25 and Self-ish

Saturday

I close my eyes, bringing my knees into my chest as I sink to the bottom of the pool, the only body of water I can handle. The water feels cool on my skin and I can feel the bubbles freeing from my nostrils as I breathe out. How long can I hold my breath in this deep end? I begin to hear a sound coming from above, of something familiar but cannot make out the words. It’s getting louder and louder. It sounds like music. I push my feet off of the floor, aiming for the surface until I wake up. Oh, it’s just John Newman and my alarm. I look at the time. 8:00 AM. Are you kidding me? Why did I set an alarm for this early? Then I remember. Last night in my drunken state, I convinced Liza, the part-time yoga instructor, to teach a morning class. Bad idea. I shake Jilly and our roommate Dana to join me. In idle motion, shockingly they do and we prepare for bending and breakfast.

Eleven of us show up and find a small empty room downstairs. I detect scents of mold mixed with haunted house aromas but for this purpose, it will do. We stack the chairs against the walls before laying our towels down as mats. As I spread out my towel behind Jilly’s, a shadow casts over me. I look up and see a hungover, smiling, tan presence in tiny black shorts. As much as I hate him, I can’t help but laugh.

“Are you European now?” I ask.

“European? These are my gym shorts. You don’t like them?” he smiles.

“I mean… they show a lot for these... types of poses,” I acknowledge.

“I can move very well in them. Just wait and see,” he says.

“I’ll wait and see over here. You wait and see over there next to your girlfriend, in the front,” I point.

“No, I told you. You and me,” he signals.

“You and me nothing,” I stretch out my towel trying to take up more space than its size would allow.

He turns away from me, “Alex, is this place taken?”

“Yes, it is,” I respond for him.

“No, are you Alex? I didn’t think so,” he says.

He pulls my towel from under me to make room for his. We start out in Sukhasana and I feel him touching my thigh with the back of his hand.

“Stop it,” I whisper, “You do not exist to me,” I place my sunglasses over my eyes so we cannot make eye contact.

In tree pose, he starts to poke my sides so that I lose balance and fall over. Attempting to keep my shades from sliding off my face, I am determined to stand my ground, even while on one leg. I ask Jilly to switch with me and she waves me off in refusal. Each time we transition to the opposite position he faces me instead, winking while he twists his body.

“You are the worst,” I whisper, as he tries to hold my hand between transitions.

“I’m gunna make you love me, love me, say that you love me,” he whispers, “Know that song?” he asks while raising his eyebrows.

“Yes I do – shh,” this kid is crazy.

“That’s our song now,” he smiles.

“Shh, no. We don’t have a song,” I answer.

Minutes pass and he finally leaves me alone. I can’t help but notice how impressively flexible he is. Doesn’t matter anyway. We end the class with meditation and the lights turn off as the music enhances. She repeats a mantra and he takes hold of my hand in the dark. At first, I flinch to pull away and he holds the grip even tighter.

“Just enjoy it. I’m stronger than you anyway,” he whispers.

I exhale deeply while shaking my head. I ask the universe for guidance, and forgiveness, on how to allow myself to give in to this man. Despite the darkness, I feel his stare. With his grip still in mine, his hands feel distinctively soft for a man. Even though I feel that he doesn’t deserve my affection, I decide not to fight it, but to allow it. My hand feels comfort in his while I try to use this time to internally release my bitterness. The lights turn back on and we gather applause for our fellow group participant leading a successful class. As I stand up to fold my towel, he grabs my wrist, “Namaste princess, do you forgive me?” he asks. Although it is easier to hate him, something inside me doesn’t want to. I don’t know if it was this yoga session or my unrested sleep, but I have no more energy to waste on resenting him. I wave off, “Fine.” I carry my towel and make my way up the stairs, following the scent of breakfast.

He follows behind and sits at the other side of the table. After inhaling the buffet of food, I can’t help but feel like my food baby and I could use a nap. Jilly agrees and we decide to gather some fruit before returning upstairs. As I rise from my chair, Mr. GQ bends down to my ear and asks if we could talk later. I tell him I would think about it and return to my room. Jilly and I sit on the beds and I finally tell her everything that happened the night before. I ask her why my heart was hurting and why I was feeling so rebellious towards him. She convinces me that this is what girls do, and maybe he has an effect on me that no one else has had before. Fortunately, I’m not as crazy as I thought. The whole female population is, and with that universal diagnosis, I can sleep soundly.

We wake up in time for a mandatory group activity in the lobby. I skim the room and notice Mr. GQ is absent. When he arrives at lunch, his eyes flicker past me and I think he is respecting my decision to part. Keeping his distance three-table lengths from me, I start to wind down and the lunchroom empties out.

I’m happily picking apart my no-guilt chocolate rugelach as the chair pulls out from under my crossed, rested legs.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Out of all 250 chairs in this room this is the only chair you want to sit in?” he crosses my ankles and places them atop his knee.

“Yes, now we both win,” he smiles.

I squint, “He-he so funny. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” he says.

“Talk,” I continue.

“No, I want to talk to you alone. Can we go somewhere quiet?” he asks.

I look at Jilly and she looks back, “I’m not getting involved,” as she removes herself from the table. Thanks a lot Jill.

He strokes my leg, “Very smooth,” he notices.

“Lucky for you, if you tried that this time yesterday, it would have been a different texture, that’s for sure.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I’ve probably seen worse,” he lifts up his leg exposing his shin, “no competition here sweetheart. This is golden hair.”

Forgetting my earlier resilience, I burst into laughter.

“Come, I want to show you something,” he offers his hand.

Walking out of the meal room, I realize that it’s much more difficult to fight him, than not. Even though he gives me a mixed feeling of ease and fire, a part of me wants to break through the existing pit in my stomach and give him a chance. I don’t want to care about what happened last night. I want to go back to discovering his charm as I did before. But will my mind be able to let me cross that barrier?

Walking to the floor of his room, my heart picks up its pace and I struggle to define and separate my feelings. Rebellious against my wits, but nervous? Anxious that I am walking into a mistake but exhilarated that I am consciously making one? I want to deny all thoughts and get my mind out of the driver’s seat. I want to be the passenger, and let the moment happen naturally, without this mental rollercoaster.

Stepping into the corridor, we notice a few rooms across the way with the doors cracked open. Abandoned paint cans and brushes left at the end of the hall. No workers in sight. We walk to the second door and he knocks, “Hello? Anyone home?”

He slowly opens the door and steps inside. He signals me in, “Are you coming?”

“I feel like we aren’t supposed to be here,” I whisper.

“Isn’t that the fun of it?” he asks.

He pulls me in and closes the door behind. The room smells like a fresh coat of wet paint. In between the white walls, a large window exposes the birds on the trees. He rolls onto the bed and searches for music on his phone. He asks what music I like to listen to, but I don’t answer, assuming he wouldn’t have heard of it anyway. I ask him to surprise me with his one of his favorites. Shockingly, he picks one of mine, Kygo. He raises his hands in the air singing the lyrics, clearly craving his time to shine, which calms the undeniable tension. I stand next to the wall with my foot propped up until I realize the stencil of my sneaker indented the wet paint. Fack.

“I won’t bite today, just come sit with me,” he says.

A slower song comes on and he reaches out to take my hand, “If not that, will you have this dance with me?” he asks. My eyes answer yes.

He pulls me in close, swaying me from side to side, scooping me into the air...