Over the next few months, I scratched and clawed my way to an A in calculus and a B+ in statistics and economics. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. I studied my ass off and went to after-school tutoring. I had not taken a math class in twenty years and had never taken a business class in my life. I took trains from New York to Pennsylvania and Boston to visit Wharton and Babson. I hired consultants to help me fill out my MBA applications. The first consultant told me no top business school would want a thirty-seven-year-old dancer from Jacksonville University and to just give up. The second helped me write terribly juvenile essays about my most embarrassing moment and a time I faced my fears. He also told me I really had no chance. A month later, my rejections from the MBA programs at Wharton and Yale proved him correct. He told me he could not help after that. I cried some more and almost gave up.
But one morning, I woke up angry.
“Those motherfuckers! They have no idea who I am!” I yelled to my quiet apartment.
I got out of bed, showered, and sat down to meditate. As I quieted my mind, NYU popped into my attention. I stomped over to my computer. I was fuming. I re-read my resume, and introduction letter. I realized I had short-changed myself. I had come across as timid and shy, with nothing to offer. I realized I was the one who did not realize who I was. I was the one who did not think I was good enough for these schools. Subconsciously, I was telling them I was not a good fit—not smart enough, too old—because I was scared.
So I changed.
I wrote a new kick-ass resume and letter to introduce myself. I decided I didn’t want to go to an MBA program with a bunch of kids fifteen years younger than I was; I wanted to be with people my age. And I didn’t want to live in Boston or Pennsylvania or New Haven; I wanted to stay in New York. So I applied to NYU’s Executive MBA program.
I hit “send” on the application.
“I’ll show you!” I screamed to my apartment.
I made breakfast and coffee, and then my cell phone rang. It was NYU, calling for an interview. My appointment was set for the following week. As my interview approached, I grew increasingly nervous. I was going because Lakshmi had given me the task, but I couldn’t tell them, “My guru sent me,” when they asked me why I wanted to get an MBA, so I was going to have to make something up.
I was additionally stressed about what to wear. Lakshmi had told me to keep my butt covered up. The problem, of course, was that the fashions had changed since she was in the corporate world, and it was now nearly impossible to find a suit with a jacket long enough to cover my round bottom. So I bought a beautiful navy wool Armani coat.
It could look like a jacket, I told myself.
I decided I would wear long black Armani pants, five-inch stiletto Italian leather mock boots, the new coat, and “to feel comfortable” an old black well-worn waffle long-underwear style shirt.
No one will see it, I told myself about the shirt.
I put the navy coat on over the black shirt and finished the look with a lavender silk scarf.
The outfit was great, in my mind. The problems, and there were many, started with a freak heat wave on the day of the interview; instead of being 50 degrees out, it was 103. And I had no back-up outfit. So I stayed with what I had picked out.
It will be air conditioned, I reasoned.
Problem number two: the shoes. I had never looked at my outfit sitting down. While sitting, with one leg crossed over the other, I noticed you could see my full shoe—not just the slim sleek black heel peeking out below my elegant and sophisticated pants, but the entire shoe: a mock boot with a borderline-sleazy, thick, silver zipper. The shoes were terribly wrong, and sitting down, I could not hide them. I swear, each person who walked through that room looked at me, looked down at my shoes, and then looked back at me with a funny expression. I fidgeted, trying to make my pants longer, trying to cover my shoes. It was impossible. I gave up trying.
When I got called in for the interview, the first thing my interviewer said to me was, “Do you want to take off your coat?” She was in a tank top and skirt and sweating. It was so hot in there!
But I couldn’t take off my coat. The only thing I had under it was that old, worn-out black waffle thermal long-underwear shirt. What the hell had I been thinking? Why didn’t I wear a blouse? I mean, come on!
So I said politely, “No, thank you.” Then I lied, “I’ve been in air conditioning all day, and I’m just chilled to the bone,” as sweat beaded up and dripped from my temple.
Scarf. Thermal shirt. Wool coat. She knew it wasn’t a suit jacket. Just as the adorable salesman had told me when I bought it at the store, “Honey, this is a coat, not a suit jacket.” I’m from California. We don’t wear coats. I didn’t know!
So I was sweating my ass off in this interview and trying to come up with some reason besides “my Spiritual Teacher sent me” to explain why, all of a sudden, at age thirty-seven, I had decided I wanted to get an MBA.
Somehow, I did it: I made it through the interview. And then I was out in the street, in the sweltering heat. I was still relatively new to New York, with no idea how to get back to my apartment. My heels were un-walkable, and I was sweating buckets.
I took off the heels, going barefoot in downtown New York. Disgusting! My expensive Armani pants were dragging on the dirty street, so I rolled them up. The only way they would stay rolled was if I rolled them up to the top of my thighs. Then I took off the coat and the scarf and rolled up my sleeves. Oh, and I had a briefcase. So I was shoeless in downtown New York with pants rolled up to my crotch and a tight long-underwear shirt on in blazing-sun-heat with a wool coat and a silk scarf slung over my arm and my slutty high-heel mock boots dangling from my hand.
