Authors: Daralyse Lyons
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Chapter Nine
I love teaching, but hate public speaking. Addressing a room full of kindergarteners is a hell of a lot different than presenting to a room full of my peers. Yet, I’ve agreed to give this talk about making education fun because I think it’s important and because my principal said, “pretty please,” when she asked me. I love teaching here at St. Sebastian Elementary School so I do my best to make myself an indispensable member of the faculty. Hence my impending PowerPoint presentation about making teaching fun. I recognize the irony of course that my teaching tools—a projector, podium, microphone, and pointer are inherently un-fun. But, I’ve got a few tricks up my proverbial sleeve.
I’m planning to dazzle the other teachers with my performance and I have a few audience participation games. I intend to make this interesting. You know what they say about plans… We plan, God laughs. Not that I’m religious, but there’s no parallel agnostic saying. Anyway, as I’m heading toward the podium, I trip on an AV cable and do a nosedive onto the stage. So much for poise. I bite my lip and my skirt goes flying up above my waist revealing not only London, but France as well. I’m mortified. I’m also limping ever so slightly when I stand up. Luckily, I have the presence of mind to make a joke.
“You all wanted to learn how to entertain. Well, they say ‘teach by example.’ So how’s that for a lesson in how to keep things interesting?” I smirk.
The crowd giggles appreciatively. But, my throbbing ankle and bleeding lip are going to make it impossible for me to stand and orate for the next hour.
Ronnie comes to my rescue. She heads up to the podium and, as my second in command, declares that she’ll be giving the presentation. I hobble off, opting to head home for the day rather than endure the humiliation of staying and watching Ronnie give my speech while my body throbs and my mind replays my humiliating nosedive over and over again.
Only, I don’t head home. I drive to Dunkin’s office, hobble into the building, greet Julia with a warm hello and ask if the doctor is in. Julia ushers me back to an exam room and a few minutes later Dunkin’s large frame appears in the doorway. He gives me a once-over, then steps into the room, shutting the door behind him.
“What happened to you?” he asks, kissing me gently on the forehead to avoid causing any further pain to my busted lip.
“I hurt my ankle,” I say lamely.
“Déjà vu,” he comments.
The first time we met, I sprained my ankle falling into a swimming pool. In case you haven’t noticed, I can be quite the klutz.
Dunkin takes my swollen ankle in his hand and tenderly prods at it while I wince. I start to cry in spite of myself, not because of the pain but because I feel so damned stupid.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Dunkin sits beside me and I curl into the solace of his embrace. I feel so safe in his arms and, also, like such a fool so much of the time.
Chapter Ten
“Let’s rent a movie. You know, so we keep our hands off each other tonight.”
Helen and John have agreed to give us another shot at watching Lindsay. Helen was reluctant, but John was adamant. We’re good with her and, in our defense, they never actually told us that sex was off-limits. And I think Helen realized that she was being a bit unreasonable. Besides, as Dunkin pointed out, Lindsay herself was a product of intercourse so it’s not like her parents should begrudge us our coitus. Of course, just before making his point, we’d watched an episode of
The Big Bang Theory
. Otherwise, I’d like to think that my boyfriend wouldn’t typically use words such as “coitus” to describe sex.
Anyway, as I was saying, Dunkin and I decided to stop at the video store on the way to our babysitting gig. The section of Mount Airy where I live is whimsically old-fashioned and has one of the last remaining video stores around. We go in, me still favoring my left ankle and limping slightly even though my fall occurred several days ago.
“C’mon Hobble-Along,” Dunkin jokes.
“As soon as my ankle heals, I’m gonna kick your ass,” I kid back, not meaning it but brandishing a fist good-naturedly.
“What movie do you wanna get?”
Dunkin immediately picks up a copy of
Basic Instinct
. “What do you think?”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“It’s an incredible movie.”
“Let’s get it,” I grab another case off the shelf—
Inspector Gadget
with Matthew Broderick and Rupert Everett about a crime-fighting detective who uses special gadget powers to combat evil. It’s cheesy, but, also reminiscent of my childhood and the cartoon from which the movie derived its premise. Can we get this one too? We’ll watch
Basic Instinct
tonight and
Inspector Gadget
tomorrow.”
“Done deal,” he says agreeably.
Lindsay is excited to see us when we get there—or as excited as a one-year-old can be. She smiles and squirms until I take her from her mother’s arms, then she nuzzles against my neck and coos softly into my ear. She smells of baby—soft and sweet, like the first snow of the season, like innocence, like heartbreak. I burrow against her.
The ice in Helen’s voice thaws considerably. “Isn’t that cute?” she remarks.
“I told you,” John says ushering his wife out the door. “Be good you two,” he admonishes.
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.