Melissa pats her caramel highlighted curls which perfectly fan out around her chartreuse fleece ear warner. It’s unquestionably more expensive than the shitty Amazon purchased one I jammed on my head this morning. She is clearly uncomfortable. It wasn’t intentional on my part- to make her uneasy, but that’s also a part of me so ingrained that I don’t know how to abandon it at this point.
That’s not true.
I don’t want to. My desire to push is complicated but mostly driven from a place of pure pleasure seeking. The high is too delicious to resist temptation. Some call it a personality quirk of mine, and this pleases me, though I’m not sure this is the most accurate description.
Or perhaps it is, but one that’s mostly unappreciated and certainly, undesirable- like people who laugh at inappropriate moments or overshare trauma to near strangers.
It’s not like I go around boasting my authenticity to others and condemning them for their false narratives and facades, and still, that’s ultimately where this road leads. I push to uncover a truth that someone is so clearly hiding. I know it’s not my secret to uncover and still, I persist.
Melissa wipes her hands on her running tights, sweaty palms in this frigid weather further evidence of her discomfort, but her eyes blaze with something I faintly recognize as resistance. She is the queen bee of this group, and she’s not going to let me, a newcomer, unseat her in any way, no matter my objective likeability.
I told Steph that I’d cover her coffee, but she felt bad because she forgot her phone and wallet last time, so she stopped home quickly. We are waiting outside A Perfect Cuppa and my crew is in various stages of disrobing, still cooling down from our run.
I don’t proclaim to know any better than anyone, but the second my body temperature begins to regulate, I’ll be angry if I stripped off my hat or running mittens in some post-exercise, perimenopausal huff, so I just keep everything on, swiping at my upper lip or brow every so often to remove a newly formed bead of sweat.
Meliss, I say, I love your nails- always so chic.
She smiles, tightly, because while she doesn’t know me all that well, she knows enough to know this is a brambly olive branch. I’m offering a kindness, but I haven’t lost sight of our discussion, and I certainly haven’t lost interest in getting to the bottom of it all.
Thanks, she says, holding her dark brown nails up for the group to see.
She shifts on her feet, and I take a moment to absorb the full picture. A quick glance, like a Chuck Close painting, gives the impression of a solid group. Women, all at a similar age (hard to say what that is, but a passerby might guess late 30s or so, thanks entirely to our dedication to exercise and Botox), all clearly just finishing a workout, and bodies held close. A stranger might remark that it’s the kind of familiarity that comes with time and pervasive contact. There are similarities, someone might think, but I know that’s mostly untrue.
I’m an outsider.
Single. Living in an apartment. Childless, save five gorgeous house plants. I prefer old, oversized concert T-shirts to proper fitness attire, and I’m wholly subscribed to a more liberal leaning view of the world. I don’t belong to any neighborhood chat groups, and I think Dunkin Donuts is swill. I obsess over my body like the next gal, but I’ve never owned a scale and I don’t intend to jumpstart that toxic habit in my mid-forties.
Still, I enjoy their company. I like the funny stories they tell about their spouses and the way they fiercely protect their offspring. I enjoy their gossip about people I don’t know and likely, never will. Mostly, I’m aware that I’ve developed a taste for the sound of their labored breath next to me as we run through quiet, asphalt covered suburbia. I like the patter of sneaker clad feet, outside of my own. I never felt lonely running alone and now, on occasion, I do.
Yet I’m starkly aware of the differences and where I normally work to dull those ill-fitting edges, I’m abandoning those efforts in favor of something that feels more pressing.
I’m itching to return to the original discussion, despite all evidence that I should move away from it and preserve this pseudo peace. I’m not, peaceful. Not really. There is something inside of me that itches for conflict if it means getting to the bottom of bullshit.
Well, I say, looking around the circle, knowing exactly what I’m doing, if you come to Sandi’s class, you’ll see what I’m talking about- the real reason why people keep coming back for more.
Melissa meets my gaze and while I wouldn’t call her expression stony, it’s pretty damn close. Instead of deterring me, this spurs me on.
Meliss, I say, a lightness in my voice that belies my intention, you know it’s true. You know Sandi’s class is filled to the brim at 5:50 AM on a Monday because she’s hot as fuck, and not because she’s the best yoga teacher in the world.
I see Melissa’s jaw set and the look of determination that passes over her face almost heels me, but it doesn’t. I’ve been to this place before, and while it frightened me as a younger woman, it doesn’t now. I’ve been through too much. I’ve had others lie to me, too much. I’ve bullshitted others, too much. And so, I don’t give a fuck if she’s getting pissed.
This is ridiculous. Why pretend? Why the bold exterior and pretense about sex if you’re just going to be an uptight, dishonest prude?
That’s harsh, I’m aware, but this feels like something bigger. This feels symptomatic of the real problem. The pearl clutching horseshit that seems to be dismantling our society and democracy with great regularity right now.
Better to just be honest. Better to just say the thing than pretend. The pretending is exhausting and counterproductive. For me, anyway.
None of this makes any sense, anyway. You don’t have to be a lesbian to objectively appreciate a beautiful woman. Unless, of course, it’s the kind of beautiful Sandi is and that’s what is leading to this short circuiting I’m witnessing. Sandi is wild beauty. Unpredictable beauty. Beauty that feels intimidating and uncontrollable. Beauty that’s the furthest thing from tame and generic.
I’m not sure it would be different if Sandi were a blonde with a love of matching Alo sets. She’s not. She has a full head of jet black, unmanageable curls littered with threads of silver, which she jams under a bright orange beanie, and thin wrists that boast significant stacks of tarnishing silver bracelets. Anyway, I feel like it would be different, mildly if not entirely.
I like the way she teaches, Melissa says, through gritted teeth.
I laugh. I can’t help it. This is so insane. I should stop.
I don’t want to.
The more Melissa digs in, the more I want to spar.
Me too, I say, humor in my voice. I also love her husky voice and the way she isn’t afraid to demonstrate with her sweaty, tattooed body on someone else’s mat, and the Brazilian dance songs she stacks on her Spotify playlists.
I pause, just for a moment.
Do you follow her on Spotify? I ask, already knowing the answer.
Hey.
I look around for the source of the greeting and see Steph jogging over to us from the corner, cheeks pink and Coach wallet in hand.
I feel irritated at this interruption but know it’s likely for the best.
For me.
For Melissa.
For the group.
For preserving the peace.
We all get coffee and then begin the slower journey to our respective homes. We drop everyone else and then, it’s just me, Katie, and Melissa. We arrive at my building first. I half hug Katie, clutching a cup of hot coffee in my right hand and then lean forward to do the same with Melissa. I can feel the resistance in her posture, but it doesn’t stop me. Why would it?
It’s fine, I whisper in her ear, your secret is safe with me.
I lean back and wink, undeterred by the murderous rage on her pretty face.
Have a beautiful day, girls.
Smiling, I disappear into my building.
x
L.
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