KICK IT | JENLISA

9

Jennie

Pressure pulsed behind my eyes, another parting souvenir. I rolled my upper lip inward, scraping the skin between my teeth. It was for the best, but fuck, that stung. I would be fine. More time for yoga. Minor setback. Focus ahead, Jennie.

The sea of roadblocks and unmovable impasses ahead was a fitting reflection of my life's state. My truck rumbled in the rightmost lane of gridlocked traffic. It was blocked for... who the fuck knew. Maybe a snake crossing.

Vibrations rattled my phone on the dashboard, showing the studio's number. I reached up and pushed the accept button. "Hello?"

"Hi, Jennie." a smooth, and soothing woman's voice flowed out.

"Hey, Simi." Blaring horns ahead brought my eyes to the standstill parking lot. I could crawl faster. "I'm about twenty minutes out, so I'll make it."

"That's not what I'm calling about." Her sigh buzzed through the interior airspace. "Jennie, you're a good instructor. Well-prepared, eager, and time conscientious. Your evening therapy classes are a wonderful surprise addition. We've filled the waitlist for the duration of Fort Simmons' program."

At face value, her words were a compliment, but what she hadn't said made my shoulders slump. Simi buttered me up before slicing my toast in half, meaning an incoming favour request or news that I wouldn't receive well. Neither was preferable, given my current wallowing in a mud pit of melancholy. "That's good?" My chest sagged, rounding my upper back. "What's the but...?"

"But I need teachers, Jennie." she answered without hesitation.

Damn. Solid yoga burn. The care she wrapped around each word triggered the opposite reaction, pushing me face-first into melancholy mud. A lump swelled in my throat. "I... I'll try."

Fuck, I couldn't lose that too. It was more than a meagre pay check.

Relief lifted an airy breeze into her voice, "I know you will. We have a VIP guest in your class tonight, so please sign a non-disclosure agreement before you leave."

I crinkled my nose. What the fuck did that mean? "Sure."

"Wonderful. Take care, Jennie."

I puffed out my cheeks with a hot exhale. Easier said than done. Quitting adulting and curling under my bed's covers tempted me home. She confirmed what I feared: teacher, not instructor. Simi's request meant forming deeper connections with my class participants. As awesome as my personality was, I was still a social work-in-progress. Fuck, look who I lived with.

Using a steady breath, I reminded myself of the obvious: my plan wasn't ruined. Unlike Jackson, mine didn't involve working for a jerk-face so conceited that she employed a team of ass kissers, spearheaded by my brother, and founded a sham of a foundation to glorify her name.

Calm down and stop killing brain cells thinking about that self-indulgent, arrogant, ass... chest, lungs, belly, and breath...

Another nasal breath filtered my thoughts and slowed my racing heartbeats. Following my inner mantra, I pushed the in-breath lower until my stomach stretched. Leaning over, I curled my fingers around my closest companion and keeper of all my secrets. Lavender infused with tea tree oil teased my nose, and I inhaled my version of a junkie's next hit. The scents tingled through me, loosening the knots gripping my shoulders.

A car honk blared behind me. Traffic gridlocked around a sunburned, heavyset man in a neon vest holding a 'Caution' sign on a pole. I wanted a relationship that lasted as long as this damn construction.

Passing four men circling a burst pipe that one fixed, I groaned at sign man's smirk. The action slipped my sunglasses down my nose. I pushed them back up, squinting until the license plate ahead blurred. Lovely.

'A Wounded Warrior' bumper sticker shortened my breath. My heart blipped. I forced my gaze over the companion 'Brisket is my Spirit Animal' and sunlight reflecting off silver testicles dangling on the truck's hitch.

Double lovely.

Lamaze breaths, and a quarter mile of questionable rumble strip driving later, I idled two intersections from the studio. Puffing out a breath, I consulted my notebook for tonight's class, a dark blue version of my orange work counterpart. The Sanskrit letters for the dragon sequence blurred together.

I thumbed through the haphazard mix of scribbled class plans, inspirational quotes, mood song playlists, stress-relief confessionals, smudged corrections, stick-figure doodles, and dog-eared reminders. It was a mess of my shallowest and deepest thoughts, spiritual inspirations, and a more reliable memory recall device than my brain. The scrutiny I exerted planning my classes exceeded my OCD-like strive for perfection. Given feedback from Simi, now my only employer, a positive impression was critical. No pressure at all.

My most important class also withdrew its reimbursements from a finite grant account supplied by nearby Fort Simmons. I still had a yoga job, but what about the class members if funding wasn't renewed? Throbbed beats strained the space between my eyebrows. Giving up on class review, I searched for inspirational quotes. Blue moleskin depressed under my fingers at the perfect answer to Lisa Manoban's existence.

Yoga isn't about tightening your ass. It's about getting your head out of it. – Erik Balken

Another blaring horn jolted my spine. Shaking my head, rogue strands snagged my right helix and tugged my scalp. I pulled them free and tossed my notebook onto my passenger's seat with a flop. Lisa wouldn't last one class without a 'yoga is for pussies' comment or some sexist, misogynist bullshit. Would she fit on a mat? No, I didn't care.