Fifty is the New F-Word

by Margaret Lashley

  “Really weird,” Cold Cuts concurred. “And rude, I think.... I mean, did he just insult us?”

  “Well, he did say hard-bodied. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Cold Cuts smirked. “Fair enough. And the grubs?”

  I thought about Brad and Monty. “Well, compared to the other folks around here, that isn’t too off the mark.”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “Maybe you’re right. But it’s still weird as crap.”

  I shrugged in agreement. “Why does everything weird always happen to me?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Cold Cuts said.

  “Yeah. Lucky me.” I took a step toward the cabana bar. “I am sooo ready for that drink.”

  Chapter Seven

  Even paradise had fleas.

  I was at an awesomely cool cabana bar on the beach with a friend. The day was gorgeous, the drinks were free, and all I could think about was something that had been bugging me since Cold Cuts and I had first arrived at the resort. I’d vowed not to let it bother me, but like that lone mosquito buzzing around your face in the dark, it’s always the little things that get to you in the end. A couple of shots of tequila erased what was left of my resolve to keep my trap shut. That darn Jose Cuervo always had a way of loosening my lips.

  “That guy thought we were married...er...I mean, that we were getting married,” I said to Cold Cuts from my barstool. I caught the bartender’s eye. “Another round, please.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cold Cuts asked, and twirled on her barstool to face me. Clothed in a sort-of ratty t-shirt and stretchy workout pants, my young friend looked sexier than I felt in my nice jeans and turquois, button-down blouse.

  “At the reception desk. Monty. He congratulated me on our impending nuptials.”

  “Yeah. I heard. So what?”

  “What do you think he meant? You don’t think Tom was planning on springing a wedding on me while we’re here, do you?”

  Cold Cuts choked on her margarita. “You make it sound like a bad thing. I mean, aren’t you already engaged?”

  I frowned. “Yeah. It’s just that –”

  “Relax, Val. I think you’re reading way too much into it. That guy Monty’s a screw-up. He can’t even get our room right. He probably got you mixed up with someone else.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Probably. But the real question is, why are you so scared of getting married?”

  I took a long draw on my second margarita. “No. The real question is, why aren’t you?”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “You know how I feel about this already, Val. I don’t see marriage as the ‘til death-sentence do we part’ kind a deal like you do. It’s more like, I dunno, a consensual merging of two lives. I mean, people come into your life for a reason, you know. When that reason is over, it’s time for them to go.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good and all. But what if you’re ready for them to go, but they don’t want to?”

  Cold Cuts grinned like a cute little Yoda. “Well, that’s kind of the best part. The way I see it, that can’t happen. Our thoughts and feelings – they’re like magnets, Val. They attract people and experiences to us, or repel them away. When it comes down to it, we’re the ones who decide what’s gonna happen in our lives.”

  “Yeah, you’ve told me that before,” I said, suddenly feeling a lot more sober than I wanted to. “But it’s hard to believe. I mean, I don’t want to be responsible for attracting all the crap that’s happened in my life.”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “What crap? There is no crap, Val. Every experience has value. If we’re smart, we use the painful stuff to point us in a new direction. You know, toward something better – something we want more.”

  “This is all too much after two margaritas.” I sucked my margarita glass dry with a loud slurp.

  “Well, how about looking at it this way,” Cold Cuts said. “If you could live your life over again, what would you change? Just keep in mind, every alteration would also change who you are right now.”

  My thoughts swam around the idea like a fly in a martini.

  “So?” Cold Cuts repeated. “What would you change?”

  I hiccoughed. “Can I ask for no cellulite?”

  Cold Cuts laughed and made a buzzer sound. “Eeennnkk. Irrelevant, Val. You are not defined by your cellulite.”

  “Tell that to Vogue.”

  “I’m not talking about your body. I’m talking about your essence, Val. Your soul. Whatever you want to call it. If you could, would you want to be someone different than who you are now?”

  The waiter set a fresh margarita in front of me. I eyed it, then turned to Cold Cuts.

  “It might be the margaritas talking, but I guess I’d say ‘no.’ The crap I’ve been through...well, it’s made me realize I’m one tough old gal.”

