“Late night,” I decide. Which I regret, because today, I have one meeting I actually fucking care about.
“Broo-tahl,” he says. That’s his word for everything, a variation on the pronunciation of “brutal.” How is your new team? “Broo-tahl.” How is your day? “Broo-tahl.” Tripp once appeared on an episode of NYC Elite, a reality show, where in his one minute on screen, he says “Broo-tahl” three times. During the other fifty-five seconds, Tripp manages to kiss his brother’s girlfriend on national TV at some club in the Hamptons. Sometimes he replays this clip—volume on—at the pod and makes a score fist when he kisses her. Like, Yeah That’s me.
Tripp is the one I get along with best on the floor. We clicked early, ever since he raised his hand during a presentation on Anderson’s principles at new-banker training and asked about the Wi-Fi because “Snapchat isn’t working.” We’ve endured this banking torture side by side for two years now, and he’s basically my fraternity brother, hazed by the same 24/7 onslaught of ridiculous bullshit.
Tripp tries to chat, but today, I ignore him. Our conversations get stupid fast, and I need to focus. Yesterday Tripp swore he could “own” me at every sport, and for the rest of the afternoon while we worked, I named a series of different sports, and he responded just with: “Own.” Soccer? “Own.” Football? “Own.” Basketball? “Are you even serious? Own.” I can’t get sucked back into that shit. My life is a garbage fire. Tripp asks me what it’s like to be the blond April Ludgate, and I roll my eyes.
“April,” he says, “play nice.”
“I’m working,” I say.
“You sleep last night?” he asks.
Yeah, around.
“A bit,” I say.
“Broo-tahl.”
Typing hides silence. Most of the work I do here is mindless and could even be automated within the next ten years. Does Anderson really need thinking, feeling, self-aware human beings to make these fucking tables? How about no. Today, my to-do list is brainless enough that I can beat myself up while being productive. I mean, what the fuck? How is this my real, actual life?
I send an order for a dozen stock price charts to India—analysts outsource as many graphs as possible to an unsung group in Bangalore. Those usually come back in need of resizing, different axes, or something that sucks the life out of me like a dementor, but those are problems for Future Allegra. I fix other bullshit, drink three cups of black coffee, and will time to pass until it’s 10:55 a.m. Finally, I grab my phone on my way to the lobby. My heart rate just outpaces the steady buzzing of new emails. I switch alerts to silent and zigzag through oncoming waves of suits toward the revolving-door exit. Time to meet her.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I fidget nervously by the Shake Shack next to Anderson. I’m sure I was on time ten minutes ago, but maybe real yogis don’t think about time the same way us corporate people do. Is she coming?
I am waiting for Skylar Smith, a thirty-something yogi with 200K followers on her expertly curated Instagram. I’ve followed her account for years. Like those of most InstaYogis, her feed is mostly pictures of herself in yoga poses. Her gallery began as a series of yoga flow videos she made in her own kitchen. She wore socks and taped herself by propping her phone against her sneaker.
I found her account before she got famous while browsing by hashtag #yoga. She only had a few thousand followers back then, and they were apparently all dudes asking for some more of that cow pose. It was yoga obscurity, but I really liked her feed. She posted every night after work—she held odd jobs as a waitress, a temp, a personal trainer, and so on. In her captions, she wrote about her personal life or some yoga philosophy she was thinking about. I looked forward to her posts every day because she was relatable and real. She seemed like a normal, working person who acknowledged that life is tough but that yoga helped her. And she was self-taught, like me.
A couple of her videos went viral and, now, the yoga world watches her flows. It helped that Skylar is a beautiful blonde. Still, I think she deserves every bit of recognition she’s had. It makes me happy to see someone with a good heart work the system.
Like all big InstaYogis, she models for high-end yoga clothing brands. This is paradoxical, but whatever. The Yoga Sutras, an authoritative yoga text, says we should strive for aparigraha, or “non-possessiveness.” That means do not covet worldly goods. So, like, aparigraha and let go of everything—except these fucking leggings, ladies. And this strappy-ass sports bra, because purple is in. Not that I judge, of course. I just had sex with my boss and direct-deposit checks from the birthplace of capitalism.
