Two Feet Off The Ground Page 5

  I giggled like a school girl.

  She handed me a jump rope. “Why don’t you jump for about one minute? I’m going to get a step block.”

  I attempted to jump over the rope, but every time it circled my head, my ponytail caught it like a spider web. It took me about ten times before I got into a rhythm and could skip over the rope and make a complete revolution with it. By the time Paula came back to the mat, I struggled to catch my next breath. It’s very difficult to look sexy and be halfway to passing out at the same time.

  “Time for some step-ups,” she said.

  Step-ups? I’d be lucky if I could walk ten more steps on the mat.

  She set the block down and stepped up and down a few times to demonstrate the move. “Do that for about five minutes and I think you’ll be ready to get started. You never want to work cold muscles. You’ll pull them and regret it for days.”

  Oh, I knew the pain. I once pulled my hamstring on Johnson’s Pond trying to get up on water skis, of all things. If stretching beyond a split mid air and slamming face first into fifteen feet of water wasn’t enough to instill a lifetime of fear into me, then nothing could. I couldn’t walk on my leg for a week.

  “Let’s warm up my muscles, then,” I said. I stepped up and down and eventually sweat began to run down my face and threaten a mascara leakage. Even though I wore waterproof mascara, it never protected from raccoon eyes. At the two minute mark, I stopped dabbing my eyes with my towel and focused on preventing a complete meltdown of my respiratory system. Breathe in twice, open up the diaphragm, release the breath, pull in the diaphragm. I read about this breathing technique in the salon’s copy of Fitness Today magazine. I repeated this mantra for the next three minutes, praying it would keep me from passing out. I wouldn’t give up.

  When her watch beeped, I buckled to my knees and fell into a stretch. I bent forward and attempted to touch my toes. My fingertips flirted with the point right above my ankles. Oh, the stretch felt good. My muscles ached already. If she forced me to work this hard for the next hour, I’d be shoveling aspirin into my mouth that night for sure.

  “Do you belong to a gym?” she asked, scooting next to me to stretch, too.

  Admitting I bought a lifetime membership to Brick and Mortar would be more humiliating than not belonging to a gym. “No, but I have a few exercise DVDs that I workout to.” I only half lied. I did have a few exercise DVDs from the late nineties. No need to mention they existed under five layers of blankets in my closet with their wrappers still unopened. “They’re a good workout.” I must’ve sounded like a real jock now.

  “What about free weights? Do you have any?”

  Well, that would’ve been a big no. I jotted down a mental note that right after my workout I’d drive directly to Wal-Mart and buy some. “Yeah, I have a couple lying around my living room so I can work my arms while watching TV.” I just kept plucking the lies out of thin air.

  “What weight are they?”

  “Oh, you know – hmm, the cute pink ones.”

  “Two pounds, five pounds, ten pounds?” She raised her eyebrow at me.

  “I think I’ve got all of them.” Owen was going to be so thrilled to see me walk in the house later with an armful of the weights he’d been begging for since his birthday the year before.

  “I’m going to show you some exercises you can do at home with them.” She slid up in front of my outstretched legs. “First, we’ll start with some abs.” She placed her hands on my ankles and pushed them forward so my knees were now bent, then she rolled her knees on top of my new sneakers to hold me in place.

  Only a quarter inch piece of leather separated us from each other. My belly flipped.

  “Now, reach up and bring your chest into your knees.”

  I struggled up and landed within inches of her face. I clamped onto my knees for a few seconds, and held my breath. Down I fell and up again. After ten times, I planted my arms around my knees for strength.

  She cradled her hands around my shoulders. “Your flushed cheeks are adorable.”

  To this I simply smiled, but I could’ve kissed her. All I had to do was stretch in about five inches and there I’d be on her plump lips. I could barely breathe.

  “But, don’t think just because you’re cute that I’m going to take it easy on you,” she said. “I came here to make you sore.” She offered her hand to help me up. “Let’s get some ten pounders in your hand.”