  “How so?” Cold Cuts asked, and licked a bit of salt from the rim of her glass.

  “I dunno. Even if I can’t count on other people, I know I can count on me, no matter what. I’ve pulled myself up by my bootstraps enough times to know that, if nothing else. So, if it’s like you say, that my experiences made me who I am...I guess I’d have to say ‘no,’ I wouldn’t change a thing. Not a darn thing.”

  Cold Cuts stopped sipping her margarita and shot me a huge grin. “Good. Because I wouldn’t either. I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

  “Who are you? Mr. Darcy reincarnated?”

  Cold Cuts crinkled her nose? “Who’s Mr. Darcy?”

  I sighed. “Never mind.”

  “All I’m saying, Val, is believe what you just told me. Believe that you are who you are right now because that’s who you choose to be. Relax. Trust yourself. Whatever you decide – about Tom or even what to eat for dinner tonight – it’s all good. It’s all part of the plan. So lighten up. Enjoy yourself!”

  I stared in amazement at the cute, brunette Buddha on a barstool. “Geeze. I wish I had your confidence when I was your age.”

  Cold Cuts tipped her head. “Thanks.”

  “I wish I had your thighs right now.”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “I’m happy with who I am, Val. But if I was you, I’d be just as happy.”

  I shook my head. “How is that possible?”

  “Because it isn’t the shape of your thighs or the thickness of your wallet that determines your happiness,” Cold Cuts said. “No matter where you are or who you’re with, happiness is a choice. I choose to be happy. And I think you do too, in your own weirdly wonderful way.”

  “All right already.” I climbed off my barstool and wobbled to standing. “Before you make me cry or bust a blood vessel in my brain, I’m gonna go check to see if the room is ready.”

  “Okay,” Cold Cuts said. “Hug first.” She hopped off her barstool and hugged me tight.

  “You’ll be okay on your own?” I asked.

  “Sure. Don’t you worry about me.” Cold Cuts glanced across the bar at a cute guy. “I’ll figure out something to do until you get back.”

  MONTY DIDN’T LOOK TOO thrilled to see me.

  “I’m sorry ma...uh...miss,” he said, his British accent seeming to fail him for a moment. He quickly plastered over the crack in his thin veneer of hospitality. “There’s been a slight...um...delay.”

  “You’re kidding.” Two and a half margaritas in my bloodstream – and the news of no bed to lie down on – suddenly made me desperate for a nap.

  Monty looked down at his computer and punched some buttons. “I assure you, Ms. Fremden, your room will be ready soon.” He reached over the registration desk and slid a couple of plastic, credit-card-looking things toward me. “Please, enjoy these free passes to the fitness and spa facilities. A relaxation yoga class is beginning in the Pagoda Room in fifteen minutes. I highly recommend it.”

  “Excuse me, Monty,” I crabbed. “Do I look like I need relaxation yoga?”

  “Why of course not, miss!”

  Uh huh. It’s official. Monty is a big, fat liar.

&n
bsp; I FOUND COLD CUTS SITTING alone on her stool, her back to the otherwise empty cabana bar. She was facing the beach, but her eyes were closed. The late afternoon sun illuminated her serene, young face with touches of warm pink. The salty breeze tousled her short, brown hair. The only sounds were the surf and a distant seagull cry. The scene was so perfect, it stopped me in my tracks. Loathe to disturb it, I took a faltering step back and stubbed my heel on a coconut.

  “Ouch!”

  Cold Cuts stirred from her picture-postcard vignette. “Hey.”

  “What happened to the hot guy?” I said sheepishly. “I figured you’d be under a beach umbrella making out by now.”

  Cold Cuts shrugged. “Married.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s strike two, I’m afraid. Our room’s still not ready. But I got these as a consolation prize.” I dumped the two cards on the bar. “Spa passes. There’s a yoga class starting in like...ten minutes.”

  Cold Cuts smiled good-naturedly. “Oh. That’s okay. Hey, it’s not like we’re in a big hurry. Let’s try the yoga class. What the heck.”

  “Sure,” I groused. “Nothing like doing yoga half lit. In jeans.”

