looked precise. She looked focused. She looked like a real yoga teacher.
“Knee. Over. The. Ankle. Arms up in the air. Anjaneyasana.” She leaned forward, swooping down to rest her hands lightly on the mat before transitioning into the next pose. “Warrior two.”
Mrs. Klemmer showed the poise of a true yogi.
In comparison, Poppy felt more like Yogi Bear.
“Um…Mrs. Klemmer?” Poppy dropped her voice to a whisper as Mrs. Klemmer continued through the salutation.
“Yeah?” The older woman never broke stride.
“You’re very good at this. Do you want to take over the class?”
Mrs. Klemmer turned her head slightly to acknowledge Poppy’s question. “Oh. Sure. Of course.”
It seemed like Mrs. Klemmer wasn’t even shocked by Poppy bringing the idea up.
“Really? That would be great.” Poppy thought the feeling that washed over her was relief. But she wasn’t entirely certain.
“Okay.”
Was Poppy’s inadequacy as a yoga instructor that apparent? Well, this pretty much indicated that she could scratch anything instructionally-based off the list of potential careers…
“I’m gonna go.”
Mrs. Klemmer’s perfect rhythm of inhaling and exhaling never varied. “Okay. Bye.”
“I’m just gonna get my bag.” Poppy contorted herself underneath the teacher’s outstretched arm and snatched the leather duffel off the ground. “Thank you.”
There was nothing left to do but race away from the class and far from her latest failed career incarnation.
Later that afternoon, Poppy’s journey to adulting didn’t get any smoother. She’d been working at Marino’s Pizza Parlor near the University of Washington campus for about a month to put a little regular money in her bank account until the number of yoga students at her classes picked up. She’d hoped to build a base of clients who would recommend her, so she could then start charging for the classes and maybe find her place in Seattle.
At first, the management at Marino’s put her on the register while another team member was out taking care of a sick grandmother. But when Monica came back, Jimmy, the manager, transferred Poppy to the kitchen.
Today was her third day as a chef—so to speak—and Poppy could honestly say it was her third day of disaster. Yesterday, she’d tripped and knocked a pizza off the peel. It slid so far back into the depths of the brick oven that Jimmy wasn’t able to retrieve it before it became a charred circle of doom.
So far, nothing she’d made was going to inspire any fancy reviews on Yelp. But at least tossing dough in the air spoke to her carefree side.
Until she lost control of the disc of pizza dough in the air, and it came darned close to landing smack on her face. Poppy stuck her hands up to catch the dough, but instead it hit her fingers and tore. Poppy realized that—much like the yoga classes—her zen wasn’t going to be found in pizza either.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy. I don’t think I’m very good at this.”
Jimmy’s brow furrowed as he studied the sad result of her efforts. “It happens.”
Poppy lifted her blue apron from atop her Marino’s-issued green polo shirt. Her zen clearly wasn’t going to be found in synthetic fabrics, either. She wadded the apron in a ball and handed it to Jimmy.
“Now that you’re free, I was wondering if maybe we could go out sometime.” Jimmy looked a bit like a lovestruck teenager.
What was that song about moons and pizza pies? It seemed to be coming to life, right here in Marino’s.
Poppy’s mouth went dry. Wasn’t he supposed to tell her something about when she could come pick up her last check? Or, like, a reference or something? When did asking ex-employees out become part of the termination process?
“Oh…I don’t date my bosses.” The very thought made her feel icky. She could use something that centered her right about now. Too bad nothing in her life was working today. Not teaching yoga. Not pizza-making. And definitely not dating. Because she wasn’t going on a date with Jimmy.
Jimmy fired back with a practical observation. “Great. Because I’m not your boss anymore.”
“Or my ex-boss.” She knew she hadn’t let him down easy, but she didn’t really care. She needed to get out of Marino’s. She needed to take several deep breaths of the fall Seattle air.
Poppy grabbed a “Help Wanted” sign from under the counter and stuck it up to display on the kitchen’s countertop. Hopefully, the speed with which she walked away, never looking back, would make her point—about both her skills as a pizza chef and her unavailability as a potential date.
Adulting was hard. And, quite possibly, not for Poppy.
Nightfall didn’t make the day any better.
In a weak moment last week, Poppy had agreed to let her sister, Megan, set her up on a blind date. Megan’s husband had recently been deployed for six months from the nearby naval station in Everett. Megan had moped around for the first few weeks, and Poppy finally caved on this blind date thing because she’d thought it would make her sister happy.
When it came to Megan, Poppy would do just about anything. They’d been a dynamic duo for years, navigating weekends shuttled back-and-forth from one parent to the other. Poppy never would have made it without Megan, and she loved her sister with a fierceness that she often found hard to put into words.
Which is how she found herself doing the one thing she swore she’d never do again: letting someone fix her up on a date.
It wasn’t that Poppy didn’t believe in true love. She did. She really did. All she had to do was look at Megan and Gary to know that real, genuine love was out there. But like so many things, every time Poppy tried it, it went wrong.
Dates don’t always have to end in disaster, right? Poppy gave herself a mental pep talk as she watched tonight’s candidate for happily-ever-after, Mike, come up the front sidewalk. Besides, Megan knew Mike from the navy. He had to be a good guy if he sailed out on the high seas to defend America.
Poppy nodded, pleased with her own internal realization. She took a deep breath, then opened the door before Mike even knocked. She could do this.
He came inside for a moment and said hi to Megan as they exchanged initial pleasantries—Poppy felt pleased to notice nothing had seemed too awkward so far.
“Let me take your arm,” Mike said as they walked out. He smelled good. His cologne was manly. It smelled like something a guy who had a career defending his country would wear. He looked nice, too—he had a little bit of gel in his dark hair to sculpt it back.
Poppy noticed that even his clothes seemed to be ironed. He’d put in some effort for their evening out. You didn’t really see that much anymore. In a world of Tinder swiping, Mike might just be a Cyrano de Bergerac.
“Thank
