B009R9RGU2 EBOK (24 page)

Lizzie, finally chill, joins us out on the front porch, nuzzling her old friend, little stub of a tail wagging furiously.

“You do know I’m always here for you?” Izzy continues, crouching down to ruffle Lizzie’s fur but never taking her deep almond eyes off me.

“Of course,” I say. She’s the closest I have to a sibling. “And likewise.” But here, across the country, on my doorstep?

Only Izzy
.

“Good. So invite me in. I’m baking.”

While my unexpected guest cools down and hydrates, I hurriedly shower and get dressed. Minutes later, hair still damp, I find Izzy walking around the living room, reliving her own memories of the place.

“Seems like yesterday, right?” I say, taking a seat on one of the sofas. Lizzie watches from the floor of the foyer, worn out from all the earlier excitement.

“It’s been, what, ten years since I was last here? And yet I feel totally at home. Though I’d be happy to never see
that
again,” Izzy says and laughs, pointing at the wet bar. “Just the thought of our high school bartending ‘skills’ makes me queasy.”

“Izzy, it’s
so
good to see you.” I still can’t get over the fact that she’s here. If you didn’t know better, you’d never guess that she’s originally a SoCal girl herself—even though she was always of the rarer dark-haired and stubbornly pale variety that was more interested in catching esoteric punk bands at claustrophobic clubs than rays at the beach. I made peace years ago with the fact that the east coast—especially New York City—suits her. And it never hurts to have an open invite to the Big Apple. Okay, there’s no getting around the real reason she’s suddenly back in California. “If you’re here for the intervention, you’re a little late,” I say sheepishly.

“But not the restoration,” Izzy says, offering an optimistic smile that would give anyone hope. “When I got your email, everything clicked. I’m so sorry. You must be devastated. I started to write back… but then impulsively booked a direct flight to LA instead. Thankfully I thought to call your parents first.”

“But what about your job? And Charlie and Simon?”

“Eh, they’re fine for a couple of days. Simon sends his love. And work will survive without me. Felt like you needed me most now.”

Sometimes I really think she’s psychic. It thrills me to have my best friend again.

“On the flight over, I concocted an entire body-mind-spirit recovery plan,” Izzy says. “Or simply put, I’m here to distract you until you feel better.”

If my life was a movie, the next ten hours with Izzy would be a cheesy montage set to your absolute favorite pop song. Time flies by and, true to her word, I laugh more than in the last couple of weeks combined. We stroll the mile-long, lushly landscaped El Paseo shopping district, “The Rodeo Drive of the Desert,” sampling its high-end boutiques and abundant art galleries for both a little retail therapy and welcome shade.

El Paseo’s numerous restaurants usually offer the best people-watching, but since the summer heat has considerably weaned the crowd, we opt for a different trip down memory lane. Juanito’s, a kitschy little Mexican restaurant we always enjoyed before Sunday evening rides back to LA, has been there as long as I can remember. And inside we discover that, like the condo, it hasn’t changed much in the last two decades. We follow the golden-skinned hostess, who clearly lives in the desert because her only alternative would be to live inside a tanning bed, to our table and order a round of margaritas on the rocks—an upgrade from the virgin daiquiris of our past.

Finally, stomachs full, we consider a scenic drive out to Joshua Tree National Park but, with a shared knowing look,
elect to indulge in some last-minute spa treatments at The Spa at Desert Springs Resort Hotel. One date scrub, mineral spring wrap, and deep tissue massage later, I practically float home.

For a whole day LA isn’t even on my radar.

Somehow Izzy is still awake, but I can sense that the long day has finally caught up to her jet lag. As she checks in with Simon, I bring in her black Epi leather Louis Vuitton carry-on from the rental car and then direct her to the master bedroom. “You get my parents’ room since clearly you’re the more adult of the two of us,” I say, ending any further protest.

Minutes later, when I’m sure Izzy’s passed out cold, there’s a soft knock at my bedroom door.

