I glance down at my bacon-grease-laden fingers. The very last thing on earth I want to do is gowork out.The whole point of eating my feelings is tonotburn off the calories that are coating my interior fat, which is like a hug on the inside. But I also know that Mom and Nami will keep on bugging me untilI show up, and then I’ll have the avalanche of texts afterward if I don’t, the guilt trip in stereo.
Do I have to come?
I type. Maybe, this one time in our lives, Nami will show me a little pity.
Mom says you have to talk to me about the wedding. What’s up?
I don’t actually think Nami will care about me going solo, one way or another, but part of me is worried she will care. She’s become obsessed with little details since she started planning her nuptials and she’s wound tighter than a violin these days. She broke out in tears in the pots and pans section of Crate & Barrel last week because she couldn’t find the nonstick saucepan she wanted for her registry. So, probably best if I break the news in person.
Will tell you when I get there. I’m on my way.
I grab the newly nuked bacon off the table and wrap it in a napkin. No sense in wasting good farm-to-table thick-sliced goodness. I can eat it in the car.
I walk into the sleek FlyFit studio and everything has the FlyFit logo on it, a loopy double “F” that, if you squint, kind of looks like a double infinity sign. This is terrifying because if there’s one thing I don’t need an infinite amount of, it’s exercise. People wait for the studio door to open, about six so far, and every person is clad in expensive, coordinated athleisure wear. I glance down at my (washed!)k-r-otsweatshirt and faded, ultra-stretchy yogapants, so worn the brand name has long since worn off the lower back. I’m pretty sure the fabric might even be sheer in places, but who cares? I’m at thegym. I don’t need to impress anyone. Not that there are any men here to impress. It’s all women of various ages, all fully matching, from their colored hair ties to the logos on their designer cross-trainers.
“You made it!” calls Nami, emerging from the crowd. She’s outfitted in something bright and shiny, black and pink. She’s normally a size two on a bloated day, but since her stressful wedding planning, she’s plummeted to a size double zero. She hugs me, and she feels like all sharp edges. I’ll need to talk to her about eating something. She pulls back from me, frowning. “Why do you smell like bacon?” she asks me, perplexed.
“No reason,” I lie.
Then she looks at my outfit and frowns. “Uh, what are you wearing?” she asks, uncertain, as if she’s never seen my once-white, now grungy yellow sneakers, with the rubber on the toe half peeling off. She glances uneasily around at the well-coifed crowd. Two more ladies push through the revolving door, wearing matching mauve spandex.
“Clothes?” I offer.
She frowns, disappointed. Okay, so I’m sorry I can’t afford stylish workout gear. I’m not a corporate attorney at a start-up tech firm that I helped to get off the ground, which will probably, one day, net her millions. Plus, I remind myself, Solo February gives me the license to dress how I want, not how I think other people want me to dress. I can just, for once, be comfortable.
“Glad you made it,” Mom says, and thankfully doesn’t comment on my shirt or shoes. She’s cut her jet-black hair into a layered bob. She’s wearing new lipstick, too, a coral that suitsher. She’s in her early sixties, but her age seems undefinable. She could be thirty-five. She could be sixty-five. Mom likes to joke often that her Japanese heritage means that she’ll look young until one day, suddenly, she’ll just look very, very old. Her Japanese ancestors have two speeds: ageless and old as hell. Right now, she’s ageless: no wrinkles, still mostly flawless skin except for a sunspot or two. I’m just thirty-two, but I hope those are the genes she’s passed along to me.
“You can use this!” she adds, ruining her opening by patting my shoulder sympathetically. She sniffs loudly. “Do I smellbacon?” She clucks her tongue in disapproval. “Youknowyou and I can’t eat like Nami does.”
“Mom, Nami doesn’t eat.”
“I eat,” Nami protests.
“Right.” I glance at her sharp collarbone.
I wish I’d saved some bacon in my pocket. I could use it now. Then, when they ask why I have bacon in class, I can just tell them it’s my comfort animal.
“So? What do you want to tell me about the wedding?” Nami asks me, eyes bright. She’s clearly somehow under the impression this is good news. Did Mom make her think I’d landed a famous DJ for the reception or something?
“Uh… I…” Why is this so hard? “I don’t have a date for the wedding.”
Nami blinks fast. This is not what she’s expecting. “Oh.” She shrugs. “Well, you’ll get one. You still have plenty of time.” She waves a dismissive, perfectly manicured hand.
“She’s not going to evenlookfor one,” Mom chimes in. “She’s giving up on men.”
“Mom, I’m not giving up on them. I’m taking a break. For the month of February.”
Nami now looks a little more concerned. That wrinkle in the middle of her forehead appears, the one when she’s backed into a corner, like pretty much any time we played Connect Four. She hates to lose. She also hates, more than anything, to have one of her meticulous plans derailed. I love Nami to death. She’s smart and fiercely loyal, but wedding planning has brought out her worst qualities. I should’ve seen this coming. More women pour in from outside, and the three of us move closer to the studio door with the giant gold infinity sign.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” Her voice is getting higher pitched and squeaky. I realize I have completely underestimated the ripple effect of me not having a date. Who knew it was this important? “I’m already so stressed right now, and you throw this on me? Now I’ve got to find you a date?”
“I was actually thinking I’d just go without one.”
Nami presses her lips in a thin line. This isn’t what she wants to hear. “I’ve already made the seating arrangements.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But, I mean, can’t we just take away a chair?”
“Take away a chair!” Nami huffs, as if I’ve asked her to sever her pinkie to prove her loyalty. “No, we can’t.”
