Authors: Kate Bishop
Rebound.com said I was in the “What did I do wrong?” phase, studying every photo album and begging Tripp’s picture to reconsider. Pathetic didn’t begin to cover it; especially since I’d gotten only one e-mail. It said, “Alex, we both need time and space. Love, Tripp.” Inspired by a four hundred-dollar wine, I’d written back page upon scathing page, but heard nothing in return.
Finally, I realized that no one was going to rescue me from this clichéd unraveling. I needed to get my bearings again, and that wasn’t going to happen in Marin where everything reminded me of Tripp. My mom would have known what to do, but it was growing harder and harder to contact her with each passing day.
Jenny called as I backed down the driveway. She was inviting me to Sunday brunch at the dog park with her friends. It was a sweet gesture, but being around women in yoga pants and Tiffany jewelry just reminded me of how much I didn’t fit in here. So I thanked her and said that I needed to do a few things in the city.
“Time to get some groceries and get on with my life,” I tried to joke.
“But, Alex, why go to the city for that? Whole Foods is two seconds from your house. And the new Whole Foods is only three blocks from that one.” Jenny was confused. Aside from their various yoga pilgrimages, she and her friends rarely found reason to leave Marin. And why would they? It was perfect, after all. Everything I had ever dreamed.
I coughed. I needed some air. And chocolate. Without signaling, I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot.
“You know, Jenny, I just
love
the farmer’s market at the Embarcadero, and honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was there. Also,” I stalled for impact, “I think I need to go somewhere that doesn’t remind me of Tripp.” I hoped this would let me off the hook.
She paused, then whispered, “Okay.” The line was quiet, as if her dogs were listening, too. Suddenly, she brightened again. “Hey, while you’re down there, why don’t you check out the Yoga Garden? Everyone is so excited for you to try Galen’s class!”
Everyone?
“Jenny, that’s really sweet. But I think I’m going to stick to the farmer’s market. Say hi to the—” I stopped myself. I’d come up with a name for this strange new breed of fancy pants yoga devotees: “yogarillas.” But I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Jenny would appreciate it. “I mean, say hi to your friends for me.”
“Alex, they are your friends now, too. We’re your
kula.
That means community. And we’re ready to embrace you!”
“Okay,” I said, except it came out sounding like a question. “Hey, Jenny . . . ” I hesitated. “Do you and Tucker do yoga together?”
“Tuck and I? Sure!” She answered with enthusiasm then must have reconsidered. “I mean, when we can.” Silence. “Sorry, Alex.”
Ugh. Would I forever be ‘Sorry Alex’?
“It’s okay, Jenny. I’ll grab that schedule,” I said, trying to make her feel better.
***
For once, I was right. The city was definitely what I needed. And aside from my mocha exploding all over me, the ride in was heaven. I’d put the top down in the Starbucks parking lot, and the wind over the Golden Gate Bridge was invigorating. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring a hair tie, so my hair whipped around quite a bit. Still, I felt sure the effect was impressive, wild, and cinematic. I could practically hear the shutters clicking. After parking, I threw my shoulders back and sauntered over to the lot attendant, determined to find some remnants of self-confidence.
“Here you go.” Attempting my best Haley, I did an irresistible hair flip and held out the keys to my car. The name on his tag read “Zac.” He was cute-ish in an awkward kind of way, but I did not like the way he was looking at me. Clearly, he did not think I was irresistible.
“What?” I demanded. Zac’s mouth hung open. “What
is
it?” Indignant, I sought my reflection in the attendant booth’s door. What stood before me was nothing short of horrifying, with hair twisted into snakes on end, and a large, brown circle of mocha seeping outward from crotch to knees. Apparently, I wasn’t successful at mopping it up. I looked like a prison or psych ward escapee.
In an attempt to salvage some dignity, I tried another hair flip and said, “Surely you’ve spilled your coffee before.” But poor Zac looked at me wordlessly, eyes wide with fear (or revulsion). Mortified, I placed my oversized tote in front the spill, shoved a wad of cash into his hand and stomped off. I had become a freak.
“Ma’am?” Zac shouted in my direction. I walked faster. “Ma’am?” I heard him running after me and reluctantly turned to face him. “I need your keys.”
“Oh. Here.” I trudged back, abandoning any pretense of being smooth, or cinematic, for that matter.
