By Mistake Page 3

  Neon Legwarmers and a Whole Lot of Hygge

  Kayla to CHICKENS: This monthly challenge is ruining my reputation. People are starting to question my mental stability.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Oh, drummergirl, we all know that deep, deep, like underneath all the drummer badassery you’re nothing but a little cuddly kitten.

  Kayla to CHICKENS: Maybe I should resort to the usage of emojis after all. Just wondering, is there a middle finger one?

  Anna to CHICKENS: Drunken Fishing? #curiousmindsinquiring

  Kayla to CHICKENS: The hell is Drunken Fishing?

  Anna to CHICKENS: A thing we do, you’ll love it. It involves alcohol and fishing.

  Kayla to CHICKENS: You had me at alcohol, Nielsen.

  “Are you ready?” I call out with a bright smile, ignoring the raging morning-after-drinks thudding inside my head. “Okay, then, step forward, step backward. Knees high, let’s go.” After about five minutes of light cardio, I move on to the fun part. “Stretch, stretch, pull,” I call out with enthusiasm and clap. I grin at the eighteen ladies and two guys that follow my every move. I clap again and declare, “Grapevine!” And the entire group steps forward with the right foot, then steps forward with the left foot.

  It is a sight to behold.

  Never gets old.

  The moving mass as per the class’s theme is adorned in eighties style attire. It’s a spectacle of colorful neon legwarmers, hairbands and leotard overkill . Eye of the Tiger plays in the background as the class follows my Jane Fonda moves with utter zeal. “Now to the side, you got this people.”

  When It’s Raining Men comes on next, I step it up a notch. “Get ready to Charleston!” I yell over the music, and they Charleston it like it’s their job. Sweaty faces regard me with happy smiles.

  “Great job everyone,” I conclude the lesson forty-five minutes later. “If you’re staying for yoga, we’ll start in ten in the grey studio.” As always, I have a few clients come over to thank me. This class is usually booked weeks in advance with a prominent waiting list. And the best part, I love it! I’m having such fun teaching it. My besties get a free pass if there are very last moment cancellations.

  One of the clients, a successful businesswoman, once suggested that I do online classes, get followers, and “put myself out there” as she put it. “I have a hunch—you’re going to be a hit,” she said. I might consider doing that sometime in the future. Blissfully so, I have enough on my plate at the moment as it is. What with the thirty-plus classes a week I teach, my online presence is a platform aimed at promoting a healthy lifestyle through nutrition, lifestyle, and fitness. Not to mention, my constant education and private research on the link between food and health. If you get me started on the gut and mind connection, I guess I’ll go on for days. It was Hippocrates who said, “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.” I’m the greatest supporter of this theory.

  The grey studio is already set up for the Vinyasa Yoga lesson. I just light up a couple of candles and switch on the diffuser then run to the office to change into yoga gear. Just before taking a couple of breaths to calm down, I check my phone. An involuntary smile takes over my lips when I notice a new email from Liam. Who is this person? I murmur to myself when I notice the message’s timestamp. 4:32 a.m.

  Good morning Anna,

  Hold up, am I chatting to a fellow Tolkien fan? Now, even though Little Shit is a pretty cool guy I’m glad you’re not Little Shit. Between you and me, I don’t think he’s ever read Tolkien. For shame!

  Without sounding ungrateful, I must say that I strenuously object to your reward system. Such a quick email etiquette violation fix is at the very least a solid five, I believe. Also, I’m a bit at a disadvantage here, don’t you think? If I knew I was being graded I would have been on my best behavior from the start.

  Tell me something, how does one get points in Anna’s world aside from being a Tolkien fan?

  You asked about Little Shit. Are we getting personal, Anna? Do I get to ask you questions if I tell you about Little Shit?

  Little Shit, aka Benjamin, is a good friend with whom I lost touch due to demanding work life and adulting in general. I know, lame excuse. But what can I say, life happened.

  I think I’ll stick to Little Shit, suits him better. Well, Little Shit is in Yemen for the next couple of months, posting with Doctors Without Borders. Anything else you want to know about Little Shit, don’t hesitate to ask.

