they have to do is love themselves and be optimistic and love will find them? What if they live somewhere where there are literally no men? What if they are older or overweight or unattractive? All they have to do is love themselves and be confident and filled with joy and someone will appear to love them? Really? Can you guarantee that? Can we call you when we’re eighty years old and tell you how it worked out for us? And if you were wrong, can we come and punch you in the face?”

  I didn’t send that one. I sent this one.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little irresponsible of you to tell women that all they have to do is love themselves and be optimistic and love will find them? What if they live somewhere where there are literally no men? Do you really think the statistics, the reality of it all, means nothing? That we can all, if we shine brightly enough, not be one of the statistics?” I then went on to explain that I was writing a book about single women, and I was single myself, and this was of great interest to me.

  I finally got to bed around six. When I woke up at ten, Alice had left a note that she was at the free breakfast downstairs. I got up and checked my email to see if Ms. Fiona had anything to say for herself. She had.

  “Julie, I’d like to talk to you in person, if you fancy. It’s a much better way to explain myself. Could you take a little day trip to Tasmania so we can chat?”

  Well, that was awfully civilized. I wondered if she did that for every disgruntled reader. Maybe she was one of those people pleasers, always trying to make sure no one was mad at her. Or maybe it’s because I mentioned that I was from New York and I was writing a book. That seemed to be opening up a lot of doors for me.

  I went down to breakfast. Alice was there, with a large pot of coffee next to her, making an awful face.

  “I just tried Vegemite. I’ve been looking at it now for days, and I thought it might be time to try it. Jesus, that stuff tastes like ass.” She took a big gulp of water and then added, “Yeasty ass.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Alice, how would you like to go to Tasmania with me today?”

  “That’s a real place?” she asked seriously. Again, Americans, not so great with the geography.

  “Yes, it’s a real place. I want to go talk to a woman there who writes about dating in Australia. She’s really, like…cheerful.”

  Alice looked at me. “Cheerful? About dating in Australia?” She put down her piece of toast dramatically. “This I’ve got to see.”

  Back in the States

  Georgia decided not to take things lying down. She was still new to dating, so she felt that somehow she would be able, with the sheer force of her will and clever strategy, to win. So she came up with a plan. The first step was to call up Sam and see if he could fit a dinner at her place into his busy dating schedule. She knew that he was a good guy, so if necessary she would appeal to his good manners. She picked up the phone, ready to leave a message. But he picked up.

  “Hey, Georgia, how are you? Are you feeling better?”

  “Oh. Hi, Sam. I am. I’m so sorry about the other night. I was wondering if I could make it up to you.”

  “Oh, there’s no need…”

  “Well, I want to. I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner some night when the kids are with their father.”

  “Sure, that would be great. I actually had plans this Saturday night that fell through. Would you be free then?”

  “That would be great. How about eight o’clock?”

  “Great.”

  Georgia smiled, satisfied, and gave him her address.

  Saturday night came and everything was going according to plan. Georgia was making her famous Chicken Riesling for dinner, and the smell of the chicken, cream, and herbs was permeating the apartment. She also had hundreds of dollars’ worth of flowers bought by Dale’s credit card, placed in conspicuous places all around the apartment. Note cards from the person who had supposedly sent the flowers were placed perfectly casually near each bouquet, along with remnants of some ribbons and paper in which they had arrived. She had the Shiraz breathing and she looked gorgeous. Everything was perfect. The doorbell rang and Sam was there, holding a tiny bouquet of flowers.

  “Hi!” From his expression Georgia knew what he was thinking: she was prettier than he remembered.

  “Wow. You look great!”

  “Thanks.” Georgia ushered him in the door. He gave her his tiny bundle of six roses, just as he noticed the huge bouquets of flowers that seemed to be everywhere.

  “Wow, I guess you must like flowers,” Sam said, sort of awkwardly, looking around. For a moment Georgia saw a little bit of the insecurity she had seen on their first date. Her plan was already working; she had caught her enemy off guard. Georgia acted out an “embarrassed fluster” with the ease of Julia Roberts.

  “Oh, those…it’s a long…guys…you know, sometimes they get, you know…overenthusiastic. They’re nice though, aren’t they?”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “But yours are beautiful, too, oh my God. Beautiful. Let me put them in water.”

  Georgia took Sam’s minuscule bouquet and put the six sad roses in a vase. She couldn’t have predicted he would have brought her flowers; that was just a little gift from the heavens.

  “So how have you been? Good? Busy, I’m sure,” Georgia asked as she put the roses out on the counter.

  “Yes. Definitely busy. But it’s nice to be here.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s hard making plans with so much going on for the both of us. It’s amazing this was even able to happen. Please, have a seat.”

  Georgia motioned to the stool by the counter of her beautiful open kitchen. He sat down as commanded a
nd she gave him a glass of Shiraz. This time he would be the one sitting while she was standing. While she put the finishing touches on the meal, they laughed as she told stories of disastrous meals she had made in her day. So far, a great date.

  Then Sam told a story about one of his kids. It was rather involved, about a parent of one of the kids on his son’s Little League team. It was an amusing story, and he was telling it confidently. Georgia was laughing when the phone rang. Like clockwork.

  “I’ll let it go to voice mail. Keep going, please.”

  “So the man went crazy, screaming and yelling, and he had this ice cream in his hand…” Just then, a desperate male voice came out of Georgia’s answering machine.

  “Hey, Georgia, this is Hal. Just wanted to let you know I had a great time last night. I hope I’ll get to see you again soon. How about Wednesday? Are you free Wednesday? I can’t stop thinking about—”

  Georgia “raced” over to the machine. “I’m so sorry, it’s…I thought I’d turned down the machine…” She adjusted the phone, then turned to Sam, an actual blush on her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Continue, please.”

  Sam just looked at her, a little surprised.

  “Wow. He’s got it bad.”

  “No, it’s just, we went to this play that was really funny and it just was a great…never mind…it’s not—please, what happened with the ice cream?”

  Sam stood up from his stool and leaned on the counter, him on one side of it, her on the other. Suddenly, the counter seemed like a big desk and he was on a job interview. Or an audition.

  Sam laughed nervously. “Right. So anyway, the coach told him that if he didn’t calm down, he was going to kick his kid off the team for good. The guy took the ice-cream cone and just flung it right at the coach, like a two-year-old. Then his kid just ran over to him and said…”

  Just then the answering machine picked up and another man’s voice was heard, deep and commanding—the voice of a CIA operative or president of the United States.

  “Hey. Georgia, this is Jordan. I really enjoyed our having drinks the other night and I was hoping I could see—” Georgia feigned surprise and irritation at herself.