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My feet ached with every step by the time my shift ended on Thursday. But Virginia did her recipe posts on Thursday or Friday, and I was determined to try cooking her dish for myself if it looked interesting. Gina had encouraged me to keep pushing myself, and cooking gave me an excuse to comment on Virginia’s posts and put myself out there more. If putting myself out there via virtual correspondence from the safety of my phone at home counted. I was proud of my progress, even if goals number two and three were still more ideas than accomplishments.
I trudged toward my townhome and opened my bag by the light of the front door to dig for my keys.
“Hey.”
My heart took off. I couldn’t contain my yelp, but at least I didn’t drop my bag.
“Eva. You scared me.”
The other woman emerged from the shadows next door. I didn’t think it was possible for her to look worse than before, but dark circles around her eyes gave her a raccoon-ish appearance. I held back the “you look terrible” and substituted it for something less likely to have her hissing and backing away from me.
“Sorry. Just grabbing a minute of quiet,” she said.
“How are you?”
She smiled ruefully. “Ready to admit that Maddy is at least half-monster.”
“I’ve heard it gets better,” I said.
She shrugged and hugged her robe to her shoulders. “When is that, exactly?”
“Ah, about eighteen years, I think?”
“Joy. Anyone ever tell you you’re a ray of sunshine?”
I scratched my head. “More like they tell me I’m top-shelf strange.”
She laughed and wished me a good night as I pushed open the door to my place. I toed off my shoes and crashed on the couch. That could have gone better. I stared at the ceiling. It also could have gone worse. She hadn’t denied I was strange. Then again, Eva lurking in the dark like a vampire didn’t scream normal. Perhaps she was a better fit for my brand of odd than I realized.
I looked around my living room, trying to imagine inviting Eva in for a drink. It was nothing spectacular, mostly Ikea furniture and a few houseplants I tried not to kill too quickly. Maybe that would be my next self-improvement venture, redecorating my apartment. Considering I’d lived there for almost eight years, it should have more personality, but there was nothing on the walls. As a metaphor for my life, it wasn’t half-bad. As for décor, it meant I wasn’t inviting Eva inside anytime soon. Then again, maybe asking her for decorating advice could be my next goal. A source of common ground and a solid reason to spend more time together outside of neighborly ‘hellos.’
I picked up my phone from the coffee table. I’d missed a text after work from Gina.
Gina: Stay classy, sassy, and a bit badassy.
Someone needed to revoke her Pinterest privileges. But not me. Her daily quotes may not be changing my life, but they made me smile.
Virginia Rothman had posted another amazing-looking recipe. This week’s offering was steak sandwiches with horseradish mayo, blue cheese, and caramelized onions in hoagie rolls.
My stomach growled. My salad from lunch was a sad memory by comparison. I clicked to the recipe and noted the ingredients I didn’t have, then set up a grocery delivery for the following day. The loner in me rejoiced. Cooking virtually alongside Virginia felt like a level of friendship I could manage. I didn’t even have to leave the house to have everything ready for tomorrow’s culinary adventure. Cooking was badassy, right? I didn’t need to see Gina’s eyeroll to know she’d disagree.
♦♦♦
FRIDAY’S MEAL PUT THE capital F in Failure. Virginia’s posts looked effortless and delicious, and I ... I was not that skilled. “Ya basic,” I muttered to myself as I viewed the results of the last hour in the kitchen.
My onions were less caramelized and more burnt. I tried to reason that the char would add to the flavor, but my optimistic side wasn’t quite buying it. The steak was overcooked and tough. And lastly, the horseradish. Oh, the horseradish. Clear sinuses were my proud reward for the potency of my horseradish cream. Not all horseradish was created equal, or at least that’s what my dripping sinuses screamed.
After a quick photo of my dinner fail, I womanfully took another bite. I was stronger than the horseradish. I was. It wouldn’t defeat me. If tears were streaming down my cheeks by the end of my dinner, there was no one there to witness my eyes and nose dripping.
I took a quick selfie and examined the evidence. Yes, I was riding the hot mess express. I looked like I’d been drug backward through the kitchen. My curly dark hair was sticking up in odd places and frizzy from the humidity. I had a smudge of grease on my cheek. Any makeup had melted off long ago.
Without giving myself too much time to rethink, I navigated to Virginia Rothman’s last recipe post and replied with my selfie. Every post eased my insecurities more, though they still lingered in the background.
@VirginiaRothman you always make this look easy. I cry foul!
I set down my phone and worked on cleaning up my kitchen mess before relaxing with a new Nalini Singh book for the rest of the evening. The distraction kept my nerves about any replies to my post and my first dance class Saturday under control. My next achievement to unlock. The reminder email laid out basic studio etiquette and expectations. Class attendees were encouraged to avoid lotions or other things that might make our hands or body slippery. No problem. We were also discouraged from arriving late because, gulp, they locked the door.
I could only hope they locked the door to keep distractions out and not keep the participants in. I had a basic level of fitness from being on my feet so much at work and needing to lift and maneuver patients, but would it be enough to keep up?
My single attempt at a ballet class when I was eight didn’t seem adequate preparation to avoid humiliation now. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’d quit after the first disastrous class. My love of bean burritos and pliés didn’t mix. I was too embarrassed to go back after adding my own percussion to the classical music.
Maybe I could hide in the back behind other students. Being overlooked was my superpower. I had a lifetime of practice at that.
That night I tossed and turned and eventually fell into a restless sleep. I should have realized I was dreaming, but for some reason spinning around a playground pole instead of one inside a dance studio seemed totally reasonable to dream-me. My breasts overflowed from my best lingerie—not the yoga clothing recommended by the class instructor. I kept tugging at the silky fabric, trying to get it to cover more and hide the flush of mortification washing over me. Kids pointed and stared as their mothers swooped in to cover their eyes. Eva shook her head in dismay from a bench, but her daughter seemed fascinated, blowing bubbles as she watched me.
I shuddered as I woke up. Only a dream. One that didn’t bode well for my plan to hide at the back of class. With luck, there would be no school children to horrify.
