Dunkin and I nod our agreement stupidly. We will be good.
I take Lindsay into her bedroom and we cocoon ourselves in a corner, crawling around, making silly noises and playing with her toys, by which I mean I hand her things one after another and she chews on each item, waves it about, then drops it on the floor and reaches for the next item I’m holding.
Dunkin watches us bemusedly. He asks me if I’d prefer pizza or Chinese for dinner.
“General Tsao’s chicken,” I declare.“ With vegetable fried rice.”
“A woman after my own heart.” He disappears into the other room to call for delivery.
By the time our food arrives forty minutes later, Lindsay is rubbing her right fist against her eyelid, a sure sign of exhaustion if ever there was one. I put her to bed while Dunkin picks up the toys. Then we snuggle up on the couch to eat our Chinese food while watching Basic Instinct.
“I love this movie,” I whisper about halfway into it when Sharon Stone’s character ties Michael Douglas to her bed with a white silk scarf and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest.
Dunkin puts an arm around me and I nestle against him. It feels so nice to have finally found love.
The movie ends and I find myself rubbing sleep from my own eyes, much like my one- year-old counterpart. I lay my head in Dunkin’s lap and drift between semi-consciousness, consciousness, and comatose-ness while he gently strokes my head. I must have dozed off for a while because I open my eyes to see Helen and John standing over us. Dunkin is sitting bolt upright, his head flung back, mouth open, snoring. I let out a little laugh, yawn, and rouse myself from my slumber.
“Hey guys. How was your date?”
“Wonderful. Thanks again for watching Lindsay,” John says.
“Yes, Shayla,” Helen echoes her husband’s sentiments. “We really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” I say, giving Dunkin a little shake. He wakes up slowly, yawns exaggeratedly, and grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I passed out. How was date night?”
“You guys look exhausted. Why don’t you spend tonight in our guest bedroom and tomorrow I’ll make us breakfast as a way of saying thank you and…I’m sorry?”
Dunkin and I are more than happy not to have to drive home tonight and, besides, we’re touched by Helen’s offer. She’s extending an olive branch. We might as well take it. Besides, the guest bed is huge, the bedding deliciously soft, inviting. Dunkin and I strip down to our underwear, crawl into bed together and fall asleep immediately.
I awake to the smells and sounds of breakfast being made—bacon frying on a griddle, pancakes, eggs, and toast.
“Hey, get up, hon,” I say.
Dunkin rises. “I’m starving. That smells great.”
We dress in a hurry, brush our teeth in the guest bathroom, both sharing the toothbrush and toothpaste I always keep in my purse, just in case, and splash water on our faces. We look a bit disheveled in our day-old clothing as we walk into Helen’s kitchen, our bellies growling with hunger.
“Everything looks and smells delicious,” I say.
“Good,” she replies. “I hope you’re hungry because I’m sure, as usual, I made way too much food.”
Lindsay is in her playpen in the living room, entertaining herself with a much-abused, decapitated Barbie doll and a stuffed rabbit of the Velveteen Rabbit variety—by which I mean worn out and well-loved—covered in baby drool, missing one eye, and his fabric skin so thin in places you can see right through to the stuffing.
“John, honey, let’s eat,” Helen calls out as she pours Dunkin and me cups of steaming hot delicious coffee then gestures to the cream and sugar on the counter.
We help ourselves. As the four of us sit down to breakfast, Lindsay begins to fuss softly in her playpen.
“Want me to get her?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” Helen says. “I’ll put something on the TV. She likes that. She doesn’t even need to know what’s on, but the sounds and images relax her I guess. Whenever I have to cook or clean, I put her in her playpen, turn the TV on, and I’m all set.”
Helen walks over to the TV, hits a few buttons and there is Sharon Stone writhing atop of Johnny Boz (Bill Cable) in the opening scene of Basic Instinct.
“What the…?” she stands there, stunned, for a moment.
