Without sounding ungrateful, I must say that I strenuously object to your reward system. Such a quick email etiquette violation fix is at the very least a solid five, I believe. Also, I’m a bit at a disadvantage here, don’t you think? If I knew I was being graded I would have been on my best behavior from the start.
Tell me something, how does one get points in Anna’s world aside from being a Tolkien fan?
You asked about Little Shit. Are we getting personal, Anna? Do I get to ask you questions if I tell you about Little Shit?
Little Shit, aka Benjamin, is a good friend with whom I lost touch due to demanding work life and adulting in general. I know, lame excuse. But what can I say, life happened.
I think I’ll stick to Little Shit, suits him better. Well, Little Shit is in Yemen for the next couple of months, posting with Doctors Without Borders. Anything else you want to know about Little Shit, don’t hesitate to ask.
Talk soon,
Liam
“It’s not a walk of shame if you run.”
I put the phone back in my bag, close the office door and jog to the grey studio.
“Close your eyes. Place one hand above your chest, the other on your navel.” I do what I tell the class. “Breathe in through your nose,” I say in a gentle voice. “Expand your belly fully on each inhale.”
The room is softly lit by the few candles scattered around, a hint of lavender scenting the room via the air diffuser, but I have a harder time than usual getting into the zone. You can say that at this moment I’m not exactly practicing what I preach. I inhale and exhale, eyes closed, but I can’t seem to completely tune out the voices in my head. Worries about getting approved for the loan, worries about Ms. Rotfield not waiting for me to come up with the money, worries about if I can even manage it all if I do get the loan, poke at me. Another thought barges in out of the ever-loving blue, just how much I like the sound of the name Liam.
“Let’s get into child pose,” I say and turn to kneel, slowly leaning my chest to the matt. I glance at the class just to make sure everyone is in the right pose. “Close your eyes, take a nice, deep breath in.” We remain in this position for four cycles of breaths. “Let’s move into down dog.” I jump to my feet and correct a couple of people, making sure pelvises are in the right positions and backs are straight. “Take a deep inhale and lower into a plank.”
We finish off with a couple of deep breaths sitting in a crossed leg position.
“Good lesson,” Mark, a new-ish client says. He trades looks between me and the people filing out of the room, seeming to wait for something.
I smile at him. “Thanks.” And blow out the candles. I turn to collect some of the abandoned mats. Most are cleaned and put away by the clients. But there are always exceptions. I spray the mats with cleansing essential oil, taking a lungful as I do. I love the scent. A spicy aroma that smells like cloves, citrus and fall baking. As I clean the mats before stowing them away, Mark takes a few steps closer to me. I raise my brows in question.
“So,” he clears his throat. “Do you want to grab a coffee, now, or maybe some other time?” When I frown in surprise, he murmurs, “Or tea.”
I’m caught a little off guard. In my defense, I didn’t get that vibe from him. Actually, I was sure Mark was more into the testosterone-producing gender. What with the time he spends checking himself out in the mirror instead of eyeballing his fellow female yogis in their skin-tight attires.
“Oh, thanks. But I already have plans.” I don’t elaborate or leave an opening for a rain check. It’ll never happen. I’ll never date a client. Don’t tryst where you teach and all.
“Some other time, maybe?” He adjusts his messenger bag.
I just smile. “See you on Thursday?” I say in a nice dismissing tone.
Thankfully, he gets the hint and nods with a smile. “Thursday, Anna.”
Checking my watch, I haste to drape on a long, soft pink cardigan over my grey yoga attire. Luckily, I don’t have to lock up today because there’s another lesson taking place in the smaller studio by one of the other instructors. We don’t get to see each other much, my colleagues and I, as there is at least a 10 minutes gap between lessons so as to not have an overcrowded changing room. I shove my phone, keys, and water bottle in my bag next and shrug it across my body. I speed-walk en route to my car and drive to my mom’s office where lunch, family, and comfort await me.
The bell above the door chimes as I open the door to my mom’s quaint office. I take the deepest lungful of air, breathing in the incredible sent of burned wood and cinnamon, mom’s office trademark scent. The moment I step in, my worries melt away. I adore and admire my mom. She’s my inspiration and role model. She’s home. Hell, she’s my Oprah! Both mine and Victoria’s. Equally the notion of visiting with her and this place wraps me up in comfort no other place can.
Mom is a Hygge consultant. With her Danish origins and incredible sense of style, she’s an interior design consultant basing her methods and designs on the Hygge concept. Someone once said that Hygge can’t be translated, it needs to be felt. I can stand behind that. In English the term has no literal translation, making it almost impossible to pinpoint exactly what Hygge means. But if we leave romanticizing aside and go down to pragmatics, Hygge is by and large a mood of coziness and comfort with feelings of contentment. And boy has mom Hygged the heck out of her place. When you step in your first urge is to grab a throw blanket and snuggle . . . for days.
Imagine, if you will, a ski chalet with wooden furniture, a fireplace, cashmere blankets, a furry rug, and the scent of gingerbread cookies and apple cider cooking on the stove. Both mom’s office and my apartment, styled by mom, instill the same feeling. Utter Hygge.
I shriek, startled when someone pushes the door open, blocking my attempt to close it. Victoria’s blond head pops in the doorway, followed by a smart skirt-suit as the rest of her materializes.
“Bean, that you?” Mom’s voice calls from the little kitchenette at the back.
“Winnie and Bean!” Victoria calls back, bumping her hip with mine as she passes by me. My mom says that when Victoria was born she looked like a long, pinkish wiener. I was a preemie baby born at 34 weeks so, you guessed it, I looked like a bean. Henceforth, Beanie and Winnie. Victoria sort of kept the wiener look, what with her tall, lithe figure. As for me, let’s just say that beans don’t usually sport six-pack abs and a healthy bosom.
I toss my bag on the cozy sofa, taking in the scent of freshly baked apple cake, and my mouth waters. “What’s up, Chicken?” I ask Victoria’s tight, no single loose hair, ballerina bun.
She throws me a wicked grin over her shoulder. “I’ve officially stepped into the dark side, baby.”
I send my hand to grab my sister’s elbow, “No Vic, you didn’t.”
She nods, smile intact.
“When? You . . . That’s the real reason you stayed behind!” I say, referring to Victoria finding a lame excuse to stay at Poison after I left.
“He asked me if I wanted to go for a walk after you guys left. We sort of went on a very, very long evening stroll.”