I walked . . . and walked . . . and walked, until I found a cab. I finally got to my apartment, wilted. Sweating. Dirty feet. And it was then that I realized the following: Four is my favorite number. I had just had an interview on 4/4, at 4:00 p.m., on the fourth floor of 44 West Fourth Street! My interview had ended at 4:44.
Chapter 24 Hiroto
Meanwhile, I had met a man. I met him at the dojo a month after I moved to New York. Tall, handsome, powerful, strong, gorgeous, in a bright white gi. He was a fifth-degree black belt. We noticed each other immediately. He was ending his color-belt class as I kneeled down to bow into a white-belt class that was starting beside his. His head turned to look at me, and our eyes met. We both flushed red. He taught on Wednesday nights, and as I approached the studio, I could hear him yelling from half a block down the street. His students yelled back; his energy was infectious. He was intense. And his karate technique was so beautiful. He was so flexible, and so fast, and so strong, it was awesome just to watch him. I could not wait until I was a color-belt so I could take his class, too.
Determined to complete the tasks Lakshmi had given me, I began looking for dojos as soon as I arrived to New York. However, finding a school I wanted to be a part of was harder than I’d imagined. The first dojo I found was in the basement of a church. The room was tiny, and the men training there looked unhappy and lethargic. I stayed for five minutes and left. The second dojo was also all wrong. The men wore black gis; I left immediately. The third dojo was worse—mixed martial arts. I felt like I’d get my head split in half there. The fourth dojo was in somebody’s apartment, and on it went.
I wanted to find a traditional Japanese dojo. I wanted to see a clean space and formal Japanese etiquette. I was about to give up.
Maybe I’m not supposed to continue karate in New York, I thought to myself. Maybe I was only supposed to train under Vishnu.
For as much as I had struggled with my relationship with Vishnu, I had to admit I was grateful for the karate he taught me. He insisted we iron our gis before each class, that they stay crisp and bright white. He insisted we bow each time we entered the dojo and each time we passed a senior student. He insisted we tie our belts perfectly. And he pushed us to our limits. We had to do 108 push-ups on our knuckles in three minutes to p
ass our first promotion, from white belt. We had to break a board in order to advance to green belt. He made us learn the Japanese terms for everything. And he trained us to exhaustion every class. He had even given the security team and me katanas and had trained us how to use them.
As a ballet dancer, I am drawn to discipline, and I knew, as a small woman, that the only way I could ever be effective in karate was with perfect technique and impeccable timing. I wanted to continue learning about Japanese custom as much as I wanted to continue learning to fight. I did not want to join a dojo where a bunch of men came to beat each other up.
One night, while sitting in a bubble bath and thinking about karate, I suddenly had the urge to alter my Google search; instead of “karate dojo NYC” I entered “traditional Japanese karate NYC.” I discovered a dojo I had not seen previously. I went the next morning and knew immediately I had found my dojo. The space was beautiful. It had polished wooden floors and huge floor-to-ceiling windows. The class I observed was small, but I could tell by the way the students stood and by the way they were dressed that they were being trained well. The instructor looked kind, and when he demonstrated a move, I instantly saw how talented he was. His gi was crisp and white and perfectly pressed. His black belt was tied neatly. I signed up immediately and returned that evening for my first class.
It wasn’t long before I fell in love with the dojo and, because of my training with Vishnu, it wasn’t long before I was promoted to Hiroto’s Wednesday night class, and fell in love with him, as well.
I woke up every Wednesday morning excited about karate that night. My heart would beat fast as class time approached; as I climbed the stairs to the dojo, I’d get filled with nervous energy and high-school girl giggles.
“I love him,” I would tell anyone in the locker room who would listen, referring to Hiroto. I loved his thick New York accent. I loved the way his gi opened and showed off his muscular chest. I loved how strong his hands were and how great his karate technique was. I loved watching him walk up and down the rows of students, yelling at them, encouraging them, infusing them with energy, pushing them to their limits.
After the nightmare of dating Vishnu, I was really, for the first time in my life, ready to love a man, with all his faults and flaws and imperfections. I had been dating that snowboarder when I began the University of Mysticism, but I had realized that even though he was an amazing man, I still tore him apart in my mind, the way I did with every guy I dated. It suddenly dawned on me that if I could do that with him, the problem was not with the guys I was dating, the problem was within myself; there was something lacking within me. If I ever wanted to be able to have a real partnership, if I ever wanted to be able to truly love another, I had to fix what was broken within me.
Now I was an ordained monk; I felt like it was my duty to love. That’s what saints and monks did. And I felt like I could love anybody. Nobody could be as bad as Vishnu. Dating him had been great training ground; anyone would be an improvement after that experience. Plus, I was now in school at Columbia University. I felt much more secure about who I was and in which direction I was headed. I was ready to start the next chapter in my life. My heart was wide open. I was ready for a new adventure. And I felt like falling in love with someone in New York would help me settle in to my life there. Plus, I was so lonely. I had not been hugged for months. I was ready to be close to someone and I wanted that someone to be Hiroto.
