When Girlfriends Break Hearts

by Savannah Page

The last couple days of work had been sort of a hit-and-miss. Some hours were good, some were better, but each day was tremendously difficult. I wasn’t any closer to arriving at a solution or a get-better answer to my problems. Sometimes I felt like the blowouts with Brandon and Robin and the exchange of hurtful words had happened just a few short hours ago, though in reality I was approaching the one-week mark. I wished that the bright light at the end of the tunnel would appear soon, but I couldn’t see any such relief anywhere in sight. Claire’s company helped make the overall situation a bit lighter—like I wasn’t an Eeyore with the black cloud following me overhead twenty-four-seven. There was a fraction of shining light, I guess.

  The big glimmer of hope I found, which was really just a denial mechanism, was in yoga. I love yoga. It’s so soothing and spiritual, while at the same time physical and a great form of exercise. I can relax and exert energy and stretch the body, the mind, and the soul, all at the same time. I picked it up in college and found it to be the ideal answer to relieving stress, to escaping difficulties, and to keeping trim and limber. I now relished in it for all those reasons, and then some. Anything to escape reality at this point.

  After that first day at work post-drama, I decided to refocus my attention on yoga classes. I was part of a community of great women who met routinely at a yoga and Pilates studio not far from Katie’s Kitchen.

  I had been calling Studio Tulaa my yoga home for years, and the owner, Pamela Simons, was a wonderful teacher and an extremely kind and benevolent woman. She was just the affection and inspiration I wanted to surround myself with. When Pamela set her mind to something, she did it, and with gusto and confidence. And a positive attitude. At fifty she decided to retire from her interpretive dancing career that had let her travel up and down the west coast with a fine company for many years. She had lost her husband at that time to a woman thirty years her (and his) junior and decided that a clean sweep was the answer to what her life’s path had become.

  She packed up, spent a season in Bali, and better honed her meditation, yoga, and Pilates skills. When she returned she had a mission, along with a much more limber body and relaxed spirit. Pamela opened Studio Tulaa in a retro loft in the lively and diverse Seattle neighborhood of Capitol Hill, a favorite area of mine. Capitol Hill, with its vintage clothing and record shops, and its hoards of trendy bars and boutiques and comfortable bookstores and cafés, was one of the key spots I had envisioned opening up my café and bakery. And how convenient to be located in such close proximity to my yoga haven.

  Pamela’s studio offered classes in yoga, Pilates, and meditation for women. I was one of Pamela’s regulars and we had developed a friendship with one another.

  It wasn’t the kind of friendship where you make random coffee dates or go to the movies or a show together. Our friendship remained limited to under the roof of the studio. I regarded Pamela almost as a mother figure. She’d been able to teach me how to relax and take time out of each day to meditate on the beautiful and the calming elements in life. She knew my controlling tendencies and my reluctance to change. She was the integral part in helping me relax those pesky characteristics.

  Though we didn’t share everything with each other about our lives, Pamela was on many occasions a lending ear and gave wise advice. When I felt that I lacked the confidence to open my own business, Pamela was my lady. And occasionally she expressed to me her moments of discontentment with her ex-husband and his new infantile girlfriend.

  Studio Tulaa, the group of ladies who participated in the wide range of classes (of which I attended once almost each week day, and occasionally on Saturday mornings when I had the time off from work), the exercise and the serenity, and Pamela’s teaching and friendship, had all played big parts in my life’s daily events. And even more so once Brandon and Robin had wrecked their havoc.

  “Where are you going, girl?” Claire asked, sitting on the sofa while pulling on her Nikes. Schnickerdoodle was sitting at her feet, his leash in his mouth. She was obviously headed out for one of her routine jogs in a park or around the neighborhood.

  I was heading toward the front door, my keys in hand and my gym bag slung over one shoulder.

  “Yoga.”

