Who You Know by Theresa Alan Page B

for me not to look around my apartment and envision smiling pictures of me and my future boyfriend, Art or whoever he was, taken from a variety of interesting vacation spots. If things worked out between Art and me, we’d go camping in the mountains, vacation in Hawaii, go to museums in Italy and France. He’d tell me little-known facts about the artists and their work. As an artist, he’d be able to point out things that I might not see on my own. We’d make a cute couple. I had no proof, but I felt fairly certain he was quietly good-looking, with a friendly smile and beautiful eyes.
    By noon I officially began feeling guilty for squandering my day and I put on a T-shirt and shorts, threw my exercise mat on the floor, and started with some stretches. I used to do yoga every day, but now I was down to two or three times a week.
    After warming up I went into the downward dog position, feeling my muscles lengthen. I breathed slowly, letting my tension drain away. I stretched further, as far as I could go. I loved that moment when my mind stopped fretting over quotidian details and all I could think about was how good my body felt.
    When I used to perform, there was always that moment before the music started and the spotlights went on that I was sure I wouldn’t remember what the first step was and I’d be standing there, motionless, like an idiot. I would stand/sit/lie there in whatever strange pose, straining to remember the first step, and until the music started, I couldn’t have told you if you held a gun to my head what the first move was. My mind was that blank. But then the music would start, and the lights would come on, and my body always knew the right step, and I would get to this place where my body and mind were working together in a way they never did in any other area of my life. Throughout the performance, it seemed as if my body were acting on its own accord, as if the steps were programmed into my limbs. It wasn’t until the music stopped that I would realize just how intensely I’d been concentrating. Even though I worked hard and long at the office, nothing I did there challenged me like performing once had.
    After an hour or so of yoga, I went for a jog. I came home and showered and changed, then I called Rette. “What’cha up to?” I asked.
    â€œI just spent several hours inducing clinical depression by trying on wedding dresses. Now I’m not cleaning, not working out, not going to the library to search for jobs on the Internet, and I’m certainly not doing a damn thing about the wedding. I was thinking about how I should be doing these things, however. Does that count as being productive?”
    â€œYou are strategizing, really.”
    â€œOooh, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing, strategizing. How about you?”
    â€œI went jogging and decided that was accomplishment enough for the day. I was just about to read a romance novel. I have to read about someone else’s love life since mine is a desolate wasteland.”
    â€œOh, please. You have the mysterious Art. Sometimes I wish I could go back to the excitement of first falling in love.”
    â€œExcitement? Torture is more like it. I want to skip right to the part where you are comfortable walking around naked in front of him because you know he’ll love you even though gravity is doing horrible things to your body.”
    â€œWhen do I get to that part of the relationship? I don’t walk around naked even when I’m all alone. My thighs would chafe and the skin on the back of my arm would flap like a bird preparing for liftoff.”
    â€œVery funny. You’re beautiful, Rette. I know it and Greg knows it. You’re the only holdout.”
    â€œIt’s true I was lucky to score a guy who doesn’t mind fat women.”
    â€œYou’re not fat.”
    â€œWhatever. This stupid wedding is going to kill me. Why didn’t we elope? All the