I emerged onto the street hiding behind my tote and scanned for a clothing store. I didn’t care what it was. I would just buy a new pair of pants, wash my hands, and forget that any of this happened. I looked up the street. There was a store one block up.
Yes!
But as I got closer, I read the sign: ‘ZEAL.’ Seriously? ZEAL was the nation’s largest and most successful yoga outfitter. I felt like I was being hunted.
I stopped directly outside the large glass doors. It was huge and well-stocked, and the only hope of pants in a block’s radius. Brightly colored tanks, jog bras, and Lycra pants decorated an army of manikins. Inside, I found a salesperson with a body uncannily similar to the manufactured models. She was young and enthusiastic, and her nametag said ‘Tammy.’
“Hi there! Let’s get you started. First, I need your name and your bust size.” She had a clipboard.
“Would you mind if I used your bathroom first?” I was so not ready to be giving out my sizes. I actually wasn’t sure what they were anymore.
“Oh, sure! Right back there to the left. I’ll just start assembling some things for you based on your coloring.”
“You don’t need to do that. I just need pair of pants.”
“Fun! New pants. We just got our fall line in.” She smiled, all of her blinding white teeth showing. Was everyone who did yoga on some sort of aphrodisiac? I remembered Tessa’s Kombucha and shuddered.
In the bathroom, I washed my hands and glanced in the mirror. My normally olive skin looked grey, so I splashed some water on my face, then turned to grab a towel. There, above the towel dispenser, was Lauren. A poster-sized version of pornographic Gumby with a caption that read, “Embody your dreams.” I felt my mocha threatening to resurface. Make a run for it? Yes, run. I pushed my way out of the bathroom and headed straight for the door. Peppy Tammy cut me off, holding up some shirts.
“This one will really bring out your eyes, and it’s great for inversions because it won’t ride up. And it will really hoist your chest.” Hadn’t I asked for pants?
“Does my chest need hoisting?” I glanced down. Why was I even entertaining this conversation? Looking up, I saw that Lauren’s image was everywhere. Now, I felt dizzy. I sat down on a big cube directly behind me.
“Everyone’s chest needs hoisting.” Tammy giggled. “Wait, though, I have one more.” She pulled the last tank from behind her back. “Ta-da! This one’s made of vorlon. You can sweat, and it won’t get wet. It actually stays dry and prevents you from sweating. It’s like antiperspirant for your entire body!”
“Is that even healthy?” I asked, but Tammy was too busy grabbing my hand and dragging me to a dressing room decorated with rainbows and bubble letters that spelled my name. Before I knew it, I was locked in.
“Tammy,” I tried. “I don’t do yoga.” She didn’t answer.
I sat on the bench in the dressing room, looking from my own clothes to the new clothes, then back to my own again. I looked like hell. Stained sweats, orange clogs, and Tripp’s old college tee. What had happened to me? Fine, I would buy a yoga top. Then I could get out of here. I chose the chest-hoisting tank and a pair of very tight black pants. I turned to the mirror and tried to smooth my hair. Not too bad, actually. The top was cut low enough to be slightly sexy, but high enough to keep everything in. I tried on the “wrap” Tammy had snuck into my pile and stepped out of the dressing room. She was waiting right beyond the door. When she saw me, she slapped her hands on her cheeks and gasped.
“You look amazing! So much better!” She continued to admire me. “Are you on your way to class right now? Where do you practice?” She started writing something on her clipboard.
“Practice what?”
“Yoga, silly. What are you into? Bikram, Ashtanga, Iyengar, Kundalini, Vinyasa, Anusara, Bhakti, Yin—”
I had to interrupt her. “I told you. I don’t.”
“What? Why?” She stopped writing, looking confused and almost hurt.
“I don’t know. It’s not for me.” I kept my mouth shut about the fact that yoga had:
a) brainwashed my husband and ruined my life,
b) overtaken my family’s living room exactly when “Dawson’s Creek” reruns were on after school,
c) most definitely seemed like some sort of cult, and
d) required a size two frame and D-cup breasts, according to Tripp’s
Yoga Journal
.
“But, Alex, yoga is for everyone.” She looked at me sympathetically. I was one-eared Billy again. How did I end up in here?
“I’m not sure I agree with you, Tammy.” I felt myself heating up. I looked around, hoping there was another customer to interrupt us.
“Have you tried it?”
“Not really,” I started.
“Then how do you know it’s not for you?” She was so pleasant. I couldn’t fight with this woman if I tried. Why were all these yoga people so calm? It wasn’t natural.