  “Those look like stretch jeans. Am I right?”

  I raised a disgruntled eyebrow. “And your point is?”

  “Uh...they stretch?”

  I scowled. “They’re not that stretchy.”

  “Oh come on.” Cold Cuts hopped off her bar stool and tugged on my arm. Begrudgingly, I followed her away from free drinks at the tiki bar toward a place I’d pay good money not to visit.

  “This is supposed to be a vacation,” I groused.

  “A little yoga never hurt anybody.”

  “Well, there’s always a first time.”

  I was tipsy and sleepy and pouting like a spoiled brat when Cold Cuts finally figured out where the Pagoda Room was. When we went inside, the room was empty.

  I smiled. “Oh, too bad. Let’s go.”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “Don’t be so grouchy. If nobody shows by 4 p.m. on the dot, I promise we’ll go. Deal?”

  I sighed in lieu of an answer. Cold Cuts leaned against a wall and began stretching her legs. I flopped into a folding chair by the door and watched the second hand sweep around the clock four times with the anticipation of a death-row inmate on execution day. At three seconds to 4 p.m., I shot Cold Cuts a snotty victory grin, stood up and reached for the doorknob. As if by some demonic force, it turned on its own.

  The door flew open. The man standing there looked almost as startled as I did. “Ladies,” he said, “Welcome to Relaxation Yoga with Guru Bill.”

  Dressed in off-white, loose-fitting linen pants and a matching, sack-like, long-sleeved shirt, the slender man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. But it was hard to tell. His entire face, with the exception of his nose, eyes and forehead, were covered in thick, dark-brown hair. Even the toes of his bare feet sprouted an impressive patch of hair. Given his long beard and the thick mane of hair that flowed past his shoulders, I might have mistaken him for Jesus – if I’d been hopped up on Nyquil.

  “Are you fit enough for this?” our savior of the yoga mat asked me. “Your face is flushed.”

  “She’s fit enough,” Cold Cuts vouched. “It’s not high blood pressure. It’s tequila.”

  “Oh. In that case, let’s get started,” Bill said without so much as a wayward blink. “Everyone grab a yoga mat.”

  I walked over and tugged a thin, rubbery mat from a pile in the corner. It was curled up like a purple cinnamon roll and smelled like old gym socks. The tacky way it stuck to itself as I unrolled it made my skin crawl.

  Guru Bill smiled serenely. “Now, lay down on your mats.”

  Ugh. Thankfully, the tequila had loosened me up. I lay down, feeling like a kindergartener at nap time. Bill sat cross-legged on the floor and began to chant. I started to doze off. Hey, this isn’t so bad....

  “The first posture is called downward dog,” Bill said, startling me out of my semi-conscious daze. “Roll over on your stomachs.”

  I opened my eyes. Guru Bill had fashioned his thick head of hair into a man-bun the size of a small planet. He’d also taken off his shirt, revealing a thin, surprisingly hairless torso. A pair of gold rings hung from his small, brown nipples, making me wonder if he might have a side job as a human curtain-rod holder.

  “Oh. I forgot the music,” he said.

  To my amazement, he rose to his feet, straight up from his cross-legged position, like some ethereal entity. As he walked over to a boom box, I turned my head and whispered to Cold Cuts.

  “Look at that. Nipple piercings!”

  She grinned back at me coyly. “I kinda like ‘em.”

  “Are you nuts? What’s up with your generation?”

  “What’s up with yours?” Cold Cuts’ eyebrows knitted together, her face more curious than judgmental. “What’s so wrong with tattoos and piercings? It’s not like you take your body with you when you go.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that.”

  “Ahem,” Guru Bill said.

  We looked up to find Bill staring at us blankly. “Ladies, yoga is all about mind-body connection and flow,” he said. “Talking anchors you within your head and keeps you out of the flow. Silence, please. Let me return us to flow.”

  Bill sat down on the mat and folded his legs again like a Buddha statue. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and belted out a reverberating, “Oooohhhmmmm” sound that he kept up for what seemed like five minutes.

