by Tamara Leigh
I’m tired of the hopelessness of dating. Christian or non-Christian, the result is the same. And, in the rare instance a promising candidate comes along, his expiration date becomes apparent the moment children enter the picture. Or, in my case, don’t.
I press a hand to my abdomen and am stung that the bulge beneath my fingers will never be the result of a growing child. Early menopause—Premature Ovarian Failure (POF)— took care of not only that, but also my fiancé. Despite Christopher’s profession of undying love, he couldn’t accept adoption as an alternative to biological children.
I drop my hand from my abdomen. I’ve accepted my loss. Accepted it and am grateful, as it led me to Jesus. With that reminder, I touch the blue glass and sterling bracelet that was a gift from Belle. She was the first to approach the abject young woman who slipped into her church eight years ago—a lost soul who had left everything behind in Redding to follow her fiancé to San Francisco. When that same young woman accepted Christ a year later, Belle presented her with the bracelet. And it’s been on my wrist ever since.
I touch the silver cross, then the medallion with its inscription Believe. Always a comfort, it reminds me that God is in control. Thus, it’s possible my life will eventually include a husband. Of course, it sure would save time to know at the outset where a man stands with regard to perpetuating the human race. If I had my way, men who require biological children would wear some identifying mark like married men wear wedding bands.
And no, I haven’t limited myself to men without pasts. In fact, for a while I believed that those with children were the solution. Wrong. The first widower I dated was so not “The One” that it took just one date to mark him off. The next wanted more biological children. The third made it clear up front that he was done with marriage. I even dated a divorced guy with partial custody of his three children. He had issues. Last, there was the singleton with a child out of wedlock. As evidenced by his one-night stand overtures, he hadn’t learned the error of his ways.
So maybe I am destined to remain manless, but that’s no excuse to allow my downward slide to continue. Thus, tomorrow I’ll start toning up, courtesy of the yoga class I committed to last month—and for which I have yet to attend a single session. But I will get my money’s worth!
I glance at my watch. A quarter till eleven. Too late to look up Scripture and analyze how it relates to my circumstances. As for my prayer journal, surely the soul-searching before the mirror will suffice. Yeah.
I excuse myself—something I do more of lately and seems directly proportional to the number of jobs I accept. Much as I hate to admit it, stuffing God in the backseat is becoming habit.
I sigh. Guess it’s time for my nightly cocktail.
From the medicine cabinet, I remove four vials: estrogen, progesterone, vitamin E, and calcium—a hormone “cocktail” better known as HRT, or hormone replacement therapy, which protects against everything from heart and bone problems to uterine and ovarian cancer to sleeplessness and osteoporosis.
It takes a full glass of water to get them all down, and I nearly choke on the last.
Ah, the joys of menopause before one’s time. Of having one’s reproductive ability ripped out from under her.
“Oh, stop it!”
Retrieving my pajamas, I determinedly recite, “Thank You, God, for life without menstrual cramps.” I drag the top on. “Thank You for the absence of PMS.” I thrust into the bottoms. “Thank You that I don’t have to worry about embarrassing accidents. Thank You—”
A commotion downstairs announces the return of my housemate. I scowl. She’s brought him home again—Mr. Unhappily Married!
Feeling an ache behind my eyes, I pray it’s not one of my rare migraines, courtesy of Premature Ovarian Failure.
Failure. I really hate that word.
Rubbing my forehead, I step from the bathroom. Though I know I should hit my knees for prayer, I curl up beneath my comforter and clasp my hands.
Dear Lord, I know You want to use me, but won’t You please have a chat with Maia about Mr. Unhappily Married?
Saturday, March 17
Good morning, Lord!
Thank You for a fabulous turnout at Belle and Beau’s, a feast of business cards (keep ’em coming!), Brad Pitt look-alikes (or maybe not), and enduring friendships (Beau-zo excluded).
Help me forgive Beau for his comment about my looks (and those who agree with him, e.g., Dr. Clive Alexander), help me guard my tongue and become a witness to Maia, and help me be content with the me You made. (Did You really intend for me to have breasts like these?) Above all, please keep Belle and Beau’s growing child safe and healthy.