  When I placed my hand in hers, my insides turned upside down and jiggled me around like popcorn kernels in hot oil. From the tricep dips, to the squats, to the biceps curls, to the time I landed on the bench press and curled my fingers around the bar, my tummy continued to party. And when Paula came up from behind me and clasped her hand around mine to reposition them in the right place, the party transformed into an all out rave, tickling every nerve in my body. “Push out ten for me,” she said, temporarily sweeping my reverie under the foam mat.

  “Eight.” I bargained, my arms burning still from the dips.

  “Eight, if you tell me right now you’re coming with us to D.C.”

  She had no idea I had already dug out my luggage from the attic the night before. “Eight it is, then.” I lunged into my first press, and even had the strength to look up at her smiling face.

  * *

  I walked into Wal-Mart on a mission – get in and get out as quickly as possible so I could run home and surprise Owen with our new dumbbells.

  I scanned the large signs hanging over each department. Of course my aisle would be located at the furthest point from the store’s entrance. I backtracked to get a cart and wheeled down the aisles like a stuntwoman, weaving around small children and other carts with reckless abandon.

  Pillows, curtains, cleaners, frozen foods, all whizzed by in a blur. When I passed the book section, one jumped out at me, placing everything else around it in a haze. As though God himself shined a beaming light from the sky down on it, its yellow cover glowed in a halo and begged to be picked up from its front and center rack. I rolled closer to it like it possessed the answers to all my most important questions – How to Live Life with No Fear - Hope for Anxiety-Ridden People.

  I yanked it off its book rest and read the back cover.

  Do you suffer from panic attacks? Are you envious of everyone else around you who can live normal lives without fear of passing out, having a heart attack, or dying in front of others? If so, I challenge you to read what I’ve got to say and see for yourself that you, too, can live a fear-free life.

  I buried it under my pocketbook on the cart’s seat and shoved off to gather my weights.

  Pink, purple, black, white, metal, plastic, even foamy barbells were my choices. Posters of fit men and women curling up their biceps stared down at me as if saying, ‘Don’t even think about it. Go buy yourself a new pair of shoes and call it a day’.

  I reached for the pink set, but walked my fingers down two rows to the metal ones knowing Owen would be outraged with anything different. I filled my cart with three different weight sizes. I’d be rock hard in no time if I used the damn things.

  Now if I could just build some strength in the bravery department of my life, too, I’d be unstoppable. I wished just once I could have the guts to get on an airplane and travel to Vegas or wherever else Paula wanted to go. We could play the slots until the wee hours of the morning, while sipping Mojitos and feeding our faces with chocolate strawberries. Just once, I’d like to taste paradise. Sink it in between my teeth and savor its juices.

  If only I could snap my fingers and be in that world, life would be great.

  * *

  How could I ever expect to end up with someone as great as Paula when I couldn’t even grasp a simple concept in my new book? The book stated anyone could practice the techniques and offered freedom from fear. Like hell. I turned the book over and glanced at the back cover again, perplexed at how this person ever became a published author, writing such nonsense. Close your eyes and imagine you are s
oaking your feet in a warm bath. Now imagine the water absorbing your tension as it draws it out from the top of your head throughout your entire body and out of your feet. Let the water do the work. The panic should disappear rather quickly. Gene Walters, Ph.D. has obviously never had a panic attack.

  I sipped my coffee. For the first time in months, I scheduled an hour lunch break and actually kept it free. Nothing would get in the way of my reading time. I was determined to put an end to my fear once and for all. The other fifty times I’ve attempted this in the past were just trials. This was the real deal.

  Just as I was reading my first sentence, Aziza rushed into the break room. I didn’t give her a chance to speak, before bitching to her. “This book is a load of crap.”

  “Not now. I need your help.” Aziza stood frozen in front of me with her mouth hanging wide open. “I pasted bleach on Joanie’s new growth and her hair is breaking off in clumps.”

  “How long ago did you apply it?” I asked, reluctant to climb out of the cozy oversized chair Aziza just purchased at IKEA.

