Whatever. Fruits and veggies aside, my point remains.
I am zen.Zen as fuck.It’s not easy to rattle me.
And yet, I must admit…
Today, I am rattled.
I am not calm.
I am not collected.
I am not cool.
Honestly, though… can you blame me?
I am, after all, currently locked in the trunk of a car with my hands bound together by zip tie and my mouth covered in duct tape, being taken god only knows where by god only knows who, for god only knows what purpose. (Call me crazy, but I have a hunch it doesn’t have to do with my rather impressive yoga skills or my impeccable home decor taste or my unparalleled fashion sense.)
The car jolts to a stop.
Trying not to pee my favorite pair of Lululemons, I hear a door open and attempt to draw from that bottomless sense of calm that’s gotten me through some rather sticky situations in the past. Like that summer afternoon I blew out a tire on the highway in my two-seater convertible and nearly bit the dust beneath the carriage of an eighteen-wheeler. (Thank god for airbags.) Or the day of my wedding when a flock of pigeons shat all over my ten-thousand dollar white dress as I walked from the limo to the chapel. (Looking back, that wasdefinitelyan omen from the universe I shouldn’t have ignored.) Or Christmas morning, when Paul hurled my favorite Tiffany-style lamp against the wall six inches from my head in a blind rage. (See what I mean about ignoring that bad marriage omen?)
All those times, I managed to make it through without much more than the faintest uptick in my resting BPM. And yet, as I listen to the crunch of boots on gravel approaching the trunk, I feel my heart thundering like a battering ram, hard enough it could splinter my ribs and tear itself right out of my chest.
My deep breathing techniques have officially fled.
My chakras are decidedly unbalanced.
I am full-on, no holds barredfreaking the fuck out.
It’s almost ironic. I mean…
Who would’ve ever in a million years thoughtI’dwind up here?
Sedate, serene, steady-as-she-goes Shelby Hunt.
Putting theominOMG, I’ve been kidnapped.
Chapter One
NAMASTE (in bed)
One week earlier…
“Namaste.”
Releasing a long breath, I open my eyes and watch as fifteen intermediate-to-advanced yogis bow back at me. With murmured thanks, they begin rolling up their mats and heading for the exits. I wave when I spot a few regulars in the group, mixed in with a healthy number of new faces. My class has grown more and more popular, these past few months. I’ll have to start turning people away if Aimee, the studio owner, doesn’t give me another time slot. Plus, I can’t lie — it would be nice to have something else to occupy my pathetically under-scheduled Saturdays.
A girl can only spend so many hours binge-watching Netflix alone before her brain starts to atrophy… along with certain other sorely-neglected body parts south of the waistline…
I don’t bother looking for my friends in the crowd. They’re not exactly what you’d callathletic— unless running through the mall in pursuit of a shoe sale counts as cardio. (I’m looking at you, Phoebe.) Besides, they’ve all been so busy for the past few months, I’m lucky if I even get to see them at our occasional girl’s nights. Without margarita pitchers and gossip to entice them, there’s approximately a zero percent chance of getting them to show up at one of my sunrise fitness sessions.
Maybe if I start serving bottomless mimosas after class…
I sigh deeply.
It’s not that I don’t understandwhymy besties have been MIA as of late. Our twenties have been a whirlwind of job changes and life shifts, new relationships and apartment moves, lavish weddings and squirming babies. Plus, unlike some of us, my friends actually enjoy spending time at home. (It probably helps that they have men who worship the ground they walk on — albeit, in fabulous footwear — waiting when they step through their front doors.)
What a novel concept: actuallywantingto spend time at home…