"That was fucking humiliating," I said to Marie. I'd called her as soon as I'd dried my eyes in privacy of my own home. I refused to sob into a cell phone in public. Also, this way I could lie in bed with the covers over my head while I spoke from my cozy cave.
She sighed. I knew Marie so well, even her sighs were comforting. "It does sound pretty raunchy. But at least he was interested. Right?"
I felt a tiny glimmer of hope and quashed it. "Maybe he's just 'interested' in anything with tits." I pressed the blanket against my face and pretended to smother myself.
"Or maybe he'd like to get witcha, but your stupid studio really does have that rule. Can you go somewhere else for yoga so you're not his client anymore?"
"Hadn't thought of that." I switched the phone to my other ear. "But I think it's more likely his way out when saggy older women hit on him. I've seen them giving him their cards. He has to have an exit line."
"Saggy. Are you looking for pity points? You know you're tight. You've got curves. And a brain. You're a triple threat."
I sighed. Tight was relative. I could've ended up all delicate wrists and ankles like my Chinese grandmother, but instead I got my mother's hips and thighs. Bosc pears got nothin' on me. Only yoga kept the jiggle in check. "I deserve pity points. I just mortified myself hitting on my yoga instructor!"
"So what? He hit back. You got game. Just give it to someone who's less of a company wuss." Her tone changed. "Donnes-moi deux petites secondes," she said to someone else at work.
"I guess. I know you have to go." Her mild tough love approach was working. At least I poked my head out from beneath the covers and breathed the cooler air. My own private sauna.
She lowered her voice. "I hate to leave you like this."
"No, go. Go earn your big bucks."
She laughed to herself. "Thanks. Later."
"Love you. 'Bye." I hung up and climbed out of bed immediately, because otherwise, my rose bamboo-cotton sheets would claim me all day and night.
I knew I should be "good." I'd missed my yoga practice, so I should do it at home. One wallow in chocolate and alcohol was mandatory, but more than a half-dozen would be counterproductive.
I still had my List.
I walked to the living room and slid the piece of paper out of my day planner. I crossed off Ben's name with a permanent black marker, blotting it out until the marker soaked through the card stock and the marker fumes made me light-headed.
And I moved on to List man number two, which required considerably less humiliation.
I went on-line and loaded up yogatoday.com, my favorite site of free sample yoga classes, but I brought up a second tab for my email.
I'd started with Ben because I thought the stakes were lower. But maybe that was the wrong approach. I hardly knew the guy beyond his hard body, and now I might have to find another yoga studio and waste my monthly membership.
My second man in command was the opposite. He was my first love.
Also, I had no idea where he was, so #2 required research. No face time. No humiliation required.
I brought up another tab for Facebook and started searching for one Mr. Connor Solberg.
You could call it a crush, but the first time I fell in love, I was wearing a Cotton Ginny sweatshirt big enough for two. I tried to force my relaxed hair into a casual flip. However, I eschewed the stirrup pants and acid wash jeans because even at the tender age of 13, I knew those items would be on the out list soon. The stirrup pants bagged at the knees as soon as you walked out of the store, and the acid wash just looked crazy terrible to my eyes. Yes, dear reader, we're talking the late 1980's, and I'd already found twue wuv.
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When Oona's husband asks for an open marriage, she kicks him to the curb and makes a list. A list of the guys not taken. The first guy she really loved. The guy who morphed into Dr. McDreamy. And the smokin' yoga teacher with abs of titanium. The Li...