  Aziza shifted, biting her lip. “Almost an hour ago.”

  She overbooked herself and squeezed cuts in between complex perm and dye jobs all the time, and like usual I was the one who dove in and offered her a lifeline. If I were boss, she’d be in big trouble.

  “You forgot about her?” I pushed her out of the way to get to that poor woman’s rescue. Before I even stepped two feet out the barroom style doors, I noticed none other than Tania West sitting with wet hair in Aziza’s chair. I spun around. “Are you kidding me?” I pushed right back into the break room. “Tania?”

  “How do you know what she looks like?”

  “Every lesbian knows what she looks like.” I rolled my eyes at her and crowded her against the pantry doors. When I couldn’t sleep, I Googled people. Of course Tania blanketed the Internet, picking her guitar in front of thousands of hungry fans. And of course, I spent nearly two hours scrolling through countless images of her, wishing I could have an ounce of her confidence. “Why is she here?”

  “I told you that I met her. We chatted and one thing led to another and I offered her a free haircut if she would donate a signed guitar to be auctioned off for the Arts Council.”

  I seethed.

  Aziza grabbed my hand. “We need to help Joanie.”

  Two minutes more wouldn’t help Joanie now. “Why did you bring her here?”

  “Don’t be so angry. I didn’t do it to make you upset.”

  “Well, I am upset,” I said.

  “Look, calm down.” Aziza put her arm around my shoulder. “I did this for you. I figured if you met the former competition, then maybe you’d be able to overcome your fear a lot faster than reading some stupid book.”

  “That’s your answer? You think I’ll take one look at Tania and just like that my anxiety will disappear forever?”

  “Let’s face it, sweetie, you’re going to get hurt again if you don’t change your ways. You need to see what kind of person Paula’s into so you don’t go screwing this one up.”

  If she didn’t soften her eyes just then, and rub the back of her hand down my face like a mother tending to her feverish child, I would’ve snapped her fingers in half.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Tania is really a sweetie. She gave me the rundown on her relationship with Paula. They were hot at one time, but they’ve obviously cooled down now.”

  I’ve never fully understood why I tended to get jealous over things that happened way before I even existed in someone’s mind. For some reason, I felt like I just got stabbed in the gut. All I could picture was Paula making love to her famous girlfriend, devouring her like a piece of creamy cake, not leaving any of her behind. “I hope you’re up to date on your insurance payment,” I said before whipping around and charging towards Aziza’s latest screw up.

  Joanie sat tall at the color station, reading a Vogue magazine with her lips curled up into a neat smile. Her hair stuck up in the air like a paint brush smothered in dried up Kilz. I eased up to her.

  “Hi, Joanie.” I tried to sound as professional as possible as I starting poking her roots with my fingertip. Small flakes of bleach powdered down to her cape. Aziza broke the cardinal rule of on-the-scalp-bleaching, crossing that line of demarcation between new growth and previously colored hair. “Aziza is behind, so I’m going to shampoo your hair. I’d like to try a new conditioning treatment on you, too.”

  “I won’t argue. This is like a vacation for me,” Joanie said.

  Enjoy it, I felt like saying, because it’s about to turn into the vacation from hell in about two minutes when all your hair barrel-asses down the drain. “Good for you. Just keep on relaxing.”

  I brought her over to the sink and investigated further, sneaking a peek at Tania who poked at her hair in the mirror. She had to have full, pouty lips, didn’t she?

  Aziza snuck up behind and lurched over my shoulder like a nervous squirrel afraid the neighborhood cat was going to eat her nuts. I eased the water on and prayed that her hair would survive the light stream. Her hair repelled the water like a freshly waxed car. Droplets of water netted around the pockets of bleach, remaining on top of it instead of washing through like with normal, healthy hair. I shot Aziza a dirty look.

  Time to get my hands dirty and find out Joanie’s fate. Would she be walking out looking like Pamela Lee or Sinead O’Connor? I slid my finger into a clump of hair and lifted it to let the water sink it.