“Listen, I appreciate your help. But if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to pay.”
Tammy stood looking at me for another long second, then smiled. “Of course.”
We moved to the register. I pulled each tag from the wrap, tank, and pants, and handed them to her. As she rang me up, I tried to keep my eyes on the counter, but I couldn’t do it. I sensed Lauren there, looming above me, and had to look. There were at least twenty images of her, blown up to terrifying proportions. I could barely breathe. My cheeks burned. Tammy must have noticed.
“That’s Lauren Gates.” She smiled even more brightly. “I’m sure even you have heard of her. Isn’t she beautiful? She is truly the most inspiring teacher I have ever practiced with.” She looked just like Tripp as she said this. Was Tammy in love with Lauren too?
I pulled out my wallet, needing a diversion, a reason to look down. “What’s so inspiring about her?” Did I really just ask that question? Yes, please torture me, Tammy. Tell me all about how amazing my husband’s girlfriend is.
“It’s just her whole being. She’s so connected. I mean, you just know that you’re in the presence of someone who’s connected to her light.” I felt sick again.
“Isn’t she in Atlanta?” I was having a hard time keeping my voice steady, not to mention my hands.
“Oh, no. She does retreats all over the country. I think her home is in Kauai, but she’s almost never there. I guess her home is everywhere.” Tammy shrugged gleefully. “She’s actually coming here in a few months.” Okay, now I was going to vomit. I brought my focus back to the counter. It was covered with cheesy sayings.
Trust your truth. Find your inner light and shine. Open to your potential. Friends are more important than money.
“Okay, that will be $694.40.” She winked at me. “You got lucky. The wrap was on sale.”
That woke me up. “I’m sorry. I just wanted the tank, the wrap, and the pants.” I was sure there had been some sort of mistake. A skimpy tank, some tights, and a scarf? Louise’s lockdown on my bank account meant I was essentially broke. The Amex was still working, but I knew it was just a matter of time.
“Right. The tank was $140, and normally the wraps are $305, but you got it for $295 and the pants are $205. And then there’s tax.” She said it like I should know this, that yoga is not only the most annoying phenomenon in the world, it is also the most expensive. I thought of Tripp’s trillion dollar fortieth birthday mat bought just a few months before. Back then, I hadn’t noticed or cared. In fact, I had loved that I could do it—buy something outrageously expensive without hesitation. Now I wasn’t sure what horrified me more: who I had become, or the price of these clothes.
“I’ll just take the tank and the pants,” I said weakly.
I took off the wrap and handed it back to her, feeling an instant chill. Tammy appraised me, surveying the fit. “You’re going to be cold out there. Want me to grab your clothes from the dressing room?”
Tripp’s t-shirt. The one I’d worn in his hotel room our first night together. The one he had insisted I wear every night after that. The one he said made me look insanely sexy. I wanted to run back and get it, to feel its soft, worn fabric between my fingers and against my cheek. Then I saw Lauren, gazing down at me.
“Toss ‘em,” I shouted. Tammy recoiled slightly, but quickly regained her cherubic giddiness.
“Well, okay, then. Have a great day. Oh, and here’s a Yoga Garden brochure just in case. Galen is fantastic, and Lauren does her San Francisco workshops there.” She handed me a piece of cardboard with Lotus Flowers all over it. “And this is a pamphlet on the benefits of yoga. Psychological and physical. Just in case.” She beamed at me. I walked to the door, leaving Tripp’s t-shirt, and Lauren, behind.
***
Outside it was cool but sunny. And despite all the talk about yoga and Lauren, I did feel slightly liberated, almost like I was skinny-dipping. For a minute, I worried my new outfit was too skimpy, but standing there on the bustling sidewalk, I realized no one cared. I surrendered to the current of pedestrians and let myself be carried toward the square. It was bright and welcoming like the outdoor markets of my childhood. Nostalgia washed over me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if things could have been different for Tripp and me. Not if I’d caved and done yoga, but if we had gotten married on the farm, if I hadn’t been so intent on running away.
I stepped off the curb to cross the four-lane boulevard. Halfway across, I was lost in thought, somewhere between Sisters and Marin, when a woman shrieked from behind me, “Watch out!” A loud honk and swoosh of air nearly knocked me off my feet. I leapt back onto the median as a bus barreled past, nearly taking off my nose. An advertisement printed across its entire height and length read: “You’re in SF: GOT YOGA?”