Yours,
Kate
PS: Sorry about missing my Bible time last night. 5000 tired. But I’ll do it tonight! Promise.
PPS: Please help me not to strain anything in that yoga class I’m taking. Speaking of which, that new body I get when I make it to heaven? It won’t need to be exercised, will it?
“And … downward-facing dog,” the instructor intones.
Not again. Not the dog thing. Puh-lease!
With a whimper, I look to the woman on the sticky mat beside me—housemate and yoga enthusiast, Maia Glock. Without visible effort, she shifts her legs back. As she settles into the pose that appears to be the precursor to a man’s push up—except for the upward-facing tush—I grunt and step a foot back.
How much longer? It’s been … I check my watch. Twenty minutes? That’s all? Oh no. And this is only the first step in reclaiming Katherine Mae Meadows. Hmm. Maybe I should give her up for dead. Or at least curvaceously content.
I glance at the door. Would anyone notice if I slipped out? After all, they’re so into it.
“Keep going, Ms. Meadows.” The instructor’s bare feet appear near my hands. “That’s it. Gently walk your feet out behind you.”
Singled out. Nowhere to run.
Gritting my teeth, I step my aching right leg back, then the left.
“A bit more.” She pats my thigh.
If I were a pit bull, she wouldn’t dare. Baring my teeth, which my downward-facing mutt conceals, I step back twice more.
“Good. Now let’s hold it.”
How about she holds it? Arms trembling, calves burning, back straining with the effect of gravity on my well-endowed chest, I glare at the sticky mat.
Downward-facing dog! Who comes up with names like that? Next thing I’ll be told to hike my leg with some “tree-ward-facing dog” move. Or perhaps “fire hydrant–facing dog.”
“Now walk your legs back to standing.” The instructor’s voice drifts away as she moves down the line of students.
I try. I really do, but there’s nothing left. I drop to my knees, sink back on my heels, and press my cheek to the cool mat.
“Kate!” Maia whispers above the plunk-tinkle-tinkle music.
I meet her gaze at about the level of her knees. Oh, maan! She’s bent double like a hinge.
“Get up!”
I close my eyes. “No.” Intrigued by the floaty threads behind my lids—what exactly are those things, anyway?—I follow one, then the other.
“Kate!”
“Can’t.” I sink deeper into the mat.
“Come on. You’re embarrassing me!”
“You?” I follow a floaty thing that looks like a warm and chewy cinnamon roll. What has she got to be embarrassed about? I’m the one ready to pass out.
“Yes, me, the one who went out on a limb to get you a spot in this class.”
Out on a limb? She insisted I join. All I did was pay through the nose for the privilege. And pray through the heart that our regular outings would allow me to witness to her.
“Get up, Kate.”
I crack open an eye. Even bent upside down with sweat on her brow, she looks great.
“Nuh-uh.” I lower my lids, and for all of ten seconds, my world is right. No stretching, no straining, no—
“Up, Ms. Meadows. You won’t see results unless you push you
rself.” The instructor pats my thigh again.
Down, boy, down!
Pressing my lips to keep my fangs in check, I lift my head and the sticky mat follows, only to release from my cheek with a shloop heard ’round the room.
I sit back on my heels and look up at the semi-earthy woman whose pink-striped hair is confined to a thick braid draped over one shoulder.
She arches an eyebrow, then turns to the others. “And now we roll up slowly and exalt the sun.”
Somehow I don’t think she means God’s Son, Jesus. The other members of the class straighten and lift their arms.
Pressing my hands to the mat, I nearly stumble as I rise. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.” I drag my moist palms up my sweatpants.
“We all must start somewhere, child.”
Child … With a sneaking suspicion she’s quoting Confucius, I say, “And end somewhere.” I give her an apologetic smile. “I don’t think this yoga thing is working for me.”
“If you mean twenty minutes of it, you’re right.” She turns her head and calls out, “And roll down again.”