  “Have fun. I’m making a stir fry for dinner tonight if you like.”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  ***

  Yoga hit the spot. It felt good not only physically to stretch, balance, and tone, but I left the studio feeling like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It wasn’t the weight of deception that was lifted—that weight would probably be residing on my weak shoulders for ages to come. It was a general weight that often comes when I stress myself out by trying to control every little detail around me. My twice-a-month private meditation sessions with Pamela helped relieve the tension that she said always built up and exploded in my shoulders and neck regions.

  “You must relax more, Sophie,” she would always caution. “You are going to give yourself an ulcer if you don’t calm down and let the universe work on its own. Stop trying to control everything.”

  I knew she was right, but putting into practice her advice was truly easier said than done.

  I decided before I walked into class that evening that I would steal a small moment of time afterwards to talk with Pamela about the recent life events I had experienced. Not in detail; I didn’t want to spend too much time on it. Especially in a place of such peace and tranquility. People who came to yoga to sort out their problems did so through methodical stretching and breathing, not through gossip and ranting. Then again, we were a community of women. Gathered together. In a yoga studio. Verbal therapy and chit-chat just kind of came with the territory, at least in incremental doses.

  I felt relief after I briefly went over with Pamela the disaster that had befallen me. Like everyone I had spoken with, Pamela embraced me and promised that in time everything would turn out for the better. Again, a sip of the Kool-Aid, but these words coming from Pamela seemed to help most of all. I don’t know if it’s because I held her in such high esteem and factored in her mature years. She had been around the block a few times, had created and embraced a fresh start for herself, and at the ripe age of fifty. So any words of advice or soft condolences that Pamela sent my way were relieving and very much welcome.

  “Take this time to sink more into your meditation and relaxation techniques,” Pamela advised. “Practice your breathing techniques and remember, remember, Sophie, to take time out of the day to just calm down, reflect, find something beautiful in the world…and be grateful for it. There’s always something beautiful to see.”

  “I know,” I said in a schoolgirl tone. “It’s just so much easier to be relaxed when I don’t have all of this going on.”

  ‘This’ being my entire life, I thought.

  “Keep coming to class or doing yoga at home. Whatever you find time for. Try to stick to your routine,” she offered. “Don’t ignore the problem, but don’t change everything in your life suddenly. You’ve had enough Earth-shattering change so far. The last thing you need to do is make your own life a foreign world to yourself and quit everything. Don’t forget your yoga, your job, your friends.”

  “But your reaction to your husband leaving you for that preschooler was to pack up, quit your job, and move to Bali!”

  “Only after some time of grieving and sorting things out,” she said in a soothing voice. “I didn’t change everything overnight. Sure, my ex-husband made me feel like my life had taken a one-eighty in a matter of seconds, but in reality that’s not what happened. Events in life are progressive, Sophie. Things don’t suddenly happen out of nowhere, with no progression, and for no reason.

  “I took my time to grieve and sort through the mess and eventually I found that the next step in my life’s path was to make a career change. Move somewhere exotic and new for awhile. Make my next move in life. That takes time, Sophie. And you’ll get there.” She placed her warm and wrinkling hand on mine. “In time you will get
there, my dear. Have faith and don’t give up.”

  I thanked her and gave her another hug. I knew I could count on her to share her wisdom and kindness. Of course, I knew her advice wouldn’t be heeded easily and quickly, and I’m sure she figured that much as well.

  “Don’t get lost in all this, Sophie. You’re stronger than it so don’t let it get you down.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The very next afternoon I took Pamela’s advice and decided that a forty-five minute Basic Yoga Stretch I class was a better way to spend my lunch break than crying into the tuna sandwich I had packed that morning. I had to pick myself up and push on, no matter how painful. Pamela was right. I needed to focus on my yoga, on my career, and on getting better.

  I headed for Studio Tulaa at lunch. This particular course wasn’t taught by Pamela, but I nonetheless finished feeling rejuvenated and enlightened, and I was enthusiastic to follow it up just a few hours later with my regular evening course after work. Rarely would I have to work past the five or five-thirty mark at Katie’s, and this evening was no different. So back to yoga I went, ready for an hour and fifteen minutes of deep stretches, not to mention a hug and warming smile from Pamela. She exuded confidence, kindness, and general feel-goodness. She and her yoga instruction were turning out to be great antidotes to the pain I would feel build up throughout each day. And surprisingly, in just a couple of short days, I was starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, I could pull out of this. Not unscathed, but I could pull out. Slowly, but ever so surely.

