by Edward Vilga
“I’d love to have you swing by on Sunday. Maybe we could share a chai after class?” she inquires.
“Definitely.” I love Gigi’s Sunday noon class—she calls it “Good News” and floods the room with gospel music, harkening back to her New Orleans roots.
“Okay, then. Sunday noon. Chai at 2—unless I run over!”
She blows me another kiss and she’s gone, leaving me alone in her office for a moment.
Looking at the schedule on the office’s dry-erase board, for the first time I wonder if Sassy got the part; frankly, her last-minute audition couldn’t have gone any worse than mine.
I leave Thank Heaven more convinced than ever that, despite my packed Epitome class and photo spread, I am woefully miscast in the role of teacher. And as a club owner, I am once again emerging stillborn.
Indeed, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any world—Nightlife or Yoga or anything in between—where I truly belong.
Chapter 18
I’m not sure what to expect when it’s time for Phoebe’s next lesson. At least she hasn’t cancelled. I realize on the elevator ride up that I’m actually quite nervous. Maybe concerned is more like it. Unlike with all the “relationships” (i.e., hookups) I actually consummate, I’m worried that this fragile bubble with Phoebe might have burst with nothing more than a kiss being exchanged. I steel myself for the inevitable awkward moment of seeing her again—but it’s Phil who answers the door.
“Hiya, how’s it hanging?” he asks as he pumps my hand and ushers me in.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Phil starts us toward the yoga room. “It’s just you and me today, kid,” he tells me.
“Really?” This is certainly a new, unforeseen twist.
“Yeah. Phoebe just wasn’t feeling well—one of those ‘lady troubles’—so she told me to just go ahead and take the lesson while she slept in.”
“Okay, then. We’ll make do,” I manage, both relieved and frustrated. I suppose it’s theoretically possible that Phoebe’s period might be causing her enough discomfort to cancel her lesson, but the obvious explanation—that she’s feeling awkward around me—seems much more likely.
I begin teaching Phil, and once again, I find myself liking him more and more. He’s awkward and stiff as a board, but he’s intelligent and focused. He’s willing to plunge in, like Janek, but without any of the grace or athleticism. Since, frankly, I’ve never particularly connected him to Phoebe in my mind, other than as a bizarre obstacle, I’m actually able to focus on Phil and his needs without any resentment or distraction. In the end, teaching Phil solo—a good-hearted, scrappy student—is actually totally enjoyable.
Phil walks me to the door. The model of cordiality throughout, as with the Broadway tickets, it’s obvious that he knows nothing about what passed between Phoebe and me last week. “I think I gotta be in Detroit again, so probably Thursday it’ll just be Phoebe,” he tells me. “But, kid, I really enjoyed myself. Definitely coming back for more the next time I’m in town.”
“Terrific,” I reply. A pumped-up handshake and we’re done, our business successfully transacted, and yet, as I descend in the elevator, I really am more at a loss as to what to do next than ever.
The next morning, I share one of my signature moves with Janek: a one-armed handstand.
It’s damned impressive, if I do say so myself. I do it for him against the wall, demonstrating how if you send the hips a little in one direction and widen the legs a bit, you can maybe (just maybe) take the opposing hand off the ground.
When I assist it, however, I actually do the lion’s share of the work. I frame and hold the edges of his hipbones up, actively lifting him so that he won’t topple over. It goes off without a hitch. Thanks to his natural athleticism and all the weight training, Janek’s a strong dude, so for the second round—now that he’s felt it in his body, via the assist—I suggest that he try it on his own. Always fearless, Janek’s game. He manages one side and then the other.
“That’s so awesome,” Janek beams once he’s upright once more.
“It’s a helluva party trick, I’ll give you that,” I reply. “I’m not sure what else it’s good for, though.”
I don’t know why I blurt this out. It surprises us both. Probably just me losing focus for a moment and letting my generally negative default mental state slip into the lesson. But even though, more and more, I like Janek—thinking of him as a hybrid of friend/client and late night, party-going comrade—I really had no intention of dragging my problems into his lesson.