“You asleep?” Izzy stage whispers.

“No. Come on in,” I say. Izzy enters, dressed for bed. How is she still standing? “Aren’t you exhausted?”

“I’ve got a two-year-old, remember? It’s amazing how little sleep I need.”

I scoot over, thinking she’s come to join me for a nostalgic slumber party chat, but the surrounding time capsule proves too distracting.

“Oh my God,” Izzy says, admiring the poster of Leonardo DiCaprio from
Titanic
tacked next to the closet. “Nice.”

“If you think that’s special, tomorrow you should see what treasures I found stored in the closet—including the old Ouija board, photo albums, journals, and my dog-eared copy of
Let’s Go Europe
.”

“How could I forget that priceless tome we carried everywhere. Hey, remember in Copenhagen when we met that girl from Orlando—”

“At the hostel without any hot water and—”

“She told us she traded her copy of
Let’s Go
for some hand cream.”

We laugh at the ridiculous memory. I tell you, send two clueless friends overseas together at an impressionable age and they’ll be bonded forever. The stories never get old.

“Wait. I almost forgot something,” Izzy says, going back to her room and soon returning with a bright pink and blue herringbone-patterned box. “All the talk about Europe reminded me of the little gift I brought you.”

In my hands the square box is fairly light. A pink banner atop reads:
LADURÉE PARIS
.

“They’re macarons imported from Paris via Manhattan’s Upper East Side,” Izzy says, removing the box top to reveal two rows of variously hued decadence. “They’re all the rage.”

“And here I thought cupcakes were still trendy.” I can’t resist sampling one of the vibrant meringue-based cookies, sandwiching sweet ganache, jam, or buttercream. And then I select another flavor to try because, well, I don’t want to be rude. And devour another. “Wow” is all I can mumble between bites.

“Whoa,
mademoiselle
, save some for me,” Izzy says, joining me on the bed and mock-wrestling for the box. “Actually, eat away, because after today’s gluttony, we’re getting some exercise tomorrow. A little sweat therapy.”

I look at her skeptically. It’s not that I’m unathletic per se. But I haven’t stepped foot in a gym for several weeks now, and admittedly it’s not near the top of my to-do list. Plus I know Izzy, who miraculously finds the time and motivation to regularly
work out or swim laps during her lunch hour. There’s no way she’s going to let us simply pedal a bit as we watch CNN or syndicated sitcoms on the TV monitors.

But I hold the trump card.

“Sounds great,” I say, channeling drama-club-skill sincerity, “but I didn’t bring any workout clothes.”
Shucks
.

“Nor I,” Izzy says. She surveys the room, a mischievous smile dawning on her face. “But I have an idea.”

We make quite a pair
. In matching red high school gym shorts, complete with a white racing stripe down each hip, there’s Izzy, sporting a The Cranberries tee, and me, non-ironically rocking a Hootie & The Blowfish concert tour T-shirt. I don’t know who should be more humiliated. Probably me because I once wore each proudly. Thank goodness for elastic waistbands and the very relaxed sizing of the mid-nineties.

“I forgot you were once so badass,” Izzy says slyly, checking herself out in a wall-to-wall mirror at the Fitness Kickboxing gym.

We’re waiting for the preceding class to finish. Remember, in the past I
dated
a would-be ninja and that sport-of-the-future kickboxer, but I’ve never tried kickboxing myself. From what I see, it doesn’t look so bad. I’m even a little ashamed of my initial resistance.

Other than the front desk and adjacent beverage cooler, the matted room consists of nothing more than two parallel rows of ten heavy hanging bags and some jump ropes to the side. There’s no potentially embarrassing one-to-one combat arena.
It’s just you and a can’t-miss bag, waiting to get pounded. To the chirpy beats of a Katy Perry remix, the cute and very flexible male instructor calmly leads his class through a series of wind-down stretches. Basking in the sheen of hard-earned sweat, everyone’s all smiles. There’s even a round of spontaneous applause at the finish.

