23
“You’ve only been gone for one day, and I already don’t like it. Are you sure you don’t want to come back tonight instead of tomorrow?” Felicity asks as I drive us to the yoga studio the next morning. When Dan announced he had a late meeting on Monday, we’d changed to the Saturday morning class. Though it’s creating a lot of extra driving, I don’t mind. It feels like we should be going to yoga since it’s my day off and I didn’t have to scrub makeup off my face or change out of work clothes.
“Are you allowed to do yoga? Did you look it up?” I ask as I turn closer to the studio.
“Theo was heartbroken that you couldn’t read books with him last night.”
“Buti yoga is more strenuous. You need to look it up before we get there.” I tap her leg to gain her attention.
“Seriously, Brooke, I don’t know why you feel like you’re intruding on us. You are my family.”
I sigh, realizing she’s not going to drop her side of the conversation until I acknowledge her. “I miss story time at least three nights a week with work, and I’m glad you don’t feel like I’m in the way, but eventually you will. I’m not saying I’m moving out tomorrow or next week. I just want to give you guys some time so you’re not always having to consider me and my feelings.”
“Even when you’re not staying under the same roof as me, I think about you and your feelings. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Says the pregnant lady who won’t admit she’s pregnant.”
Felicity reaches out and smacks me in the arm, the solitaire on her wedding band scratching me.
“Have you called to make an appointment yet?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for? Contractions?”
Her blue gaze sits heavily on me, silently demanding that I shut up. “We don’t know it’s actually positive.”
“You took three pregnancy tests, and they all confirmed you were.”
“Those can be wrong.”
I stop at a red light, my windshield wipers filling the small space with a quiet swish, swish, swish as rain falls silently in long streaks. Felicity’s hands are knotted in her lap, her chin jutted forward. “Why are you so worried?” I ask, my tone changing with concern.
She turns to face me, her lids lined with tears. “I love Gemma and Theo so much. What if I don’t love this baby as much? What if they don’t love the baby? What if they feel like I’m trying to replace them? I won’t be able to give them my undivided attention anymore. I’ll have to share it.” She sucks in a deep breath. “And what if I want to be more? I love being their mom, but sometimes I feel like I lose my identity to being a parent. I’m no longer Felicity with the really stylish house and high-fashion clothing, rocker of every karaoke bar, now I’m mother of Gemma and Theo, who makes really good brownies and terrible cakes and sometimes forgets if her kids have eaten a vegetable all week.” Tears slide down her cheeks, which have grown red and blotchy as she’s listed off her concerns.
I reach forward, placing my hand atop hers. “You’re the best person I know. And it’s not selfish to want to have your own identity. I think it’s necessary. Hell, that’s why I’m doing this blog. I didn’t realize how much of my life had become about me and Gabe instead of just me. I forgot who I was and what I did and didn’t like. You deserve to have a life outside of being a mom—it’s necessary for your sanity. We can go to clubs, bars, yoga, whatever. Maybe it’s just coffee or a walk around the neighborhood if things are busy. It doesn’t matter. I think these fears are completely natural, but your kids freaking adore you and love you, and this baby will be no different. I know this is stressful, but I promise you you’re going to love this baby just as much as you do Theo and Gemma. And I vow to help with your sanity.”
“How do you know I’ll love this baby as much?”
“Because you had these same concerns when you got pregnant with Theo,” I remind her. “Now you can’t imagine your life without him.”
She sniffs, releasing a small laugh. “Truly. It just feels like he’s always been with us.”
I nod. “It will be like that with this baby, too.”
Felicity turns her hand around so we’re palm to palm, and she twines her fingers with mine. She doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t have to. Our connection is far deeper than words.
We pull up to the studio, and I tug at my Lycra pants. Working through meals and always being on the go helps to keep me trim, but age is reminding me I have to work harder these days, and my pants are highlighting that.
“Stop,” Felicity says, batting my hand away from my stomach.
“I don’t like these pants,” I tell her. “They hide less than a bikini.”
“You look great. Knock it off, or I’ll curse you with stretch marks and loose skin.” She grabs a small handful of her stomach. “If I’m not freaking out, you don’t get to freak out.”
“Why are we so hard on ourselves?”
“Because we’re women and everyone expects us to be perfect at everything.”
“After this, we should go eat a cupcake,” I tell her. “Screw expectations and these damn pants.”
“One? Let’s eat a dozen!”
“I can’t afford to eat my way into an entirely new wardrobe.”