  ***

  “I’m home!” I called out to Claire as I walked through the front door, still dressed in my yoga clothes. I rarely ever switched out of my workout clothes after class; only if I had some hot date planned or some after-workout plans, but who was I kidding? These days I was lucky I even got out of bed.

  I heard raised voices and then mumbling coming from what sounded like Claire and Conner’s bedroom. I closed the front door behind me and quietly made my way across the living room. The raised voices stopped, but the mumbling continued.

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it,” I heard Claire say. Her bedroom door was open a few inches. Were Claire and Conner having an argument? It’s normal for all couples to have squabbles, but it was out of character for Claire and Conner to have shouting matches, which sounded like what was going on before I entered the scene.

  “No,” Claire said again. “No. We’re not talking about it anymore…I don’t want to…I said no…”

  Suddenly Claire swung her bedroom door open and I jumped, caught in the act of shameful eavesdropping.

  “Girl, it’s about time!” Claire said. She became all smiles and walked up to me.

  I chuckled, not sure what to think of the rather uncomfortable situation. “It’s about time for what?” I asked, casually peering over Claire’s shoulder. Conner was still in there; I wondered what was going on. Then the door closed harshly and I jumped again.

  “When you texted me this afternoon that you were going to yoga I didn’t think you’d go after work too,” Claire said.

  “What?” I asked. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  Claire had asked if I was interested in lunch this morning, to which I’d declined in light of the extra yoga session. On occasion, when our jobs and schedules permitted, Claire and I would meet for lunch together.

  Claire was a social worker. She had a melting heart for the elderly and the disabled and found her calling in the geriatrics department during college. After getting to try out a variety of areas of social work and rehabilitative care, working with disabled veterans and sweet grannies and grampies was what made Claire feel most fulfilled. And she was a rock star at her job. While her home base was at the hospital up on First Hill (a.k.a. “Pill Hill”), not far from where I worked, she often traveled to various clients’ homes and provided in-home aid. And usually her traveling work was never too far from Katie’s Kitchen, making it easy for us to catch lunch together at a favorite café nearby, or on the Waterfront, or at some two-buck taco truck or quick-food stand in Pike Place Market.

  “Yoga? Twice in one day? Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?”

  “No. It feels so good.” I plopped myself onto the sofa—my sofa that Conner had managed to squeeze into the living room. And it actually was suiting everyone quite well, especially Conner, who took to napping on it often. I stretched out my long legs and yawned. “I’m pooped.”

  “You’re obsessed,” Claire said.

  “Oh please, and you’re not with walking and jogging?”

  “Schnickerdoodle needs his walks,” she said matter-of-factly.

  I rolled my eyes. “Anyhow, what’s up? You were all excited about me coming home. What’s the deal?”

  “We’re going out tonight, Missy.”

  “What?” It was a Thursday, and though back in college Thursday night was just as big a going-out-night as Friday or Saturday, we were well past our college days. I hadn’t done something out-ish on a working weekday in a long time.

  “You heard me.” She reached her hand toward me, making a motion with her fingers for me to grab it. I consented and she helped pull me up out of my comfy, sprawled position on the sofa. “We’re getting dolled up and we’re going out. We need it. You need it. God knows I need it.” This last part was mumbled. “Anyhow, it’s time for you to get out and let your hair down a bit.” She childishly grabbed at my messy half-bun-half-ponytail. “Get gussied up and have some fun. Come on.”

  “Claire,” I protested as I was dragged to my bedroom. “It’s a work night. We both have to work tomorrow. We are not going out.”

  “I’m not talking about getting sloshed and dancing on tables or anything, silly. Just a drink. Some appetizers. Maybe—maybe—a little dancing.” She nudged her hip a couple of times against mine, making a mock seductive look. “Just hanging out. You and me. Come on.”