  Talk soon,

  Liam

  “It’s not a walk of shame if you run.”

  I put the phone back in my bag, close the office door and jog to the grey studio.

  “Close your eyes. Place one hand above your chest, the other on your navel.” I do what I tell the class. “Breathe in through your nose,” I say in a gentle voice. “Expand your belly fully on each inhale.”

  The room is softly lit by the few candles scattered around, a hint of lavender scenting the room via the air diffuser, but I have a harder time than usual getting into the zone. You can say that at this moment I’m not exactly practicing what I preach. I inhale and exhale, eyes closed, but I can’t seem to completely tune out the voices in my head. Worries about getting approved for the loan, worries about Ms. Rotfield not waiting for me to come up with the money, worries about if I can even manage it all if I do get the loan, poke at me. Another thought barges in out of the ever-loving blue, just how much I like the sound of the name Liam.

  “Let’s get into child pose,” I say and turn to kneel, slowly leaning my chest to the matt. I glance at the class just to make sure everyone is in the right pose. “Close your eyes, take a nice, deep breath in.” We remain in this position for four cycles of breaths. “Let’s move into down dog.” I jump to my feet and correct a couple of people, making sure pelvises are in the right positions and backs are straight. “Take a deep inhale and lower into a plank.”

  We finish off with a couple of deep breaths sitting in a crossed leg position.

  “Good lesson,” Mark, a new-ish client says. He trades looks between me and the people filing out of the room, seeming to wait for something.

  I smile at him. “Thanks.” And blow out the candles. I turn to collect some of the abandoned mats. Most are cleaned and put away by the clients. But there are always exceptions. I spray the mats with cleansing essential oil, taking a lungful as I do. I love the scent. A spicy aroma that smells like cloves, citrus and fall baking. As I clean the mats before stowing them away, Mark takes a few steps closer to me. I raise my brows in question.

  “So,” he clears his throat. “Do you want to grab a coffee, now, or maybe some other time?” When I frown in surprise, he murmurs, “Or tea.”

  I’m caught a little off guard. In my defense, I didn’t get that vibe from him. Actually, I was sure Mark was more into the testosterone-producing gender. What with the time he spends checking himself out in the mirror instead of eyeballing his fellow female yogis in their skin-tight attires.

  “Oh, thanks. But I already have plans.” I don’t elaborate or leave an opening for a rain check. It’ll never happen. I’ll never date a client. Don’t tryst where you teach and all.

  “Some other time, maybe?” He adjusts his messenger bag.

  I just smile. “See you on Thursday?” I say in a nice dismissing tone.

  Thankfully, he gets the hint and nods with a smile. “Thursday, Anna.”

  Checking my watch, I haste to drape on a long, soft pink cardigan over my grey yoga attire. Luckily, I don’t have to lock up today because there’s another lesson taking place in the smaller studio by one of the other instructors. We don’t get to see each other much, my colleagues and I, as there is at least a 10 minutes gap between lessons so as to not have an overcrowded changing room. I shove my phone, keys, and water bottle in my bag next and shrug it across my body. I speed-walk en route to my car and drive to my mom’s office where lunch, family, and comfort await me.

  The bell above the door chimes as I open the door to my m
om’s quaint office. I take the deepest lungful of air, breathing in the incredible sent of burned wood and cinnamon, mom’s office trademark scent. The moment I step in, my worries melt away. I adore and admire my mom. She’s my inspiration and role model. She’s home. Hell, she’s my Oprah! Both mine and Victoria’s. Equally the notion of visiting with her and this place wraps me up in comfort no other place can.

  Mom is a Hygge consultant. With her Danish origins and incredible sense of style, she’s an interior design consultant basing her methods and designs on the Hygge concept. Someone once said that Hygge can’t be translated, it needs to be felt. I can stand behind that. In English the term has no literal translation, making it almost impossible to pinpoint exactly what Hygge means. But if we leave romanticizing aside and go down to pragmatics, Hygge is by and large a mood of coziness and comfort with feelings of contentment. And boy has mom Hygged the heck out of her place. When you step in your first urge is to grab a throw blanket and snuggle . . . for days.