Advertising aside, her content still resonates. She seems as sweet and dedicated to her practice as always, just with a bigger platform. She posts twice a day, morning and night, and I still look forward to her pictures. Sometimes, when I’m in a sour mood, I write off her posts as stupidly precious, like, Oh really, you’re just so happy—but most of the time, she reminds me there’s a better life out there somewhere.
American Yoga’s annual national competition brought us together. There was an article about past winners just published in Mindfulness magazine, probably to promote the next championship. There still aren’t many entrants, because a lot of people think a “yoga competition” is an oxymoron. In any case, I was named among the winners as “the Anderson Shaw Yogi,” and the blurb about me said I was from Princeton, New Jersey, won the gold two years ago, and now worked at Anderson Shaw. Beside this were two photos of my finalist poses. Skylar emailed my work address last week and attached the piece. It was the single best thing ever to happen in that inbox.
She wrote:
Allegra,
I’m writing to introduce myself. My name is Skylar Smith (about me: @SkylarSmithYoga).
I just read “The Anderson Shaw Yogi” and wanted to pass on a brief message.
I teach my students that we are here to love and everything else is secondary. So to practice what I preach, I am reaching out.
I saw your photos in Mindfulness and really admire your skills and energy. : ) You show the balance and joy I aspire to teach every day. You are so grounded in your body, in a practice celebrating the beautiful human spirit.
Please keep doing what you love! It inspires people you don’t even know. You are good.
If ever you want to connect or flow, I am here.
Warmly,
Skylar
So here we are, now, on the brink of a lifestyle collision.
Or did I get seriously yoga punk’d?
I putz around her Instagram, even though I know it extremely well. In her latest post, she holds her back leg up in Lord of the Dance pose as the rising sun peeks through the keyhole of her raised hand. The Sanskrit tattoo on her visible ribs—ananda, for “utter bliss”—sparkles in the exact center of the picture. She’s fucking beaming, as always. Meanwhile, I tell three separate lunch groups in business casual, Sorry, I’m saving this seat Hey, I heard that. There are actually lots of open seats outside, and it’s a pretty nice day for al fresco. Yeah, fuck you, too.
“Hi!”
Skylar.
“Hi,” I say.
Skylar sits across from me and crosses her nimble legs Indian style. She smiles easily and looks so friendly that I instantly relax. In person, she projects an energy every bit as nice as it appears on Instagram. Some people really are—what’s the word—happy? Sometimes I forget those people exist.
She wears a long-sleeve white thermal tee and lavender yoga pants. She interlaces her fingers on the table, drawing attention to her toned arms, shoulders, and core that alluringly suggest a lifestyle of movement. Her face is even more stunning in real life, which I should have expected from a public figure. She rocked a pixie haircut last year, the ultimate test of an attractive face. Now, her thick blond hair has grown out below her shoulders. Her slight tan makes her blue eyes sparkle. I return her smile. Behind her, dark suits zoom through the tenth item on their to-do list: Eat.
“Thank you so much for making th
e time,” she says. “You must be so busy.”
She gestures at the throng of speed walkers. I recognize one of the girls booking it back to the office as the Wharton grad known for handing out business cards that said STUDENT at senior-year networking events when she was just a freshman.
“Thank you for making the trip,” I say.
From your two-bedroom in the East Village. She posts photos and videos from her living room fairly often. It has light-yellow walls and a beige sofa that looks insanely comfortable. Her last post from home had the caption: “Love yourself. Love other people. Love your world. Give and receive love freely. Love knows no bounds.” I liked it while I was in line at Starbucks.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Really great right now,” I say. “How are you?”
“Wonderful,” she says.
I actually believe her, unlike all the falsely positive assholes I work with. Skylar and I continue to smile at each other. There is so much enthusiasm—I can feel the energy—and yet not a single word flows between us.