  Globs of hair washed out of my fingers and into the sink.

  Aziza poked me so hard I winced.

  “Everything okay?” Joanie asked.

  I kicked Aziza’s shin. “Everything’s just fine. I banged my leg on the pipe, that’s all.”

  Joanie relaxed, oblivious to her new porcupine style.

  A smart hairstylist never admitted errors. If a perm didn’t take or, in this case, a bleach job disintegrated every other strand of hair, some stylists might take the tactic of blaming it on the product itself. A good stylist would never let on a problem occurred.

  “Aziza and I just got back from the New York show and we learned so many great styles for the fall. The new ‘in’ is a very short, sort of a spiky and textured Sharon Stone Basic Instinct look. You have the perfect hair and face to carry it off.”

  Then a good stylist holds her breath and hopes her reputation at being great at what she does will serve her well so the client latches on to her creative ingenious.

  “I would never be able to pull off short hair,” Joanie said.

  Yeah, well, you have no choice, bleachie. Time for the brutal honesty approach. “Your long, bleach-blonde hair is very dated. You’ll take ten years off your face if you wear the new style.”

  Joanie frowned.

  The pressure of the water carved her new style right there in the sink. Aziza would owe me big time if I could figure out a way to persuade Joanie to go for the new do. I went in for the straight shot. “If you let me make you over with this new style, you’ll not only have your service completely done for free today, but I’ll even throw in four complimentary massages, too.”

  “Really?” Joanie asked. “What’s the catch?”

  “When I see the perfect face for a style, I will do anything to convince. We need a new makeover story for our Wall of Fame.”

  “Ten years, huh?”

  “Maybe even fifteen,” I said.

  “My husband will kill me.”

  “Your husband will take one look at you and fall in love all over again.” I massaged conditioning shampoo into her fragile two inch roots. Loose strands tangled around my fingers like vines.

  “What will Aziza think? I thought she liked my long hair,” Joanie said.

  I looked over my shoulder at Aziza who had plunged back into flirting with Tania, completely disinterested in the mess she created. Of course. At least she had faith in one aspect of my life.

  “Aziza is the one who begged me to talk you into it. She said she’s bee
n trying to find a way for years to tell you that your style needs updating.”

  “Is my hairstyle really that bad?” Joanie asked.

  “It’s just not as good as it could be. People get too attached to their long hair. Free yourself, Joanie. Go for it!”

  “I can’t be outdated with my line of work. Will it be sexy?”

  “Trust me. I’ll make you sexy,” I said, fully convinced now that I actually would.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to agree to this. I get this whole thing done for free?”

  “For free.” I shut off the water and wrapped her hair in a towel. “We’ll condition after the cut.” No way would I grant Joanie a second more to contemplate. With fragile seconds ticking away, I had to pretend to chop a chunk of her hair off right away so there was no turning back.

  “Stay here for a second.” I ran to my station and grabbed my scissors. On my jaunt back, I snuck a look at Tania’s reflection and my stomach turned. She was even more gorgeous and perfect up close.

  Just as I skipped back to Joanie, my cell phone vibrated. Owen never called when I was drinking a cup of coffee or cleaning up my station. No, he always managed to call when I was in the middle of a really important hairstyling moment.

  “Owen, I can’t talk. Just tell me if you made it home okay,” I said, sprinting back over to Joanie’s side just in time to block her hand from touching her hair. I couldn’t let Joanie feel her two inch spikes just yet.

  “It’s Paula,” she said with a chuckle.

  I slid my hand off Joanie’s. The blood rushed out of my face and down to the hollows of my toes, I think. “Hey,” I managed. “It’s my personal trainer!” I couldn’t hide the excitement, and quite frankly, I didn’t want to either.

  “How you feeling from your workout yesterday?”

  How could I tell her that every muscle besides the ones in my pinky fingers felt like they were bound by a rubber band five inches in width and not come across as being a total wuss? “I feel great.”