  Imagine, if you will, a ski chalet with wooden furniture, a fireplace, cashmere blankets, a furry rug, and the scent of gingerbread cookies and apple cider cooking on the stove. Both mom’s office and my apartment, styled by mom, instill the same feeling. Utter Hygge.

  I shriek, startled when someone pushes the door open, blocking my attempt to close it. Victoria’s blond head pops in the doorway, followed by a smart skirt-suit as the rest of her materializes.

  “Bean, that you?” Mom’s voice calls from the little kitchenette at the back.

  “Winnie and Bean!” Victoria calls back, bumping her hip with mine as she passes by me. My mom says that when Victoria was born she looked like a long, pinkish wiener. I was a preemie baby born at 34 weeks so, you guessed it, I looked like a bean. Henceforth, Beanie and Winnie. Victoria sort of kept the wiener look, what with her tall, lithe figure. As for me, let’s just say that beans don’t usually sport six-pack abs and a healthy bosom.

  I toss my bag on the cozy sofa, taking in the scent of freshly baked apple cake, and my mouth waters. “What’s up, Chicken?” I ask Victoria’s tight, no single loose hair, ballerina bun.

  She throws me a wicked grin over her shoulder. “I’ve officially stepped into the dark side, baby.”

  I send my hand to grab my sister’s elbow, “No Vic, you didn’t.”

  She nods, smile intact.

  “When? You . . . That’s the real reason you stayed behind!” I say, referring to Victoria finding a lame excuse to stay at Poison after I left.

  “He asked me if I wanted to go for a walk after you guys left. We sort of went on a very, very long evening stroll.”

  “A date?” I ask somewhat incredulously. “Ricky doesn’t seem like a dating sort of guy to me,” I say, referring to the sizzling lead singer of Kayla’s band. We were introduced to her bandmates by Kayla. Victoria almost lost an eyeball when it nearly dropped out of the socket at the sight of Ricky.

  I scoff and add. “Nor do you, really.”

  My dear sister isn’t your usual dating type. She maneuvers the dating world in her very unique way, much, much to unpack there. My lips tip at the side.

  “Hold up, Ricky and Vicky.” I let out a chuckle. “Awww, how cute!”

  Well, cute isn’t the optimal term one should use to describe these two. Different worlds would be a better fit. Rock and roll bad boy meets corporate world executive is more like it. I couldn’t find a better example of opposites attract even if I tried.

  “Oh, I mean Ricky and Vicky . . . and Stan, and Felipo, and Jordan, to be precise,” I add.

  Like I mentioned, my sister doesn’t really do conventional dating. She does date guys as in a few of them . . . concurrently. Not my jam but I’ll never judge.

  Vicky rolls her eyes with a sassy little side smile, disregarding my mentioning of her latest harem of male friends. “It was a coffee sort of thing, and a walk and – I’ll tell you later. I’m not too hyped on unpacking it next to—” Victoria grins when her eyes land on mom. “Hola Mamasita!”

  Mom’s smile radiates our way when we enter the small space. “Tea?”

  I nod, my eyes zooming in on the cake on the cooling rack. I give my mom a lingered hug/kiss on the cheek combo and move on to cut the cake. I place a piece on each of the plates set aside for us and add fruits and nuts on my plate a soft smile present on my lips. One of my favorite things to do is hang out with my family. And eat.

  Mom leans in to hug my sister. Rewarding her with a sassy smile, she asks, “How are you, my dear? How many lovers do you currently have?”

  Vicky answers with a smile that carries no less cheekiness but remains silent. See, my sister – well she doesn’t think love and career go hand in hand. Also, she loves to flirt and to be swooned, and so she found the ultimate formula that works for her. Her “relationships” are respectful, understanding, adult, and cordial. And it usually works . . . that is until they, the enthused suitors, either want more or give up. As for mom, I don’t think that she doesn’t approve of it, on the contrary. As long as her girls are happy she’s happy.

  “So, guess who’s going to New York next week on business?” Victoria beams just before loading a generous piece of cake into her mouth. “Mom,” she says with her mouth full, ever the princess. “So good!”