One day, I was walking toward the dojo when I noticed him a few feet ahead of me. My heart started beating wildly. Something in a store window caught his eye and he turned left, toward the store, before continuing on. That delay was long enough to put us side by side just as he opened the dojo door.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied.
We started to climb the stairs together, him in front, me behind; I had let him go first since he was much senior in ranking. He turned to look at me as he was climbing the stairs.
“You obviously have some movement training,” he said, referring, I assumed, to the way I moved in his classes.
“Yes, I’m a dancer,” I replied.
His eyes lit up.
“That’s why your kicks are so good,” he said.
“My name is Hiroto.”
“I know. I’m Renee,” I answered.
My heart was fluttering. I smiled, he smiled, we both checked ourselves in to the dojo, and then he went to change.
As he walked from the lobby onto the dojo floor, everyone stopped stretching, stood up, turned to him, and bowed. My heart raced. That night, he made sure to say my name in class, to compliment me, and to help me with some of my technique. When helping me with a kick, he kept his hands on my hips a little longer than necessary. As he did, his eyes sparkled. Electricity flowed between us. I thought I was going to melt.
A few weeks later, I entered myself into the dojo tournament kata competition. When I showed up to perform my kata, I discovered to my horror and amazement that Hiroto was one of the judges. I had been nervous before, but now, with him in front of me, judging me, I could barely breathe. I got called to go first, to open the kata competition, and I ended up getting second place.
Hiroto came up to me in class the next week, put his hand on my back, and said, “Nice kata.” He left his hand there a moment longer, his touch filled me with warmth. I smiled from my toes to my ponytail.
That night, I stayed for a later class, and he was the substitute teacher. The class was smaller, so we each got a lot more individual attention. We got to see him break down each kick and punch. He had so much knowledge; he had studied karate for close to thirty years. He was a Master. Each move was flawless, executed with precision, delivering what would be a crushing blow at the end.
After class, as we were all sitting in the lobby of the dojo (in front of a large framed photo on the wall of a younger Hiroto breaking a stack of cinder blocks with the side of his hand, dust flying everywhere, gi open, muscles bulging), he loudly proclaimed, “I’m having a party at my exercise studio at the end of the month. Everyone from the dojo is invited.” His eyes lingered on mine as he finished his sentence.
A few weeks later I went to the party with some other students from the dojo. His small studio was crowded, but he noticed us as soon as we entered the front door and came toward us, tall and powerful and handsome, with a huge smile on his face.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said. I flushed red and smiled back. He showed us around his studio and introduced us to some of his staff, who informed me that, in the style of exercise Hiroto taught, he was one of only eighteen Master Trainers in the world. I let this information sink in as he sat down in front of a large drum and began drumming. He was amazing. Everyone began dancing. Not only was he a fifth-degree black belt, and one of only eighteen Master Trainers, but he was clearly an expert drummer, as well.
This guy is great at everything he does, I thought to myself.
Not just great—he seemed to master everything he did. Talk about somebody focused on every detail. Talk about somebody bringing the best of himself to everything he did. He was clearly walking some sort of spiritual path. This guy had to be my soul mate. I was now even more in love with him, if that was possible.
I had a great time at the party; we all did. As I was leaving, he ran outside, chased me down the street, and said, “Hey, Renee, I teach tomorrow at 1:00. Come to my class, as my guest.”
I smiled all the way home.
The next day, I schlepped from the Upper West Side to his fitness studio downtown. It took close to an hour. Class was great. The sheer power coming off of him was electrifying. He seemed too big for the machines, as if he had an energetic wing-span that was too large for the room. His thighs were massive, and I could see them straining against his sweat pants. I had to keep looking away. The muscles in his arms rippled as he demonstrated movement on the machines. It was all I could do to not imagine him naked.
When class ended, I felt euphoric. As I was putting my sho
es on by the front door, I overheard Hiroto whispering about pay to the girl at the front desk. She whispered back, “I’ll take care of it,” and then said politely, “Renee, it will be $20 for the class.”
I was shocked. He had invited me as his guest. In my mind, guest meant free. But I paid the $20; I wasn’t sure what else to do. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I misheard. Maybe he had been drunk last night and forgot this morning. Again, I doubted myself. I must have misheard. I went home and called Andre.
“Well, I think Hiroto is a jerk,” I said.
“So, you’re not in love anymore?” he asked.
I thought about it. “No, I still love him,” I said.
Andre laughed.
But it was true: I still loved him. I still dreamed about seeing him. In every karate class, he talked about the importance of a meditation practice and about focusing our minds. He spoke about integrity and drive and about bringing the best of oneself to each moment. He was right on board with everything I believed. I was a monk for crying out loud! A monk that practiced karate. This was my man.
And by this point, I had been ignoring my instincts for close to four years. I had been taught to believe my intuition was “the occult” trying to push me away from everything that would lead me to Enlightenment. So I excused the guest mix-up, telling myself it must have been somehow my fault, and signed up to take private sessions at his studio.
The Burn Zone Page 19