But now where do we go from here? I already know everything about her. From her “What I Eat in a Day” YouTube video, I know she wakes up at 4 a.m., eats vegan, and makes fake ice cream by freezing mashed bananas. I know she takes all of her own pictures for Instagram, with the exception of a long stretch taken by her photographer boyfriend, Jordan, until they broke up a few months ago. Skylar’s peppy younger sister, Rosie, and mom regularly appear in her photos. Their family brims with love.
“I’m a huge fan,” I admit.
“Same!” she says.
“Wow,” I say earnestly. “That is extremely flattering.”
I’ve also bought Skylar’s videos. She sells thirty-minute yoga classes online, and each is a flow sequence inspired by a theme, like acceptance or friendship. I bought a five-pack of her classes for fifty dollars after she emailed me and watched half of one on the subway to work. I wanted to finish it, but I lost service underground and when I resurfaced, I got assigned to an emergency leveraged buyout that required me to stay up for forty-eight hours straight. I cried at my desk, not because I was sad, but because I had stared at the screen for so long by the end that I stopped blinking regularly and my eyes needed to moisten themselves.
“I loved your thirty-minute flow on forgiveness,” I say.
The first fifteen minutes were the best.
“Thank you so much,” she says.
“Are you teaching nearby today?” I ask.
“No, I’m just here to meet you!” she says. “Then private lessons this afternoon.”
“Wow,” I say. “You are living my dream.”
I force a laugh, but I’m sincere.
“What’s it like on the other side?” I ask.
She laughs as if I’m kidding and changes the subject.
“So, the article in Mindfulness was a bit short,” she says. “It says you work here, of course, but not much else, I’m afraid.”
“Right,” I say. I guess celebrities apologize for not knowing someone they meet for the first time. “I mean, when you work at Anderson, that’s about all there is to you. So, you know more than you think.”
“Anderson Shaw and yoga,” she says. “Such a crazy combination.”
A yin-and-yang symbol decorated the page next to my profile, suggesting harmony between the two poles of my background. I remember rolling my eyes when I saw it.
“I mean, whatever you combine Anderson with, that’s always going to be a tough mix,” I say. “Because Anderson is like a forest fire.”
She looks confused.
“Meaning, it wrecks everything in its path,” I say.
“I see,” she says without conviction, as if she doesn’t really see. “Honestly, I just want to emphasize, like I wrote in my email, how much respect I have for you. Your practice is so beautiful. Those poses at American Yoga. . . . You made them look easy.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you have a mentor or teacher help you in particular?” she asks.
“I’m mostly self-taught,” I say.
She brightens.
“Good for you,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m looking forward to practicing more next year.”
“Now is always the perfect time,” she says.
I smile. “Right,” I say. “Will do.”
She scrunches her brow. “That’s not an order!”
“Oh, I know,” I say. “Sorry. Bad habit. It’s how I talk at work. And I work a lot, so sometimes the lines blur.” I make squiggly lines with my hands.
“Sure, life ebbs and flows,” she excuses me.
“Yeah,” I agree hesitantly.
“So, what changes are in store for you next year?” she asks.
“Um.” I stutter.
I’ve never put my plan out into the world out loud.
“I’m going to quit my job, once I save up enough money. Then training,” I manage. “Then teaching.”
That’s vague as shit.
“Oh!” she says. “Amazing. Which studio?”
Skylar gazes at me, radiating kindness, and I realize that this is my chance to share my dreams with someone who would really understand. And this person is Skylar. It’s surreal. A pain throbs suddenly in my shoulders, and I tilt my head sharply to the side to crack my cervical vertebrae in three loud pops. I massage my neck. My back and shoulders are stiff from sleeping on Mark’s fucking bed. Every time he moved, I jerked awake.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Skylar looks concerned.
“Yeah it’s just . . .”
I slept with my boss last night.
