Yoga Girl Looks at Herself.
Back in Boulton, Colorada.
"True love doesn't exist, friends. Everyone's playing a game. So lose as quick as you can—lay down your king—give up. For it's only on the other side of defeat that the mysterious heart, cracked, can let some light in." ~ Dr. Willard Evans.
She had 99 Problems, but her black Amex wasn’t one.
Lululemon was sold out of her favorite 98 dollar pants, rip off, but so worth it.
She’d left ‘em in San Fran at the Yoga Journal conference. That boy she’d slept with, the hairy one who stank like the hippie he wished he was, the aging hipster boy with the too big wannabe-Tom Selleck brown mustache, with the effing cliché dirty trucker hat and annoying habit of thinking everything he said and did was interesting…
…he’d been on her f&*king mind.
She hadn’t given a s*#t about him until he didn’t call back, and now she was actively resisting the feeling that she’d been played.
But two could play this game, she was 25: she’d seen plenty. She knew what he was doing…piqueing her interest by feigning disinterest. That was her game.
She knew, however—looking at herself in the huge empty Lululemon mirror out on the floor— looking through her own empty light sky blue eyes, pretending to be thinking about the loose see-through (she wore a black sports bra under) white tank top for 59 bucks…she knew she was perfect.
Can I help you with anything?, the fat-thighed retail girl fakely asked her with a big fat fake smile. She nodded no, smiling fakely, and went back to her conversation with herself.
She was what men wanted. She was tall enough, and fit, with naturally blonde hair and not at all voluptuous and, like a tribeswoman, she wore her money on her—perfect sunglasses, jewelry, coach bag, all of it simply, tastefully ostentatious. She liked playing around. She asked men out to too-pricey bars and insisted on paying half. She was the postmodern fruition of generations of matriarchal pushback. She could walk into a model session for yoga balls and not have to change or get made up. She was what old b*$s in Orange County or Sundance or Aspen wish they were, thumbing through their catalogs, considering plastic surgery.
But, being second-gen rich, she had her own problems. Namely, she was bored. She had little to do other than enjoy life—and enjoying life is awfully boring, after awhile. She went on her yoga trips to Mexico, Costa Rica and here and there. She had her friends who didn’t like her, that much. She had affairs with the strong-jawed men and it was all fun but, as with a too-flexible yoga student, there was little challenge in it for her. She envied poor people, with their real life problems—you know, paying bills and getting their crap car fixed and buying stuff on sale at the grocery or whatever.
The only ongoing struggle on her sunny horizon was some sort of inner discomfort. She wasn’t an idiot; she knew she was missing something. Perhaps that was what she liked in Eco Boy—he was dirty and self-involved and too cool and cared about everything—eco this, Occupy that—he seemed like the kind of guy who’d be cute to have lots of sex with and play with until, like cat and mouse, she killed him and dropped him, dead mouse, bored. But in the meantime they could be very see-and-be-seen at restaurants and she could get him to shower more and they could have more backbending, hardwood floor thumping sex.
So: first move?
She walked back to the changing room.
How to get him to chase her?
She went in the changing room with her name on it and closed the door. She took off the $59 see-through white tank top and dropped it on the floor and looked at herself as she redressed. She needed some sun. She left the store with another free fake smile and walked up to the parking lot and b-beeped her hybrid (SUV) and threw her bag in the back and got in and turned the silent ignition and drove off. She let her iPhone idle in the cupholder. She wanted to figure this out. Without really thinking she drove to the café where she’d seen him, that day, his ass nicely filling out his old indigo jeans.
Downtown, she drove around the block five times, until she found a parking spot. She walked in the old wooden café, waiting in line with a bunch of high school kids too young to go out, got her mah-tay. She sat down, same seat as before, by the window.
She went back to plotting. She just had to get him thinking about her. Once she got him texting/calling her it was game over—he’d be on the hook, chasing her, idealizing her, I’m in love with you, you’re the one. He’d be calling and texting more and more, protesting her ignoring-of-his-fragile-ego.
She didn’t give a s#*t, of course. She didn’t plan on falling in love until she was at least 28.
So if she wasn’t gonna get married, which she wasn’t, she was a highly rational being, she just needed something to do. And by something, she meant someone. She was just effing bored. She’d tried working but that was boring, too—she didn’t need the money and she was plenty smart and other than dressing for work, each day, there wasn’t much to it. At work, nobody was supposed to sleep with anybody and her dad wouldn’t retire or die for at least another 10 more years.
So, cute boys and travel and staying fit was all she had. It wasn’t enough—but she had an inkling that this shallow Eco Boy a@)#*e would prove a good, long, hard, frustrating timesuck.
Perhaps she’d met her match in not-giving-a-shit. And something about that was immensely entertaining.
Like Hemingway hunting a great elephant, she donned her proverbial safari hat and loaded up her big gun and plotted this new boy’s demise. If he proved more of a challenge, well then she’d be entertained by this elephant, or mouse, until the Spring. And then it’d be travel season, again, and before you know she’d be 26 and she’d have been kept far away and safe from that hot boredom she hated so.
…click here to read the rest, I can’t effing type in here it’s too damn loud.
Yours in truth, but slantways,
elephantjournal.com, Walk the Talk Show with Waylon Lewis
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