Before I can escape, she settles a hand on my shoulder and bends so near that her forehead almost touches mine. “Ms. Meadows, it requires commitment to make the changes necessary for one’s body to find its balance in nature.”
Confucius again? And hasn’t the woman heard of personal space? I ease back a step. “What I’m saying is I think I’d be better off sticking with aerobics.” Of course, I haven’t stuck with it, have I? Though exercise is prescribed alongside hormone replacement therapy, I’ve been bad. Very bad.
She releases my shoulder. “If this is all aerobics has done for you, you’re at the right place.”
Now that’s just plain nasty. However, a reminder of this morning’s devotional about guarding one’s tongue holds me in check.
I shrug. “Obviously, I’ve been away from it for a while, but when I—”
She raises a silencing hand. “And back to downward-facing dog.”
What’s with this lady and dogs?
“Trust me, Ms. Meadows. Given time and discipline, you’ll see results. Now let’s give it another try.”
I’m not a confrontational person. In fact, I’m a pushover, but this is a bit more than I can handle. “Look—”
“Kate.”
I turn to Maia, who’s peering at me from her doggy pose. “Just do it, okay?”
Hemmed in on all sides. Not an ally in sight. Only tushes. And more tushes, many of which are remarkably firm and narrow—doubtless just the way Dr. Clive Alexander likes them.
Why does that scallywag keep invading my thoughts?
Making a face at Maia, I mutter, “Okay.”
Hours later—honestly, it feels that long!—Maia and I emerge from the vile studio into a bright San Francisco morning. Almost immediately, we become the recipients of appreciative glances. Well, actually it’s Maia that a passing group of men admire—she of the long legs, perfect posture, tousled tresses, and glistening glow.
I blow a breath up my face, which causes my specs to fog. Great.
I follow the cloudy figure of Maia, who doesn’t notice I’ve fallen behind. Have I been too hasty committing to such rigorous self-improvement? Granted, besides the one yoga session, I’ve only managed to trim my split ends, but that took a good ten minutes and resulted in a shorter-than-intended prayer journal entry.
Is it worth it? After all, what’s the likelihood that a trimmer, coiffed, and fashionably attired me will land more jobs? Nor will my attempts at self-improvement guarantee that I finally catch a man. Considering the serious compatibility issue, finding him—if he exists—is a job for “Super-God.” As for the quality of my life, on the surface, self-improvement would make me feel better about myself, but will it outweigh the commitment?
God, send me a sign, ’cause I’m sooo tempted to back out!
“You’re really out of shape, aren’t you?” Maia calls over her shoulder.
I falter. Was that a sign? Would He actually speak through her? Nah, that was all Maia. Scowling, I pump my legs faster and am panting when I draw alongside her.
“Coffee?” she suggests over the sound of an approaching cable car.
Though I know I’ll be hurting if I don’t get into a tub of hot water soon, I say, “Sure,” and give a little shiver as my overheated skin awakens to the chill morning air.
When we stop at the crosswalk to wait for the light, I loosen my sweatshirt from around my waist and drag on the garment. As my head pops through the neck, the telltale clanging that precedes the appearance of cable cars rises above the street noise like a powerfully beautiful voice among croakers.
Partial to San Francisco’s only moving historic landmark, I turn my head to the right just as the rectangular box comes into view. Love cable cars, especially those bearing riders gleefully clutching the poles and hanging out the sides.
As it rumbles past, sounding its bell, I follow its progress—and would follow it down the hill and out of sight if not for Maia’s hefty sigh and “Hmm, nice,” drawl.
Curious, I track her gaze to the sidewalk across the street. Standing outside the corner coffee shop is a middle-aged bearded guy with a camera around his neck, a fashionably bald thirty-ish guy, and a cute twenty-ish woman. And they’re staring at us.
Us? Not just Maia? Strange.
Maia presses her shoulders back, putting her chest front and center. “The bald guy seems familiar.”
I narrow my sights on him. He doesn’t look the least bit familiar; however, he is attractive—in a bald way.