I trail off to avoid the confession and avert my eyes. In the Shake Shack line, I spy the analyst so meticulous that she tweezes her legs instead of shaving them. She asked everyone with a private equity firm offer what their compensation package was last year. I notice our table shake from my jittering knee and grab my kneecap.
“You seem a bit tense,” she says gently.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
The momentary escape that Skylar provided from my daily life is fading, and my mind resumes its normal state: despair. Who knows what HR nightmare this whole Mark disaster could create. And that’s not even the biggest problem in the broader scheme of my imploding life. I have no job to jump to, but I will quit this one in two months. I want to make a living in a career that values aparigraha. The person I vibe most with at work—Tripp—has “I am kind of a big deal” written in white font in his email signature and acts perpetually concussed. Now, I sit across from a complete stranger and yoga celebrity, and I feel like she gets me and has the answers to my life. I am off the deep end.
“Allegra?” she asks.
“Hm?” I reply.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
I should just tell her. She’s shared so much of herself with her fans, the least I can do is be honest when I’m having a meltdown in front of her. My gut says I can be me. Not the frat part that talks to Tripp in grunts and “bitchtits.” Not the part that replies to M&A Google Alerts from Dad. Not the dried-to-a-raisin bitch sliver of me that croaks, Yes, more, to the most illogical stream of bullshit imaginable at work. They say, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.” Well, here Skylar fucking is.
“Whatever you’re going through,” she suggests, “it’s weighing on you.”
“I know.”
Fuck.
“You can share it with me,” she says.
“Well . . .” I say. “Okay.”
She leans back an inch, surprised by my assertive tone.
“Sorry,” I say. I’m abrasive. “I know your time is valuable, so I’ll just say it. I’m in a transition. After this, I know I want to teach. I want to build a life around teaching yoga. I used to practice every day, and read the sutras, and I took care of my body. I had real relationships at the yoga studio at home. Then I got swept up in American Yoga. I had this intense coach,
yada, yada, and now this. I will quit when my contract expires. Things snowballed, but . . .”
I pause and breathe.
“I don’t know—there’s way too much backstory for me to tell you everything, but I just fucked this guy last night, and turns out he’s my boss,” I say. “And it wasn’t just some normal, lights-off, done-this-a-thousand-times kind of sex. This was, like, memorable. It was all flexible and stuff. And, totally separate issue, I’m under a lot of pressure from my dad. I just feel responsible for his happiness. Like, I’m not just choosing for me, I’m choosing for us. And I don’t know how this happened, but I go to work every day and everything that Anderson values—money, power, speed—is not part of the yoga life, the life I actually want. Also, my body is just shit. Just absolute shit. My upper arms are water balloons. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Skylar looks stunned.
“Fuck,” I say. “God, I’m so sorry.” I point at my mouth. “Mouth.”
“Okay,” she says. Her tone suggests: Slow down. “What I’m hearing you say is that you lost your yoga way a bit.” Pause. I can’t tell if she’s talking at a normal pace or much slower than average. “Do you still practice?”
“Well, mostly no. But that’s only because I work a hundred hours a week.”
* * *
Skylar had no idea how a bank works, so I started there. I told her that as an analyst, I was at the piss-bottom of the banking hierarchy. I actually said “piss-bottom,” which, for once, didn’t sound entirely right or natural. (How am I ever going to be a yoga teacher if I can’t even stop cursing in front of my fucking icon?) The next rung up: associate, then vice president, and, at the top, managing director.
An associate reviews analyst work and then sends the deck to the VP for comments. The comment-and-revision loop can continue for weeks before the presentation is ready for an MD to see. Long comment cycles—waiting on call at the desk for feedback, incorporating it in a “turn,” and then repeating ad nauseam—partly explain the hours. And, of course, the all-nighters. I told her that junior bankers are basically not supposed to have hobbies, personal lives, or souls. The less you have going on outside of work, the more the upper levels like you. After a first-year broke up with his girlfriend for the sake of the job—over text, at his desk—I watched an MD literally pat him on the back. “Life is a series of trade-offs,” the MD said.
Breathe In, Cash Out Page 3