More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies

by Tamara Dorris

  Copyright © 2013 Tamara Lee Dorris

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1492378224

  ISBN 13: 9781492378228

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916776

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  I must thank, as always, my little left-brained creative consultant, Nichole Dorris, for her ongoing bossiness and support. Importantly, I also want to thank everyone who read and adored the first Guru book. While this one could be a standalone—it would get lonely, you know, standing all alone and everything—it really picks up and takes off where the first one was a bit of a cliffhanger. Okay, the first book was a huge cliffhanger, but must we split hairs? That said I feel the main acknowledgements for this book needs to be for those people who read, loved and helped spread the word about the first Guru. My friend, Jenna McCarthy, who endorsed the first Guru and really helped me pimp it out when it was published (she has a potty mouth and you should read her books), some of my early readers in the real estate industry: Steve Babbitt and Diane Guercio come to mind. In the yoga community, I have to say hats off to all my girls and instructors at Sunrise Hot Yoga for being super supportive and harassing me to hurry up and finish this edition. Plus, a special mention for instructor, Stacy Whittingham, who went way above and beyond to help me get the book into the yoga community (and for her endless enthusiasm). More cheerleaders are my Feng Shui consultant (yes, I have one, shut up), Sheeree Diamond, and to every single, solitary person who wrote a positive review on amazon.com, posted a picture on facebook, or otherwise helped get the word out. You know who you are and I love you madly. Even if I haven’t met you yet, I still think you rock.

  For yoga lovers, real estate professionals & wine-drinkers.

  Cheers, Namaste & Love,

  TLD

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I think I have a gray hair.

  That might make me sound impossibly vain, but trust me, I’m not nearly as vain as some people I know and have recently slept with. Let me explain. Five minutes ago I was this carefree, gray-free, yoga-practicing spiritual guru, and the next I’m robbing the cradle with a guy who has better hair and a flatter stomach than I do. That’s right; I’m a regular baby-dater, and now I have the old hair to prove it.

  I went to my mom’s house for Thanksgiving dinner where I met her new retired doctor boyfriend, Bill, and drank some wine. Maybe too much wine. I got home that night, a little tipsy I might add, only to see I had a text from Tac. It’s important to note that Tac and I had a tentative “date” for the day after Thanksgiving, for which I had been dieting diligently two days prior. I didn’t know he was going to ask me out, so as soon as he did I stopped eating, sure I could lose six-pounds in two days if I lived on air and lemon water. Needless to say, fasting two days before Thanksgiving is not the best idea I’ve ever had. I ate everything in sight except my mother’s lovely lace table cloth, and that was only because the second cheesecake tasted even better. Okay, plus she had it tied down.

  So there I am, pants unbuttoned, belly bulging and bits of dark turkey meat stuck between my teeth when I read this text: “In the area, are you home yet?”

  My heart makes an involuntary leap when I realize it’s from Tac. To say I wasn’t exactly prepared to see him is like saying the Titanic had a little leak.

  Crap.

  I quickly reply, “I will be in about 15 minutes.” I race into my room, rip my clothes off, and replace them with comfy but loose-fitting pants and a baggy shirt. Not exactly stylish but it will have to do. Then the doorbell rings. I’ve got dental floss stuck between two teeth and cannot yank it out. I knew I should have gotten the mint-flavored wax-coated stuff I usually get instead of this damned vegan kind. I mean really, what in the hell is vegan dental floss anyway? Obviously not intended to remove chunks of turkey from my carnivorous teeth. One swift yank and I’m sure I’ve pulled a tooth out, but I smile anyway as I open the door.

  “Hi Tac, how are you?” I ask, having no clue what else to say.

  I mean, this is Tac. Tac! Standing at my front door, smelling handsome with his big hair and glassy green eyes.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he says, handing me some daisies that very well may have come from his grandmother’s hospice room, or worse.

  “Thank you.” I open the door wider and suddenly remember I haven’t changed Herman’s litter box since the day I discovered that flushing the rocks down the toilet wasn’t such a good idea. Now the toilet works fine, but my whole condo smells like cat pee.

  “Come on in,” I offer feebly, sucking my stomach in and hoping I don’t smell like giblets.

  Tac smiles and sits down at the kitchen table. Should I ask him if he wants anything to drink? Milk and cookies, maybe? It’s getting kind of late and he looks like he’s had his share of something to drink already. So I say, “Well, looks like you’ve already had your wine ration tonight.”

  He lifts his eyebrows, presumably giving me his come hither look, and says, “One more can’t hurt.” To which I say, “Yeah, but, you’re driving, and it’s a holiday weekend...”

  “I could always stay over.”

  Oh my!

  “That’s probably not a good idea,” I say, shocked and flattered at the same time. Also I remember that I haven’t changed the sheets since Ron moved out, which was like three months ago. Full of cat hair, no doubt.