Dunkin jumps up, rushes over to her and shuts off the DVR. The screen turns a vibrant shade of blue.
“Sorry guys. We rented Basic Instinct and I guess didn’t take it out of the DVR player last night. Here, I’ll put in Inspector Gadget. That’s really PG. A kid’s movie. Lindsay can watch that.”
Helen smiles wanly.
Dunkin ejects Basic Instinct and deposits the DVD from the other movie rental box into the DVD player. I cringe to tell you what happens next. Emblazoned across the screen are a series of breasts and asses, penises of all shapes and sizes. The camera pans to a woman whose legs are spread open obscenely as she touches herself. In front of her is some sort of mechanical, robotic apparatus that looks like it is about to pleasure the spread-legged porn star.
Dunkin inhales sharply and turns the TV off. He ejects the DVD from the player.
“Oh shit! This is the wrong video. We rented Inspector Gadget, but this movie is Inspect Her Gadget. Some idiot must’ve put the wrong movie back in the case. Shit. I’m sorry, guys.”
But, before either parent can answer, their lovable little daughter with a repertoire of three words decides to add another to her vocabulary.
“Shit!” Little Lindsay exclaims dramatically.
My sentiments exactly as, on that note, Dunkin and I hightail it out of there, leaving without having a chance to eat Helen’s delicious breakfast spread.
Chapter Eleven
“Let’s just try to avoid a catastrophe tonight.” I’m looking in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk before going to meet my friend Liza at a yoga class. My mother’s comments about my ass the other night, combined with my own woeful lack of physical fitness and the embarrassing on-camera babysitting Oreo binge have compelled me to join my friend the workout fiend, for hot yoga. Yes. Not even normal people yoga. We’re going to a sweat your ass off, in your face, kick your butt, try not to have a heart attack during Downward Dog, yoga class.
As I head out the door with my towel and water bottle, I am tempted to call Liza and back out. Sadly for me, loyalty trumps laziness. I’m going. I’ve committed to going, so I’m going.
As instructed, I arrive fifteen minutes before class starts, my trusty blue Honda Civic looking slightly out of place in a parking lot full of Mercedes Benzes, BMWs and, is that a Jaguar? I get out of my own vehicle, muster up my courage, and walk into the yoga studio.
“Namaste,” the blonde bombshell working behind the counter greets me.
The woman manages to somehow simultaneously embody both a crunchy-granola and upscale diva vibe. She is wearing a transparent white t-shirt with a lotus flower logo over a bright pink sports bra. Her eyes exude the clean, clear brightness of her probably entirely organic diet.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m here for the hot yoga class.”
Liza appears from around the corner, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and says to the beautiful desk creature, “Sky, this is my friend Shayla. Put her class on my account.”
Sky nods obligingly.
As if it is merely an afterthought, Sky turns back to me and says “Oh, Shayla, can you sign this waiver?”
She hands it over, and then turns her attention to the people filtering in behind me. I scan the pages. Basically, I am agreeing that, in the event that injury or death should result from my participation in this yoga class, I will not sue. I blink. I reread the line that says “If you become seriously injured by the performance of any physical activity at this studio, it is your responsibility both financially and physically
to address such issues.”
They actually have the audacity to write at the bottom of the form “Namaste and Happy Yoga.” Excuse me? They must be joking. How am I supposed to find my Zen zone when I am agreeing that, if I faint, have a heart attack, or die in class I and my dependents will refrain from legal action? I think about bolting.
“Just sign it. Live dangerously,” Liza says, reading my mind.
I scribble my name illegibly at the bottom of the form then follow my friend into a room that is, as advertised, hot. Sweltering. Without even doing anything, I break out into a sweat. Beads of perspiration dot my forehead. This is a colossal mistake. I turn to flee, but Liza is blocking my path to the door.
“You’ll be fine,” she tells me. “A little heat never hurt anyone.”
Tell that to Rita Ora.
