Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.”
The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face.
“No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.”
The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock.
“How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa.
Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.”
“Roots,” I subconsciously help her.
“Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have diarrhea…”
“Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.”
“And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says, standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side.
Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek understanding for Edith.
Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the ones who were disturbing the class.”
She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time, you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.”
“What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar. Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice that she was threatened by our conversation.”
I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I text him back.
Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by all fashion gods.
“I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.”
We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us.
“You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.”
“We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.”
Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa.
“Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.”
I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady.
***
“I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…”
I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.”
“But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.”
It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children.
In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers.
Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.
I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista.
That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him.
In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there.