  “Fine,” I groaned, really not feeling up for anything social. I had anticipated closing the evening with a bottle of chilled Perrier with a wedge of lemon, my leftover tuna sandwich for dinner, and maybe a few chapters of my latest read, Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. Exciting, right?

  However, I couldn’t let Claire down. She was right; going out for an easygoing girls’ night, just the two of us, wasn’t a horrible idea. It was probably one of those ingredients that Pamela was referring to. One of those necessary ingredients for the path towards recovery—the journey of healing.

  “One drink,” I said. “And by the way, is everything okay? With you and Conner,” I clarified.

  “Oh, that. Whatever,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s just Conner being a dick. Never mind.”

  “Are you sure everything’s alright?” I studied her face, trying to read any expression.

  “Just another stupid argument about our future,” she said, her face blank. Was a surge of crying on its way? It was hard to tell. Usually Claire was easy to read. When she was sad, it was obvious. When she was happy, the world knew it. And when she was depressed or on the verge of crying, all of the typical warning signs would show. But right now she didn’t seem bothered.

  “Are you upset?” I asked. “You sounded kind of upset. Not that I was listening to…everything.”

  She cracked a small smile and waved her hands again. “It’s nothing. Seriously. It’s not even anything to cry over or be angry about. It’s just Conner and me being stupid, that’s all.” She smiled again. Maybe it was only a simple couple’s spat after all.

  “Well,” I said. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Sophie. Now…” She turned to my closet and pulled it open. “It’s time to get ready. Tonight’s about letting our hair down and having fun.”

  “If you insist.” I started to rifle through my wardrobe.

  “Great! I’ll go get ready real quick. An hour we’re out, okay?” Then she bounced back to her bedroom, clearly much more excited about our night out than I was.
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  I stared at my overpowering black and white wardrobe. God, I need some life. Some color. It was as dark as the past week had been. Pathetic. I reached for the brightest thing I could find with the least amount of effort afforded. A light grey pencil skirt. Great. Grey. That’s the closest to chipper yellow I can find.

  Habitually I grabbed for my favorite bright white, ruffled, sleeveless Liz Claiborne blouse. It was the perfect fit for the skirt, although a bit chilly for the night. The warm front that was atypical of April had passed and Seattle was presented once again with its usual chilly April breeze and showers. I found the chic, grey jacket that matched the skirt and headed off to the shower.

  A depressing night out as a single woman. This is going to be a great night….

  ***

  The bar of the night was Claire’s choice. She chose a mutual favorite: Vogue, a swanky bar over in Capitol Hill. The drinks were reasonably priced and always made perfect-to-taste. The music was a nice blend of house and indie soft rock. The crowd was the mid-twenty to mid-thirty yuppie sort. The atmosphere was laid-back, with white, faux leather sofas and chaise lounges throughout the large loft-like bar. The lighting was that kind of lighting a girl wishes she had perpetually following her. The kind where it’s not invasive fluorescent where you always look your worst, but not the kind where it’s so dark you’re not quite sure what color shoes you’re wearing. Vogue had sleek ambience, and it was one of the regular bars the girls and I frequented the past couple of years.

  “First drink’s on me, Sophie.” Claire confidently took a seat at the bar on one of the metal swivel barstools.

  “Uh, the only drink, girl.” No more. We had work to tend to the next day.

  “Yeah, yeah, right.” She gave me a wink, then with a flick back of her tightly curled hair she leaned in to the bar, beckoning the bartender.

  Claire had charm and a sweet self-assurance. Not a boasting assurance or anything that, say, our good friend Jackie exuded. Claire may have been wrapped up in a long-term and serious relationship of seven years, but she wasn’t blind. She knew an attractive man when she saw one, and she knew a not-so-attractive one, too. Regardless, she knew she possessed strong flirting capabilities and never saw a need not to wield them…“just if necessary,” she would say. She was cute, bubbly, and beautiful. She was physically everything my opposite and even though I had my own mark of “tall and dark” beauty, sometimes I wished I had her looks, her personality…the whole thing.