“Besides, you can always rest in Child’s Pose or whatever, if you need to.”
I need to. I plan to spend the next hour in Child’s Pose. I can pretend that I’m in a sauna and sweat out toxins. Sure. I’ll get detoxified and purified without even moving. I can do that. I take a deep breath.
Looking around at the other students, I notice that the vast majority of them are toned to within an inch of their life, possessed of flat stomachs and unflappable bottoms. Their thighs I imagine are free of cellulite, their bellies have no need for control-top pantyhose. These women work out so often that they look as if they don’t have to work out—like Liza. Her, I love. Them, I hate on principle.
The teacher enters, a tall, statuesque, well-muscled African American woman with short, immaculately maintained dreadlocks, a bubble butt, wearing a skimpy belly-baring, midriff shirt. “I’m DaVita,” she tells me. “Welcome to my class.”
Apparently, everyone else already knows DaVita. She is familiar with them and they with her. The students emit a chorus of “hello” and “how-are-you” and “looking good.” DaVita smiles and responds, then heads over to the thermostat.
“Get ready to sweat,” DaVita says as she adjusts the heat from sweltering to unbearable.
I’m a joke. My Sun Salutation looks more like a sun epileptic seizure. My legs wobble violently as I attempt something called a “jump back.” In the mirrors, my ass looks enormous waving about during Downward Dog. Initially, yoga feels like hell. But, after about fifteen minutes, I start to feel an upward surge of pride. I’m getting the hang of it. I am flowing. I am one with my breath. This is Vinyasa. It feels good to move. I start to daydream about possibly getting good at yoga and bringing Dunkin with me to a class. He will marvel as I flow. He will find my Pigeon Pose intoxicating. I imagine yoga acting as an aphrodisiac. We’ll barely even make it out to the parking lot before ripping each other’s clothes off and going at it in his car. Forget doggy style. We’ll do it Downward Doggy style. Lost in my own imaginings, I am barely cognizant at first of the fact that DaVita is whispering something into my ear.
“Huh?” Maybe, I’m doing a pose wrong and need to modify my alignment. That’s okay. I’m still learning. I value her instruction. I turn my head to look at her.
“Your boob,” she whispers softly again.
I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do with my boob? I thought yoga was all about contracting the core. Is it possible to contract one’s breasts? I’m still puzzling over this when DaVita points to my left breast, then to her own boob, and motions for me to adjust myself. I look at my reflection. Yes. My left breast is winking at me in the mirror. My boob must have popped out! I adjust myself, blush even redder than I already am—what with the heat—and thank her.
DaVita nods, adopts her same, relaxing tone of voice and instructs the room to step our right feet in between our hands, lower our left heels, and lift our arms to Warrior I. I do. Silently, I curse my breasts and the bra that contains them. Or, more accurately, failed to contain them. Did anyone see? If so, how much did they see? Tasteful side boob is one thing. Full frontal boobage including nipple is quite another. How long was I flashing everyone?
I turn to Liza and hiss softly, “Did you see my boob?”
“Do I what? Do I want to see your boob?” she mouths at me in the mirror.
“My boob popped out,” I mouth back.
But, she doesn’t understand me and I’m not about to demonstrate so she will. I try to refocus on my breath, on my body, but fail to enter into the Zen zone. All I can think is that I’m better off avoiding exercise altogether. There was nothing on the consent form about flashing. Nowhere did it advise me to beware of errant breasts. If it had, I’d never have agreed to take this class. I mean, death is one thing, but indecent exposure is far worse.
Chapter Twelve
Speaking of indecent exposure, I may as well get it over with and tell you about what happened. For the record, I’m not at all prudish. I just have shame about my body. Who doesn’t? It seems as if we women today are taught to internalize a body-based form of shame unless we happen to look like supermodels or successfully eliminate carbs from our diets. This self-criticism is learned, acquired.