“Something wrong, man?” Janek inquires.
“Nope. Sorry.”
“No, it’s cool. What’s up?”
Obviously, I can’t go into much with him—the club slipping away from me, the Cleavage Twins, much less my feeling like a yoga impostor, or my sordid Shane saga. But Janek’s a cool guy, so I don’t want to lie or blow him off.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” I tell him. “Don’t want to drag it into your lesson time. I’m here to teach you, not bitch about my problems.”
“Okay, man. Just know that I’m willing to listen.”
“Thanks, I don’t think it’s listening I need. Just some answers. But I keep coming up empty–handed.”
“Really? Even a yoga guru like yourself gets stumped?” he asks.
I wonder if he’s being serious or even semi-serious. Surely, Janek must know I’m just a fit dude with some helpful information that can enhance flexibility, balance, and strength.
“Trust me, dude—I don’t have any answers,” I reply. “None, whatsoever.”
Janek takes this in. “Hasn’t the yoga helped you though? I mean, not in sitting in a cave and meditating way but …”
He’s being sincere. I respond in kind. “Honestly, man … yes, definitely,” I reply. The words reveal themselves to me as I say them. “Not so much that I feel one iota more enlightened. Definitely not in this lifetime. I guess I feel, I don’t know … I suppose it’s sort of like, by getting good at this shit—like armed handstand—I’ve mastered something I never thought I could do. Or even just a simple ‘touch your toes’ forward bend. I can do it now but man, that used to make my hamstrings fuckin’ scream. Now I’m pretty open there. Even though it’s just lengthening out tight muscles, I learned that if I can just focus and let go for five lousy breaths, a change is gonna happen eventually.”
There’s a moment between us, one where we both realize that this is really pretty enormous. For once, I realize, I’m actually teaching something directly from my experience.
“The thing is,” I say, “I’m not good at all that flowery yoga shit, the stuff that comes naturally to all those willowy girl teachers. I just know about sweat and frustration. And that what I once thought was impossible somehow doesn’t always stay that way permanently. One day it’s suddenly easy and accessible, and mostly because I’ve stopped struggling against it. I’ve just accepted where I am, keep showing up, and then the change just happens.”
The moment is instantly complete. There’s nothing more to be said.
“Headstand?” I offer.
We’re back on the mat.
Rather than call Phoebe to discuss our situation, I opt for the path of least resistance: the totally neutral confirmation email. I write: “Hope you’re feeling better. Just confirming Thursday at 9.” I’m hoping it conveys clearly the subtextual question, “Can we please pretend nothing happened and that it’s back to yoga as usual?”
Phoebe responds a few hours later with, “Feeling much better. See you tomorrow.”
I take this as a good sign. I read it as a tacit agreement between us to move forward and pretend nothing’s happened. Even if that doesn’t really reflect the truth of our situation at all, at least we’re sharing a common position: denial.
Phoebe herself opens the door for our next lesson. It’s less awkward than either of us had imagined. Or, with the aura of romantic tension between us,
maybe it’s that it’s always been slightly awkward; it’s not that much different now that someone’s made a move.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Much better, thanks.”
Banal pleasantries are good. We’re off to a strong start back toward normal. We walk to the yoga room together. Phoebe makes some remarks about the warmer weather. I concur. Soon we’re Om-ing, and the lesson has begun.
I’m careful to do just enough touching in the assists that it doesn’t feel like I’m retreating from my hands-on role. At the same time, I go out of my way to avoid any poses that require more intimate contact.
Fortunately, the framework of the lesson gives us something to fall back into. I don’t have to worry about words or conversation. More than I usually do, I share all the information I have about alignment. Channeling Sassy, I have plenty to say about the poses, which can fill up any awkward silences that arise. I give endless info in Triangle Pose: spin the heart up, soften the top hip, lift the quads up in the front leg, lengthen the spine, and on and on. Right now, I am extremely grateful for all the alignment information I can draw from memory. If Sassy were here, she’d be so proud.