Felicity laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ve got lots of pants with elastic waistbands in my closet. We can gain baby weight together.”
Inside, my thoughts of cupcakes and elastic pants fade as we’re greeted by a woman with frizzy curls and a smile that could be on billboards. “Welcome! How are you?”
“Hi!” Felicity smiles. “We’re here to try Buti yoga. My best friend is writing a blog about new experiences, and we’re both new to yoga.”
“A blog?” The woman cocks her head with question.
Felicity nods. “It’s called Tales of Being Single. You’ll have to check it out. You might be mentioned on it.”
Embarrassment colors my cheeks. “You won’t,” I interject. “I mean, I’ll write about the experience, but I don’t write about others. That would be an invasion of privacy,” I tell her, staring at Felicity.
“Sounds great. Let’s get you guys signed in.”
* * *
I sit at Grammy’s kitchen table with my laptop open. Grammy and her neighbor Barb went to get their hair done, leaving me a couple of hours to get some work done, except my mind is on everything but work. I pull open my blog and lean back in my chair, my hair still damp against my shoulders from my shower.
April 11
“Buti Yoga and the Yogis”
This week, my best friend accompanied me on another first: Buti yoga.
We realized we’d been failing at living as “cultured” women because neither of us had ever tried yoga—I joke. But really, yoga has been a source of exercise for the mind and body for centuries and has definitely become more mainstream over the past couple of decades, but neither of us had ever given it a shot. We chose to try Buti yoga after a friend referred it—the style, which really is pronounced like the body part, only made it more fun. Because of our lack of experience, I can’t compare this to other types of yoga, but I can tell you it was hard! Much harder than I’d expected. I thought we would leave feeling restful, and instead we were exhausted, sweaty messes. My booty (pun intended) is definitely going to be hurting tomorrow, along with my abs, every muscle in my arms and legs… I think even my fingers might hurt. However, pain aside, this experience was awesome, and we had a blast!
To start off, let me explain a bit about Buti yoga because I had no idea what it was initially. “Buti” means “hidden,” and the exercises are a combination of tribal dance, yoga, and primal movements (which we’ll get to in a moment and share a good laugh). It’s a fairly new style of yoga designed to seek health and happiness and free the mind.
When Felicity and I arrived, the studio was filled with women of all shapes and sizes, and the first thing I noticed was how welcoming everyone was. (Though the class is open to men and women, our class consisted of all women.) Everyone was super pumped to be there, which created an energy that was fun and contagious with lots of female pride! Rah, rah! Go, women! Which was perfect since this is my time to experience things as a single woman. No one minded that we were absolutely clueless when it came to the different poses and what they were called, and they laughed with us when we looked absolutely ridiculous—which we did. A lot! A LOT! There were hip thrusts and bouncing, straddling, and some moves that would remind you very much of sexual positions (these were the primal positions), which had my best friend—who has the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old boy—cracking up and whispering lots of crude jokes to me at the beginning of our yoga session.
The jokes waned as we continued, not only because we were exhausted—this is not for the faint of heart!—but also because the yoga became infectious. The music was fun and loud, and everyone was smiling and happy.
I’m considering going weekly because I had such a great time. Not only did it provide me with a vigorous workout, but the mood of this place was so overwhelmingly positive. I didn’t know anyone aside from Felicity, but I left feeling like they were my friends. My people. My tribe. Now, I might be second-guessing this decision when I wake up tomorrow and can’t move because my muscles are so sore, but I highly recommend you give Buti yoga a try.
Namaste,
Brooke
I upload a couple of photos I’d taken and add captions to them and then close my laptop and wander outside. The cement stairs are cool against my thighs as I take a seat, looking across the large yard. I’m distracted by the conversation Felicity and I had before yoga. I’m not certain if it’s her concerns or my confession of losing part of myself that has me restless and distracted, but whichever leaves me outside until Grammy returns, her white hair in large curls around her head.
“How are you doing, dear?” she asks, sitting next to me.
“It feels nice to be outside.”
She nods. “I planted some extra catnip this year in hopes of keeping the mosquitoes away so we can be outside all summer.”
I smile. Each year, catnip takes up a larger portion of the garden in an attempt to deter bugs. “Your hair looks nice.”
She lifts a hand, fluffing the strands. “It looks the same as it has for the past twenty years.”
It does. And though it seems crazy, it’s nice to have a constant even if it’s something as miniscule as my grandmother’s hairstyle.