  “Are you sure about that?” he says, mustering a rather cocky look. Now I’m blushing. I rarely blush. Well, not recently anyway. There was that one time I accidentally took the wind removing pose in yoga a little too seriously, but that was different. This here was straight up, toe-squeezing, what-do-I-say-now BLUSHING. He’s got to be drunk.

  “Maybe I should make you some coffee instead?” I say, going to the cabinet and casually looking at which mug has the least lipstick smudged on it.

  “Okay, but you know I like you, right?” This causes me to nearly spit in his cup. Talk about catching a girl off guard!

  “Well, I like you too, Tac. I mean, I think you’re great.”

  If I were any lamer, I would be entitled to my own special parking space. Jeez! I microwave him a cup of my best organic instant coffee and then sit it down
in front of him. He is petting Herman, who I have found to be quite the little man-lover lately. I put my homosexual cat on the ground and tell Tac to drink his coffee. We sit in silence and I try not to go crazy wondering why Top Producing Tac from my office is sitting at my kitchen table at 9:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving night.

  There are a couple of things wrong with this picture.

  First of all, if Tac likes me, I mean really likes me, he’s kind of a two-timer. You see, I know for a fact, at least based on his comments and emails to me when I’m pretending to be Nala, Spiritual Yoga Blogger for my good friend Yoga Barbie, that he likes Nala too. Tac has been hitting on Nala ever since her/my awesome Feng Shui post a couple of months ago. Naturally, Nala—being me—has never been able to take him up on his advances. Okay, so his advances were merely coffee invitations, but still, I say he’s a player. And anyway, I figure he’s got some sexy spiritual diva image of what Nala looks like, so far be it from me to ruin his nasty little fantasy by showing up with my real estate name tag and surprising the heck out of him.

  If that darned Becky, our office receptionist, hadn’t been such a copy cat and insisted on doing yoga like me, she would have never found the blog I write on Yoga Barbie’s website. Even then, did she have to tell me and Tac what a great blog it was? I mean, I’m not going to toot my own standing bow by saying I can’t really blame Tac for being moved by my writing and wanting to instantly subscribe to it, because I’m not nearly that shallow of a person. But that’s exactly what happened.

  And now this.

  It’s equally important to note that Tac is completely self-absorbed, and even if I did happen to catch him picking up some random open-house signs a few days ago, I’m convinced it was all somehow staged. I remain kind of convinced that he knocked mine down out of spite over my almost million dollar listing. That’s how Tac is. You can’t trust someone who never has wrinkled clothes. That’s just not natural. Besides, I know I’ve caught him lying before, telling me he went to visit his grandmother in hospice when all the while he was running around Granite Bay, knocking down my open-house signs. I really cannot stand liars. Just because I don’t tell anyone about my secret role as Nala, Spiritual Blogger, doesn’t make me a liar. That is completely different and perfectly acceptable. In fact, we bloggers/writers call it a pseudonym, and it’s simply using a pen name. I can’t help it if Tac subscribes to my blog and finds my insights profoundly wise. After all, I’ve been a yogi 2.5 months now.

  After Tac finished his coffee, he looked like he’d sobered up a bit and almost seemed sheepish about suggesting a slumber party. He left, and left me wondering what in the heck just happened. On his way out, he said “Talk to you tomorrow.” So, does that mean that we still have a date for Black Friday? I lie in bed and wonder what I can possibly wear that makes me look ten years younger and ten pounds thinner. Then it dawns on me. I have no clue what someone a decade younger than me considers a date. What if he wants to go to Chuck E Cheese’s, for God’s sake? Or worse, a bar! A bar filled with twenty-something nymphets who have yet to discover the joys of cellulite and gray hair, wearing their stupid little size six dresses that should be worn as shirts? I am ready to call this entire relationship off before it starts. This is ridiculous. Me and Tac?

  Unable to sleep, I get up and start a blog post,

  How Important Is Age?

  I find it interesting when I see or hear a woman complain about her age. It seems that as a society, we accept a man who ages as being seasoned and more accomplished, yet women often feel less valuable. Less attractive. In reality the entire process from birth to death is a journey of self-discovery we all must embark upon, as gracefully as we are able. Embracing our internal and external beauty is the key, my friends. We are all amazing beings of light, here to share our good with the world.

  I have no idea where I get this stuff.

  Two days ago when I was eating like a somewhat normal person, my yoga pants fit just fine. Today after my two-day starvation diet, followed by six servings at my Thanksgiving smorgasbord, it hurts to bend over because my pants are so tight. I am sure the elastic in these things has shrunk even though I hang them to dry to avoid such possibilities. This really frustrates me. My yoga practice had me six pounds thinner and I am relatively sure I have put eleven of them back on. I realize this math does not work; it’s like I had to borrow fat to reach the equation. I know the extra vodka at night cannot be that fattening, especially since I stopped adding orange juice. Who knew OJ had so many empty calories?