It’s only after Corpse Pose and the final Oms, when conversation is forced to resume again, that I can’t continue filling the space with details about the shoulder blades and tailbone.
As always, Phoebe walks me to the door. There’s a pause. It’s unavoidable. Someone has to say something.
“I …” She begins. I wait. “About last time … I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I … I think it best that we just let the whole thing fade into the past. Treat it like it never happened.”
I guess that since—like Serious and Diamond—she is a married woman, then, according to Andrew’s thinking, she’s the one with much more to lose than me. But I think it’s not the loss of creature comforts and status that she’s concerned about; it’s clear to me that her distress comes from the feeling that she’s jeopardized our relationship. More specifically, that she’s disappointed and distanced me, her Poet-Saint and Guru, by failing to live up to my (nonexistent) high standards of personal conduct.
“That’s so generous of you,” Phoebe says. “I’m so sorry that I reduced things to a more base level. That I took advantage of the higher-level friendship you were offering.”
This is torture. My “higher level”—when I’m not out hitting on chicks at late night lounges—consists of spending my spare time screwing Monique and the Cleavage Twins.
The look in Phoebe’s eyes tells me that she wants something more. Astonishingly, she wants true forgiveness from me. Distracted, I notice that a few wisps of hair have fallen out of her ponytail and into her eyes, and God help me, but unthinkingly, I brush them gently off her face as though—channeling my altar-boy roots—I’m giving her absolution.
“Thank you.” Her gratitude is excruciating. My offering her forgiveness is so inappropriate for the context of the situation—much less my entire life’s modus operandi—that I’m amazed I’m allowing this to continue.
“See you Tuesday?” is all I can muster in reply.
“Absolutely.”
As Phoebe shuts the door, as always, she looks particularly beautiful: “Just Fucked” but also Just Forgiven. It’s a good thing the elevator door shuts on me when it does. Otherwise, I might never have left this weird sanctuary where I am valued for virtues I do not possess.
FULL WHEEL
(Urdhva Dhanurasana)
Full Wheel is a very dangerous pose: they say it opens the heart.
You simply lie on your back with your knees bent about hip width apart. Your hands flank your ears, palms down, and fingers point toward your toes. Breathe in, and exhaling, straighten your arms and try to lift your torso off the ground. If it actually happens, then suddenly you’re in a huge backbend.
The pose is quite difficult for people for lots of different reasons. Some people just aren’t strong enough in their arms to press down and lift themselves up. (Push-ups, anyone?) Others—especially gym dudes—have the opposite problem. They’ve built up such tight shoulders that despite arms that could punch through solid steel, they aren’t flexible enough to rise more than a half inch off the ground.
And others, well, they’re just plain afraid. Like my childhood chocolate lab, you’re showing your belly. It’s a position that’s good for tummy rubbing … or potentially getting stabbed straight through the heart.
Getting caught cheating on Shane—with the investor’s wife, no less—is so awful I want to recoil from the retelling, knowing that no matter how much I confess it, there’s no absolution.
Why did I stray? I don’t need therapy to know that what I had with Shane was so good, so surprisingly real and natural, that I just couldn’t handle it. I’d never spent all this time with a woman before—certainly not as best friends and then lovers—working together to build a now-shared dream. Like Andrew “confessing” that after a deluxe spa week at Canyon Ranch and losing eight pounds, he felt compelled to stop his limo at the nearest Wendy’s on the way back to the city to binge, I find myself craving “junk sex.”
So when the investor’s boozy, cougar wife hits on me, I hesitate but find myself giving in without a fight. And though I have no conscious strategy for getting caught, the whole thing is so ill-executed—Boozy Cougar and I tryst while the investor and Shane travel to Jersey for equipment buying, returning an hour earlier than expected—it borders on bedroom farce. The key difference, however, is that real emotions are involved. Shane is furious and devastated, and I’m doomed forever to attempt to earn forgiveness that I don’t believe I deserve.