Perhaps, my insecurities about my body originate with my mother, her perfectionistic attitude toward her own physical form and constant criticism of mine. But, I don’t need to analyze that. I’m sure I could keep a therapist busy for years discussing the impact of my mother’s judgmentalism on me. But, why consult a therapist? Chocolate is cheaper and much more effective. Never mind that it may or may not lead to more body shame. There is an infinite supply of chocolate and therapy just seems to involve a lot of effort.
Anyway, I was about to tell you about the next breast-baring fiasco.
I was at school. Yes, surrounded by a group of young, impressionable children and their judgmental, hovering parents. Each year, Saint Sebastian puts on half a dozen fundraisers to raise money for various improvement projects or school-wide initiatives. I have volunteered to help with the car wash mainly because I don’t mind getting sudsy and we are allowed to sign up for three hour shifts. Most of the other fundraisers require giving up an entire Saturday. I’m not possessed of enormous breasts. My B cups runneth over and my C cups are only half full. And, because I am body-conscious female, I don’t own many bathing suits. I have a too tight one-piece, a threadbare tankini and an adorable, extremely modest, two-piece that clasps in the front.
So there I am awash in suds and talking to Saint Sebastian’s principal about an upcoming class field trip I’d like to take the kids on.
“You don’t think the Please Touch Museum is a nightmare waiting to happen?”
“Not at all. It’s an opportunity for learning. Besides, Ronnie and I would go and we’d get at least three or four parent volunteers. The adult-student ratio could be as small as one to four.”
“It’s not a bad idea.” Principal Hane scratches her head pensively. “I’ll think about it.”
As I turn away, one of my students is fiddling with a wayward hose.
“It won’t work, Ms. Ross.”
“It should,” I say, taking it out of young Johnny’s hands.
As I work to untangle the hose, someone shouts out from the distance, someone I don’t see and will never forgive. “This hose isn’t turned on!”
The nozzle is pointed straight at my chest when, suddenly, it expels a great stream of water directly at my chest and, surprise, surprise, the delicate front-fastening clasp bursts wide open revealing not one but two of my extremely cold—the water is icy and I am wet—breasts. I turn wildly around. My nipples point at whoever let loose the offending water as if to chastise them. Momentarily stunned, I am immobilized for several seconds before I frantically force my top back together and flee the scene.
I feel like such a disaster. When I return to the carwash ten minutes later, wearing a Save the Whales T-shirt taken from the gym bag in the back of my trunk, no one says a word.
Chapter Thirteen
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“Only you.” Brice laughs when I tell him about the flashing incident at the carwash.
When he laughs, I can’t help but chuckle too. It’s a reflex.
“It’s not funny,” I protest.
“Then why are we both laughing?”
“Because we’re deeply disturbed individuals.”
“Well, that goes without saying, girlfriend. But I think we’re cracking up because this is one hysterical situation.”
My best friend has the power to make me smile—always. He’s my emotional BandAid and he never judges me. Besides, since he’s gay, there’s never any sexual tension to worry about. I love Dunkin to death and he has the power to take away my pain, but I sometimes feel like I don’t totally want to expose the worst parts of myself to the man I’m in love with. I mean, it’s hard to be so exposed.
With Brice, I can be my most bumbling, vulnerable self. He’s seen me at my best and at my worst. Speaking of worst…
“Robin called me today,” Brice says, changing the subject to his own juicy topic du jour.
“I hope you didn’t answer.”
“I couldn’t. I was working.”
Is he seriously swooning over his ex? Brice’s moony-eyed expression makes me want to throttle him. He’s spent the last six months trying to let go of his asshole ex-boyfriend. There’s no way he’s going back to Robin if I have any say in the matter. But, before I can open my mouth to speak, Brice fills the silence.
“He left me the sweetest message.”
“Which you of course promptly deleted…”
Robin, Brice’s boyfriend of five years, has a history of repeated insensitivities and infidelities. Most of their relationship involved Brice crying and Robin lying. Suffice it to say, I am not a fan.
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