  I head to the yoga studio, still pondering what I can possibly wear if Tac does indeed text me. Tac text. I already feel like I’m living in a Dr. Seuss story. Just when I’m deciding between my black elastic waist leggings with boots and a bed sheet (to hide my belly bulge), I step inside the studio to see the mean yoga teacher smiling wickedly.

  “How was your Thanksgiving?” she asks.

  “Just fine, and yours?” I am tempted to inquire about the taste of tofu turkey, but being a spiritual guru, I’m not that kind of person. Besides, I probably should act like that’s what I had too.

  “It was lovely. Just a gathering of appreciation.”

  This woman bothers me deeply.

  I find a vacant back corner to roll out my mat because I don’t really feeling like I’m up to sticking my downward dog in anyone’s face today. The class starts with breathing exercises. I am glad she is doing this, because quite frankly I think breathing is one of my weaknesses. In fact, that could really explain a lot. The tough teacher assumes her understanding instructor role, but I am on guard for the change at any moment. She tells us that we should breathe like we are snoring, except keep our mouths closed. I give it my best effort and the woman next to me shoots me a dirty look. Apparently my snore is not as spiritual as hers. Hmph. There is nothing worse than a yoga snob. I refuse to look at her the rest of the class and she acts as if it doesn’t bother her a bit.

  The instructor reminds me that I should turn my heel out in my Warrior Pose. She says a strong warrior’s feet are aligned. I tell her today, I feel more like a weak warrior. She ignores me, and I wonder how many warriors throughout the ages have actually looked down at their feet for alignment in the midst of battle.

  Most of my limbs are sore from today’s practice, however, I’m quite pleased with my yoga breathing. In fact, I am fairly certain I breathed the whole way home. That is, until I flop into my kitchen chair and hear my phone vibrate. Herman has jumped on the table, a habit I am trying to break him of because something about cat butt on pine doesn’t sound terribly appetizing. What would Bobby Flay say? I shoo him off (the cat, not Bobby) and he meows. I grab my phone and cork screw in one impressively swift yoga move and settle back in the chair. One must rest and renew after such a strenuous practice.

  The text is from Becky. Yes she’s the only real girlfriend I have, who just happens to also be the office receptionist. However, on this day, aka Black Friday, she’s just being nosy. The text she sends is asking me if Tac came to my mother’s for Thanksgiving as was originally the supposed plan. I find that I am slightly offended that she hasn’t checked in with me about other more important matters, like how much weight I have gained since last Tuesday, if I progressed in my yoga practice this week— or even more importantly— what I will wear on my date with Tac tonight. Oh! She doesn’t know. Hmm. Well, I’m sorry, but the idea of anyone, and I mean anyone, knowing about me having a date with someone who not only is a decade my junior, but also someone I openly dislike is out of the question. Becky will have to find her gossip elsewhere.

  I send her a short text back, trusting she’ll pick up on my curt response: “No.”

  Not being intuitive to human nature like I am, Becky is completely oblivious to my tone. She says back: “Oh, weird. Thought he was for sure.” I respond, once more (do I have to yell?): “No.” Finally she gets it and says: “Ok, well have a great weekend.” I’m sure she’ll be fine once she realizes that I have no intention of dating Tac or,
if I accidentally do, of admitting it.

  I set the phone down and pour myself a glass of wine, wondering if I should finish my blog post on youth or order pizza. I mean, it’s not like Tac is going to come around. He’s probably knocking down some other older agent’s sign, trying to weasel his way into...well, I have no idea what he actually wants. Maybe he’s after my database? At any rate, Herman is back on the table, and suddenly he jumps sky high. Either he’s eaten my phone or he’s sleeping on it.

  Tac? Text? Green eggs and ham? Oh, text I am.

  Okay. I compose myself, and suddenly realize that whole breath thing I thought I mastered must be back at the yoga studio. Crap. His text says: “How about dinner at my place?” I set the phone down, acting like I didn’t read it. Herman can see right through me, though. I guess dressing for an in-house dinner kind of narrows my wardrobe choices down. I wait for a minute, finishing my wine and wondering if I am half as stupid as I feel. If I giggle anytime soon, please shoot me.

  So, based on the few short texts we exchange, I guess I am supposed to read between the lines. I am driving myself over to Tac’s house at 6:00 p.m. This gives me just enough time to have a nervous breakdown. I mean, four hours and sixteen minutes seems to be about the right amount of time. Not that I am keeping track or anything. I try on 72 different outfits—we’re talking mix and match here—and do 17 Internet searches for why one might not want to date a younger man. Let alone, a younger man I can’t stand. At 5:45 p.m. I tell Herman that maybe he should stop me. He says nothing. I have black velvety pants on that are not too tight. But, I am sure in about an hour I will have that nice little strip all around my belly that makes me look like a Raggedy Ann doll sewn together at the waist. Not that anyone will see it, trust me. My plan is to not eat a bite so that I can keep my tummy sucked in for the evening. I am hoping I can hold my breath that long and that it is a rather short date. I mean, what is he thinking? I am not kissing Tac’s soft lips no matter what.