definitely drive a normally sane woman to say crazy things. Like that she’d teach a yoga class.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh,” Brigitte says. “I just meant, I know you do yoga, but I don’t know whether you can lead an entire class full of bridesmaids.”
“And honeymooners and possibly surf instructors. Oh, my God.” I stop walking and clutch my head. “What have I done?”
“It’s okay,” Brigitte soothes. “Just tell them you can’t do it.”
Right. I’ll tell them I can’t do it. I can’t teach a yoga class. And I can’t surf. Can’t travel without getting all bent out of shape, can’t get a man to stay with me and share a life with me. I hate can’t. Kate wouldn’t do can’t. “No,” I state. “I can do it.” I start walking purposefully down the path again.
“But how?” Brigitte asks, trying to keep up.
“I’ve taken yoga for years. I can practically recite an entire Mountain Yoga basic class by heart. My teachers used to tell me all the time how good I was at yoga. Well, how different can taking a class be from instructing one?”
Brigitte shrugs. “I guess you’ll find out. When is the class?”
“Tomorrow morning. Randy and Evan had already told Juan, the manager, before I even got downstairs after lunch. He was thrilled.” I manage a weak smile. “He even gave me another free night.”
“You should get every night free in that bug condo,” Brigitte says, “without having to teach. I mean, pretend to teach.”
Her lack of confidence is dissolving my resolve. “Look, I’ll keep it simple. Just one class, everyone’s happy, and my cover’s not blown. Besides, how many of Bon Voyage’s writers can say they’re actually saving the website money on these trips?” That is, if I can keep them from getting slapped with a lawsuit after this fake yoga teacher accidentally breaks somebody’s neck.
WE GO BACK to the beach for our afternoon surfing lesson, and Randy is telling us about our equipment. We’ll each get beginner’s boards, which, unlike regular surfboards, are made of foam rubber. “This way, if your board konks you on the head, you’ll laugh, as opposed to when a fiberglass surfboard konks you,” he says. “Being unconscious is definitely un-fun.”
He shows us how to attach the leash to the board and to our ankles, both so we don’t have to swim after the board when it gets away from us, and so it won’t hit another surfer. “It’s important to stay connected,” Randy says. “You and your board are married for the week, okay?” The Bridal Party giggles, the Honeymooners give each other lovey-dovey smiles, and Brigitte looks at me with sympathy as I try not to groan too loudly.
“Now for the fashion portion of your equipment. You’ll need these shirts called rash guards,” Randy says, indicating what he’s wearing. “They call them that because they guard you against the abrasions you can get from pulling yourself up on the board repeatedly. Anya will give you a hand with those.”
We’re directed to a hut on the beach that serves as supply storage and gift shop, and Anya distributes rash guards to each of the campers. I end up with a grey shirt that’s kind of baggy and not terribly flattering. I’m about to ask for something that fits better when I see that the other women in our group have also gotten loose guards, while the few men among us are now showing pec cleavage. So that’s how Anya rolls. Kate just smiles, thanks Bitchy Anya, and walks away.
We’ve come to the Meet Your Surfboard part of the afternoon, and everyone lines up to get sized for the right board. William, being almost as tall as Carson, gets a long blue board, while the Honeymooners, both about my height, get shorter ones.
Then it’s my turn. While Carson looks me up and down politely, I can’t help but take in his broad shoulders, the curve of his toned biceps, his sinewy arms, his strong hands. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. I
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh,” Brigitte says. “I just meant, I know you do yoga, but I don’t know whether you can lead an entire class full of bridesmaids.”
“And honeymooners and possibly surf instructors. Oh, my God.” I stop walking and clutch my head. “What have I done?”
“It’s okay,” Brigitte soothes. “Just tell them you can’t do it.”
Right. I’ll tell them I can’t do it. I can’t teach a yoga class. And I can’t surf. Can’t travel without getting all bent out of shape, can’t get a man to stay with me and share a life with me. I hate can’t. Kate wouldn’t do can’t. “No,” I state. “I can do it.” I start walking purposefully down the path again.
“But how?” Brigitte asks, trying to keep up.
“I’ve taken yoga for years. I can practically recite an entire Mountain Yoga basic class by heart. My teachers used to tell me all the time how good I was at yoga. Well, how different can taking a class be from instructing one?”
Brigitte shrugs. “I guess you’ll find out. When is the class?”
“Tomorrow morning. Randy and Evan had already told Juan, the manager, before I even got downstairs after lunch. He was thrilled.” I manage a weak smile. “He even gave me another free night.”
“You should get every night free in that bug condo,” Brigitte says, “without having to teach. I mean, pretend to teach.”
Her lack of confidence is dissolving my resolve. “Look, I’ll keep it simple. Just one class, everyone’s happy, and my cover’s not blown. Besides, how many of Bon Voyage’s writers can say they’re actually saving the website money on these trips?” That is, if I can keep them from getting slapped with a lawsuit after this fake yoga teacher accidentally breaks somebody’s neck.
WE GO BACK to the beach for our afternoon surfing lesson, and Randy is telling us about our equipment. We’ll each get beginner’s boards, which, unlike regular surfboards, are made of foam rubber. “This way, if your board konks you on the head, you’ll laugh, as opposed to when a fiberglass surfboard konks you,” he says. “Being unconscious is definitely un-fun.”
He shows us how to attach the leash to the board and to our ankles, both so we don’t have to swim after the board when it gets away from us, and so it won’t hit another surfer. “It’s important to stay connected,” Randy says. “You and your board are married for the week, okay?” The Bridal Party giggles, the Honeymooners give each other lovey-dovey smiles, and Brigitte looks at me with sympathy as I try not to groan too loudly.
“Now for the fashion portion of your equipment. You’ll need these shirts called rash guards,” Randy says, indicating what he’s wearing. “They call them that because they guard you against the abrasions you can get from pulling yourself up on the board repeatedly. Anya will give you a hand with those.”
We’re directed to a hut on the beach that serves as supply storage and gift shop, and Anya distributes rash guards to each of the campers. I end up with a grey shirt that’s kind of baggy and not terribly flattering. I’m about to ask for something that fits better when I see that the other women in our group have also gotten loose guards, while the few men among us are now showing pec cleavage. So that’s how Anya rolls. Kate just smiles, thanks Bitchy Anya, and walks away.
We’ve come to the Meet Your Surfboard part of the afternoon, and everyone lines up to get sized for the right board. William, being almost as tall as Carson, gets a long blue board, while the Honeymooners, both about my height, get shorter ones.
Then it’s my turn. While Carson looks me up and down politely, I can’t help but take in his broad shoulders, the curve of his toned biceps, his sinewy arms, his strong hands. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. I
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