I nod and remain silently perplexed as he makes his way around the rest of the class. Perplexed and mildly aroused. My lack of intimacy curse strikes again.
After what seems like three hours of endeavouring to breathe incorrectly, Brad asks us to stretch our legs out, exhale deeply and reach for our toes. Oh, dear God, my toes might as well be in space as I’m not reaching them anytime soon. We repeat this a few times before we ‘rock the baby’, a move which involves cradling one of my legs like an infant while moving from side to side. My flexibility allows me about an inch of lift before I start to wobble like a Weeble. The rest of the class doesn’t get any better. My downward-facing dog resembles a fat-arsed hunchback at the start of a race, I fall flat on my tits during planking and I almost boot Will in the face trying to do a sun salutation. I’m not the only one getting it badly wrong, however. Even those who appear experienced occasionally lose their balance, Jillian gets her earring caught in her hair and at least two people break wind, though no one owns up.
As we finish by giving thanks, I flop to the floor, feeling stretched to within an inch of my life. Is yoga supposed to make you sweat this much? I look at Will who’s perfectly dry and not fazed by any of this.
‘Did you even participate?’ I ask, scanning his brow line for signs of perspiration. ‘I’m a mess here! You just look like you’ve had a nap.’
‘I do yoga,’ he replies. ‘Most days. Well, Pilates mainly. This was more like a light stretch.’
‘Bullshit!’ I reply. ‘There’s no way!’
He laughs. ‘Why is it so hard to believe? I had back surgery a couple of years ago. Yoga was part of my rehab and I kept it up. My instructor is more physiotherapy-focused than spiritual. He doesn’t give thanks to the cosmos afterwards.’
I’m unsure whether to believe him or not because he looks like the type of man who would bully fancy yoga types and steal their brunch money. I’m tempted to make him perform complicated Pilates manoeuvres in front of me but it’s time for our last session of the day, so I put my shoes on and follow everyone back into the main room.
‘For the last session today, I want you to go off and revise your cosmic love order. You can return to your cabin, sit in the garden or by the loch, wherever inspires you. See if your original thoughts on your ideal partner have changed. Sit quietly and reflect on whether the changes you feel within yourself have altered what you want from a potential partner. Thanks, everyone, we’ll see y’all here at seven pm for dinner.’
I feel slightly guilty that I intend to use the last session to shower and eat chocolate, but I imagine I’m not the only one. Will mumbles something about having a nap while I observe Patricia and Kenneth scuttling off together like a pair of horny teenagers. I feel a pang of envy. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to sneak off with anyone. I walk with Will back to the cabins, while everyone disperses in different directions.
‘I think people are actually going to work on this,’ I say, pointing towards Meg who’s sitting on a bench near the loch. ‘I feel like I’m bunking off school.’
‘Me too,’ Will replies. ‘Fun, right?’
I laugh. ‘A little. Though I could do without dressing up for dinner tonight. I just want to slob out in front of the telly.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Will replies, ‘but if you think you’re leaving me with that lot, you’re wrong. I need some level of decent conversation. I’ll pop over at six forty-five pm and we can walk up.’
I reluctantly agree and head into my cabin, desperate to get out of my sweaty yoga clothes and into the shower. I hang my one and only dress on the back of the bedroom door before heading into the bathroom. My mind might be on this evening but there’s a nagging voice in my head, thinking about the task I should be doing. I turn on the shower and let it run while I grab my notebook from the kitchen table and flip back to the pages on cosmic ordering.
I laugh as I read through my notes.
Has siblings with ridiculous names like Beetroot and Windfarm.
Even my serious attempts were half-arsed.
Is funny.
Has full head of hair.
Really? I think. I’ve just described Ken Dodd. Am I so demoralised that I’ll just settle for anything?
I throw my notepad on the table and return to the bathroom, stripping off. I’ve never properly thought about what I want from a partner because I’ve never considered it to be an option. Well, maybe once Charlie leaves home in her mid-twenties, but by then I’ll be fifty. I can’t imagine the dating pool is deep when you hit fifty. More of a murky puddle.
I step into the shower and vigorously wash off the day.
If I did get to order my ideal man, he’d be a lot more than hair and jokes. He’d be kind, honest, passionate, clever, tall, handsome… but not handsome enough to make me wonder what the hell he was doing with me. He’d know what I like without even having to ask… independent… great in bed… big, girthy—
Will in his grey joggers pop into my mind and I nearly drop my complimentary loofah. This is getting ridiculous.
It’s just a knob, Nora. The knob of a man who has no interest in you and every interest in his wife.
I begin shaving my legs because hairspoking through tightsis not the look I’m going for this evening.
And more importantly you have no interest in him! You’re just confused from all the manly pheromones and the Brad arms and the heavy breathing you’ve been exposed to.
‘Correct!’ I say audibly, moving on to the other leg, surprised at my own level of awareness. I’m impressed. Maybe I have learned more than I thought? Maybe I really have left the old me at the door?
Though, maybe you should tidy up that overgrown pubic disaster… you know… just in case.