  I eye my sister with a pinch of suspicion. See, if there’s something my older sister loathes it’s traveling on business. I can probably write a whole book with the excuses she used thus far to get out of business trips. I swear the number of bogus family events she came up with would put the Kardashians to shame.

  Mom rewards Victoria with a smile that carries no less doubt. “Oh really, Winnie? And you’re excited about it?”

  The only downside to people knowing you well is they see through your bullshit.

  Playing it as if she doesn’t sense our obvious doubt, Victoria shrugs and goes on about where she’ll be staying and how excited she is to get some free time there as well. I squint my eyes at her, trying to read between the cheery lines.

  Another cup of tea later, the chime of mom’s phone has us pause our conversation that moved on to an easy talk about books we’ve read this week and shows we’ve binged on. I love swapping recommendations with these two. We have our little unofficial culture club. It was Victoria who recommended Sally Rooney’s books and the show Fleabag to us. I’ve been a huge fan of both ever since. You can say I have a newfound pull to culture from the British Isles.

  Vic and I exchange a what’s-going-on-here? look when mom’s whole demeanor turns edgy. Mom coughs and moves on to take the call in the adjoining room, her office where she meets with clients.

  “Is it just me or does she not want us eavesdropping?”

  “I think you’re on to something, Sherlock,” Vic deadpans.

  Waiting for mom to come back from her mysterious call, I suddenly have a eureka moment. I point at Victoria with my mouth slightly dropped and shake my head. “You’re meeting him in New York, you little wiener. Ricky! He mentioned he’d be gone the whole of next week last night.”

  Victoria traps her lips with her teeth.

  “Did you sleep with him last night?” I prod.

  Victoria shakes her head. “Define sleeping.”

  She has the decency to stop playing games with me when I glare at her.

  “Just kidding. It was purely platonic. We didn’t even kiss,” she says. “Purely platonic with enough heat-energy to run a damn power station.”

  “I’d never picture you with someone like him. He seems to be a cool person, definitely not your type though.” I shake my head. “Vic, what are you doing?” I ask.

  She shrugs, “I have no clue, Beans.”

  There’s an Appeal in Chaos

  I pull my surgical mask below my chin. “I’m going to grab a nap,” I tell the nurses at the nurses’ station.

  Both older ladies smile at me tenderly in unison. Kathy, the one with the big, kind eyes hands me one of those mini chocolate bars. The lady is on a miss
ion to feed us all. “Get something to eat while you can.” See? “It’s stormy outside, and you know how first rains tend to send people our way,” she says with a conceding little smile.

  I nod. Unfortunately, first rains and accidents go hand in hand. I wish tonight will prove us wrong, but in the back of my mind, I just know it won’t. Statistics.

  Earlier this evening, I asked the universe for just minor incidents. Tonight, I don’t mind the scutwork; I’ll draw stat labs, round with social workers to discuss patient placement upon discharge, put in orders for nurses, and accompany patients to tests if it means no one will be critically injured. There’s a moral dichotomy in my line of work; on the one hand, I’m eager to get the special cases, the severe trauma, yet on the other, it means someone is suffering, or in critical condition.

  Dan, our Chief Resident, and Olivia, a brilliant intern, head my way, looking no less tired in their blue scrubs as I must appear. They nod at me, wordlessly confirming they’re joining me in the staff room for food just before, they, like me, will probably try to steal a few minutes of shuteye.

  My dad who’s also a surgeon, practicing what I call easy money medicine, aka plastic surgery, once asked me why I chose to become a trauma surgeon knowing how exhausting, ungrateful at times, and demanding the job is. Color me masochist, but there’s an appeal in the chaos that’s the Emergency Department. I know, I know, don’t come at me with pitchforks. Yes, stress is one of the riskiest health challenges of the twenty-first century right after obesity. There’s a whole resistance out there promoting special oils, chants, mantras, and eastern rituals and practices, fighting to make western civilization calm the fuck down. But you know what? Just like everything in life, it’s an individual thing. I thrive on the adrenaline it takes to manage unexpected trauma.