The light changes. As we cross the street, I note that the sway in Maia’s step is more pronounced. Expecting her to stop and flirt, I’m surprised when she sweeps past the small group.
Ah, the old coy trick.
As I follow her into the coffee shop, I glance over my shoulder at the bald guy and am given what seems a genuine smile.
The coffee shop is an old place with faded paint, worn chairs, lopsided tables, and bookshelves swollen with dusty books published eons ago, but that’s why I like it. Those other ones—the yuppified coffee shops that have invaded so much of the city—are simply too sterile, too consistent, and too expensive.
Jolene waves us in. “Yo, Kate! Maia!”
Breathing in the smell of fresh-ground coffee beans—so rich it leaves a taste on the tongue—I return the wave. “Yo, Jo Jo.”
As the tie-dye clad Asian woman sets her magical machine to humming, she gives us the once-over. “Working out?”
I grimace as I settle in a creaky chair at the table Maia claims in front of the window. “How can you tell?”
She grins, revealing a missing incisor. “You—easy. Ms. Maia—could be a front.”
Maia snorts. “Who’s the one in shape, hmm?”
Was that a slam?
Jolene laughs. “You born that way.” She plunges the steaming wand into a pitcher of milk. “The rest of us gotta work hard to look half so fine. Huh, Ms. Kate?”
Another slam. “Humph,” I grunt.
Shortly, Jolene sets our drinks in front of us, mine a decaf. Though following my diagnosis of Premature Ovarian Failure I adjusted to decaffeinated coffee, I can’t help but be jealous of all that caffeine doing a backstroke in Maia’s cup. Unfortunately, caffeine really sucks down my calcium.
“Oh!” Jolene’s eyes widen. “Almost forgot. As you working out now, Ms. Kate, I give you sugar-free vanilla syrup. You like.” She bustles away.
Decaf and sugar free? That’s almost too much to bear.
I grimace. “I don’t like sugar free.”
Maia flips up a hand. “Obviously.” Then, as if having merely commented on the weather, she lifts her cup.
Tongue! Guard your tongue! You’ll never reach her otherwise.
But how, exactly, am I to witness to her when my wounded ego is conjuring images of torture—a nice, slow drip or maybe splinters beneath her fingernails?
“So …” Ma
ia returns her cup to its mismatched saucer. “You made it through the entire class. What do you think?”
“That what happened to me ought to be illegal. I’m going to be so sore.”
“That’s the idea.”
Great. I lift my cup only to pause and lean in. “At the end when we clasped our hands and bowed, the instructor said, ‘No mustache.’ What does that mean?”
Maia’s eyes widen. “No mustache?”
Okay, so I heard wrong. “No mistake?”
Her eyes widen further, then she squeals.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever it was, I didn’t get it.”
“Namasté, Kate. Nah-mah-STAY.”
A foreign word. Surely I can be forgiven. “Okay, Nah-mah-STAY. What’s it mean?”
She sinks back in her chair. “Something to do with saluting the god in each of us.”
“The god?” As in the Holy Spirit?
“Yeah, we’re all gods in our own right, you know.”
I’m not Catholic, but the temptation to cross myself is overwhelming; however, I calm myself with the realization that this is an opening to witness. “No, I don’t know. In fact, as a Christian, I—”
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “Don’t go there.”
Shot down before liftoff.…
I sigh and raise my cup as the group that watched us cross the street enters the shop.
Maia leans near. “It is Michael Palmier.”
“Who?”
She gives me a do-you-live-under-a-rock? look. “Palmier, Kate. You know, the makeup artist who works on all the big models? The one daytime talk shows call in to transform the impossibly unattractive?”
“Uh …”
She rolls her eyes. “The one who put out last year’s bestselling The Makeup Bible?”
Bible? I nearly gasp in concert with the memory of my grandmother, while slightly more distant I detect my grandfather’s chuckle. Though grandmother was a Bible toter, grandfather was an agnostic who loved to pick at his wife’s beliefs—in a strangely loving manner.
I clear my throat. “Did you say Bible?”
With a mewl of exasperation, Maia shifts her attention to those at the counter.