3. Callie
CHAPTER 3
CALLIE
I ’m going to have to work some neck and shoulder stretches into today’s class, otherwise some of these women are going to be sore from turning their heads so often to check out the male specimen among us.
I can’t blame them. He’s definitely nice to look at, aside from his perpetually sour expression.
Is yoga class now being issued by court order? A punishment along the lines of unpaid community service? Because that’s the vibe this man’s face is communicating.
I improvise my class every day, based on who’s attending and what they seem to need. I’m intentionally keeping today on the easier side, though I want to keep the experienced yogis happy, too.
As soon as I direct everyone into a triangle pose, I immediately make my way toward the new guy, ready to assist him with blocks. It’s not an advanced position by any means, but his lack of flexibility will make it challenging.
“You want to aim for feeling grounded in this pose,” I tell him before I press down through his back hip. “Imagine your legs rooted in the earth.”
He responds with a grunt that’s more like a sarcastic snort. Certain types of men have certain opinions about yoga, but I choose to ignore my preconceived notions about him as I tilt a block on its side to support his hand.
“Don’t lock your knee. Keep a small bend there.”
His scowl deepens, and in this case, a frown turned upside down is not a smile.
“Rotate your ribs towards the ceiling. Point this arm straight up.” When he lifts his arm, I bring it into alignment, and that’s when his body weight shifts—hard—right toward me.
I take a step back, bend my knees, stretch my arms out, and do my best to break his fall, but I can’t keep his butt from landing right on the floor. “I’m so sorry.” Not wanting to draw attention to the situation, my apology is in hushed tones, but my effort is in vain.
Snickering laughter, louder this time, echoes around the room. They should be ashamed of themselves for laughing at his fall, but I understand the impulse. Men dominate most athletic arenas, and I’ve fought many times to get a piece of the action when I’ve been on teams with male ball hogs, so there is a perverse satisfaction in seeing a man struggle with something you’re good at.
I should have been able to prevent him from losing his balance, though.
“Not your fault,” he grunts out, but there’s nothing believable in his words.
“Why don’t you rest in a child’s pose?” I offer. From the look he gives me, you’d have thought I suggested he put on a diaper and suck on a pacifier. Stubbornly, he gets back up into the triangle pose, and though there are aspects of his form that I’d like to refine, I decide to cut my losses and move on.
I love yoga and find great satisfaction in helping others reap its benefits, but I’ve failed in that goal today. If I had any to spare, I’d bet money that this particular student won’t ever be back in one of my classes.
After teaching two more sessions at the health club, it’s time to go to my second job. On a good day, it’s only a ten-minute drive across my coastal town, from the health club, which is inland, to Big Daddy’s Sandwich Shop, near the pier. I have a few minutes to eat a granola bar and yogurt in my car before my shift starts.
Some days, I get to make sandwiches, but today, I’m on the register all through the lunch rush, and it makes the time go by quickly, even though I’m tired. By two p.m., I’m already daydreaming about how good it’s going to feel to crawl into my bed tonight.
“Here you go, ma’am. Your Big Italian Daddy Double, your Big Greek Daddy, two orders of chips, and two of Daddy’s favorite cookies.”
The customer giggles as she takes the bag from me. The silly names of the shop’s sandwiches used to make me laugh when I first started working here, especially since this particular shop, which is part of a regional chain, is owned by a lesbian couple. There are no daddies in sight.
During my break, I eat half of a West Coast Daddy (chicken and avocado on sourdough) and catch up on text messages, most of which are from my sister, Sadie.
“Did you get your shoes yet?” one reads. She also sent pictures of intricate updos. “Do you like any of these? Do you think my hair is long enough to pull this off?”
I ignore the shoe question for now, because the answer is no. Sadie’s wedding isn’t for a couple of weeks. I have plenty of time to buy a pair of nude-toned heels, and I need to wait for my next payday.
“I love the last pic. It has an effortless elegance to it.”
“Right?” Sadie types back immediately. “I think Mom would like it too. I asked Adam for his opinion, but he said they all look nice. No help at all.”
I smile at that. Sadie’s fiancé is an agreeable type, and he idolizes Sadie. He’d be perfectly happy if she decided to walk down the aisle with a shaved head.
Our mother, on the other hand, would fall over dead from the shock. Or disown Sadie. Or more likely, find some way to blame me for the disgrace.
I’ve heard that the youngest child is often spoiled and babied, but that’s not how it works with my mom. My big sister can do no wrong. Sadie has a great boyfriend, Sadie has a meaningful and well-paying job, Sadie’s about to have the perfect wedding … and then there’s me.
I’d be resentful of my sister if she weren’t such a wonderful person and my best friend.
“Has Mom called you yet today?”
I cringe as I take another bite of my sandwich. “No. What’s today’s crisis?”
“Something about place cards, and she’s getting stressed about the favors.”
“I told her I’ll be over on Saturday to work on those.”
“Just giving you a heads up. She seems to be even more tightly wound than usual today.”
“Don’t let her rub off on you. Just enjoy the preparations.”
My sister responds with a string of silly emojis that express just how challenging that is.
As I finish my sandwich, I debate the pros and cons of being proactive versus avoidant when dealing with my mother. I’ve tried both approaches, and each is stressful in its own way.
If I avoid talking to her, the prospect of an eventual phone call hangs over my head like a dark cloud. When I take the initiative and contact her, I’m hit with a barrage of worries and concerns about the wedding. No matter how much Sadie reassures her that everything is on track and under control, my mother won’t rest.
She would have been like this no matter who Sadie was marrying, but the fact that Adam and his father have money has put pressure on her to plan an impressive event. I haven’t met Mr. Hargrove yet, since he got called out of town and couldn’t attend the engagement party last year, but I wouldn’t be surprised if his attitude toward the wedding is every bit as unbothered as his son’s, even if he is footing most of the bill.
Meanwhile, my mom is very bothered.
While I’m still deciding whether or not to contact her, my phone vibrates, and I don’t have to look to know who’s calling.