Unlike Andrew’s broken spa regimen, the consequences of “junk sex” can’t be repaired.
I’ve broken something that can’t be fixed, no matter how hard I try.
Chapter 19
Andrew’s sessions continue as always: tons of therapy with a few poses thrown in for show. He is, however, quite pleased when—while he’s resting on the block in Half Wheel—I decide he’s ready to move in to a more intense angle. The work is still restorative in nature but nonetheless deeper, and it demonstrates a measure of progress. As soon as he settles in, I can tell he feels he’s getting his money’s worth.
Naturally fearless, Janek’s backbending gets stronger and stronger. Today, we’ve done a full-blown Wheel rather early, so I decide that it’s time to take it further.
When he’s in his third Wheel, I stand in front of him, positioning myself so that I’m grounded as I place my hands on his hips. Framing his back, I direct Janek to breathe in deeply, and when he exhales, I bring him up to stand from the Full Wheel.
Now we’re ready for the next part. Janek stands; I direct him to exhale as he bends backward; and I support his fall back into a Full Wheel. My job is to frame him and slow down his descent. Even so, falling backward is always an extremely scary feeling.
I pride myself on a rather fearless practice, and yet I still feel something pretty intense whenever I get ready to drop back into a Wheel. I still can’t do it totally on my own—I succeed fifty percent of the time, and the other fifty percent, I fall back too fast, my hands aren’t ready, and I bump my head on the ground. It’s never that much of a painful landing (beyond my easily bruised ego) but, nonetheless, one is very aware of having fallen, of losing balance and perspective and dropping as though blindfolded.
It’s funny, but I will always remember the first time I dropped back. It was, of course, under Gigi’s capable hands.
The physics of it require you to get quite close to the person you’re dropping back into the Wheel, even traveling part of the way down with them, towards the ground. When Gigi brought me up to stand, her hands were on my hips, and she leaned in quite intimately to lift me. Being dropped back into Full Wheel is what I can only imagine it feels like to be dipped low in an Argentinean tango. I can even remember the song that was playing: Sade’s “By Your Side.�
�� Truthfully, there was something a little romantic about it all; Gigi and I having “our song,” as it were. I let go into trusting her, and it worked beautifully. It was a total rush, enhanced by my fear, and I loved it.
It’s funny, but I realize that I’m standing much closer to a guy and holding one in a way I never have before. It’s still totally athletic and cool, but it’s interesting how for a flash, I’m acutely aware of both our proximity and his vulnerability.
Janek takes to it brilliantly. I’m pleased that I can tell that he totally trusts me despite the basic level of fear the enterprise is going to engender in any sane person.
I complete two more cycles of up and down with Janek. It’s admittedly a lot of backbending, but I think it wise to have the experience register as reaching a new level, a new skill, than as some kind of a one-shot fluke.
When we finish, Janek is particularly pumped up and excited. “Dude, that was intense.”
“Good, I’m glad. It’s a little trippy the first couple times, especially if you’re not sure what to expect.”
“Yeah, sure, a little scary—but awesome, too,” Janek agrees.
Would that I could have been this ferociously brave with Shane and not screwed things up—but that’s another kind of courage entirely.
It’s Friday night and I’m really running out of time to raise funds for the club. A full week has passed, and I’ve explored every loose connection from my past and entertained every harebrained scheme I can conceive. Other than lottery winnings (and yes, I did buy ten tickets in the local, smoke-filled Chinese convenience store), I see no hope of financing that space. I know the world won’t end for anyone but me as a result of my failure, but still, I feel like shit.
Hutch, on the other hand, has closed some sort of big deal and, pumped up from that, he wants to go out. It seems like the perfect antidote—make that distraction—given my sorry situation.