  I whispered to Cold Cuts during his one-note opera, “That doesn’t count as talking?” I glanced at Bill. He was shutting one slightly peeved eye.

  That concluded the relaxation part of the class. For the next thirty minutes, Bill the masochist guru had us contorting our bodies into triangles, pretzels and crescent shapes. Shockingly, I’d survived everything he’d thrown at us until he instructed us stand against the wall, bend at the waist and hang our heads. When I did, a strange sensation crawled along my crotch and up my backside.

  Oh crap! My jeans had run out of stretch and ripped halfway up my butt. Thankfully, from my position against a wall, this could remain, for the moment, my little secret.

  “Now we will conclude with shavasina,” Guru Bill said. “Lay on your backs on your mats.”

  The last thing I remembered was Bill rubbing a stick around the rim of a metal bowl. Then Cold Cuts shook my shoulder.

  “Class is over, Val. Wake up.”

  “Huh?” I lifted myself onto an elbow and wiped drool from the corner of my mouth. “Must have been the margaritas.” A cool breeze behind me reminded me I’d split my jeans. “I think I’ll just lay here a minute.”

  “You okay?” Cold Cuts asked.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Many people find deep release with yoga,” Bill said, his linen-covered form suddenly appearing over me like a hairy-faced ghost. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “Uh...thanks,” I replied.

  He knelt beside me and handed me a business card. “If you’re interested in a personal consultation while you’re here, I’m available on an appointment basis.”

  I held the card up to my bleary eyes. “Bill Robo. Ka’ Manawa Nalaya Personal Yoga Instruction and Massage. What does Ka’ Manawa Nalaya mean?” I asked.

  “I completed my yoga training in Hawaii.”

  “Which island?” Cold Cuts asked.

  “Uh...the big one,” he said, and stood up.

  “Uh huh,” I said. “Mind if I just lay here another minute?”

  “Not at all,” Bill said, and turned his attention to Cold Cuts. “Here. A card for you as well, Darling Faun. Just so you know, I make cottage calls.”

  Cold Cuts took the card. I noticed his hand linger on hers and their eyes lock. “Call me,” I heard him whisper. Then he folded his hands as if in prayer, bowed at me and padded barefoot out of the room.

  “Come on, Darling Faun,” I sneered. “Let’s go see if our room is ready.” I hauled myself to stan
ding.

  “You don’t think he’s kinda cute?” Cold Cuts asked as she rolled up her mat.

  “Didn’t you see his card? Ka’ Manawa Nalaya? Give me a break!”

  “What?”

  “Come on, I wanna lay ya?”

  “Oh.” Cold Cuts burst out laughing. “Well, you gotta give him points for originality.”

  “How can you say that? The guy’s a fraud!”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No offense, but I’m pretty sure I saw him on the side of the road last week holding a sign that read, ‘Will work for mushrooms.’”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “You did not!”

  “Pretty sure,” I said, and bent over to roll up my yoga mat.

  “Uh, Val, your pants are split.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that fact. And I need you to cover for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we leave, stay close behind me. So nobody can see. Okay?”

  Cold Cuts grinned. “Got it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Cold Cuts shadowed behind me and my ripped jeans like a too-friendly dancer in a conga line. She was doing her best to cover my embarrassing southern exposure, but her enthusiastic silliness was making me feel even more embarrassed. When we stopped at the reception desk, she snuggled up against my back, propped her head on my shoulder and wrapped her arms around my waist.

  “My apologies again,” Monty said, looking up slowly. I noticed his haughty face appeared strained. He shot me a brief, tight smile and said, “This is highly unusual, Ms. Fremden, let me assure you.”

  I wondered if he was talking about us or the room. I glanced at the clock on the wall above Monty’s sweating bald head. It was 5:23 p.m.

  “Your room should be ready shortly,” he said in a voice that belied even he had his doubts.

  “Look, Monty,” I said, then glanced around the room to make sure no one else was watching. “I really need to...uh...change my clothes.”

  “Yes,” Monty said without batting an eyelash. “I understand.”

  I jerked and squirmed as Cold Cuts tickled my ribcage. “Stop it,” I whispered over my shoulder. She kissed me playfully on the cheek.