I’m actually looking forward to this new experience.

My favorite Rihanna song, “Umbrella,” comes on. I excitedly nudge Izzy with my freshly purchased and rather comically padded boxing gloves. Compared to the fingerless variety on most others in the room, they make it seem downright advantageous to be a newbie. As if I’m off to bowl with the bumper rails up to prevent any chance of gutter balls.

And then, the ol’ bait and switch.

Mid-lyric, Rihanna is replaced with something like speed metal mixed with the dregs of hip-hop. A stern hipster guy in his early twenties, with a shaved head and a beard with no mustache, Amish-style, picks up the instructor headset.

Oh no
.

“Okay, people, I don’t want to see anyone standing around,” our confirmed drill sergeant barks. “Grab a jump rope and start warming up.”

“Did you sign us up for the
advanced
class?” I ask Izzy as we claim neighboring bag stations and select jump ropes off the wall.

“No. There’s just one general class each hour.”

Great. So long, inspiring pop princesses.

“Less talking, more sweating!” Amish Beard announces. “Sixty more seconds of jump roping and then we’re going right
into jumping jacks… Fifty seconds… I want that heart rate up. We’re just getting started here.”

This is going to be the longest hour of my life.

Finally after the jump-roping, jumping jacks (a first since PE class), and far less fun push-ups and thigh-burning squats, we’re warmed up enough to pull on the gloves and start taking it out on the bag. In rapid fashion, there’s a whole new language of moves to absorb: jab, cross, hook, uppercut, front kick, roundhouse kick, raised knee, and more. I get it. Sorta. But there’s a bit of a mental pause between moves as I recalibrate which arm to use, where to hit the bag (upper, lower, side), and how my feet are supposed to be positioned. Instead of a fierce warrior, I feel more like a marionette in shaky hands.

I try to keep up—pantomiming the instructor and my classmates, terrified of being called out. Shouldn’t there be some kind of beginners’ orientation?

To my left, Izzy’s laser-focused. But she’s done this before.

Next are the combinations, and if I thought I was a little off before, I’m now practically left on the side of the road as nearly everyone else marches by.

“Jab-hook-jab—double cross—uppercut—front roundhouse kick!”

Or as I like to reinterpret: “Blindly punch or kick to your liking!”

Sweat is dripping into my eyes, and my T-shirt is sticking to me. Hootie and I are getting very intimate. The few fifteen-second catch-your-breath-and-get-some-water breaks are fleeting. When we’re told to jump, arms stretched, as high as we can, then squat, walk out on our hands to push-up position,
perform ten, and then repeat—twice, I catch my own mumble echoed on the lips of the heavyweight African-American girl directly across from me.
Oh hell no
.

You
try to do push-ups while exhausted and wearing giant leather mittens.

And then we get to crunches—the apex of cruelty. Teeth clenched, I work through it. My endorphins are on overdrive.

“Come on, is that it? Give us more sets of crunches!” shouts the most annoying Amazon in an electric blue sports bra and matching hot pants. “I’m just getting started! Whoo!”

There’s a special place in hell for such people.

“Oh give it a rest,” Izzy mutters. I’m not sure if anyone else heard, but it makes me adore her even more.

Finally, we get another breather and I sidle up to Izzy.

“How do you do it?” I say, tearing off the gloves to grip my bottled water. “How do you push through?”

Izzy’s an equally sweaty mess. “I use this to work out my frustrations, my stress, with sweat and direct sand contact. Picture your problems and then beat away. It’s
very
therapeutic.”

“In thirty seconds get ready for a final full-power round!” the instructor commands.

“Pain is the great equalizer, trust me,” Izzy adds, as I tighten the second glove’s Velcroed strap with my teeth, preparing for battle.

Over the next ten minutes I take Izzy’s advice. The gung-ho instructor drones on, his terrible choice of music playing, but it starts to feel more like an out-of-body experience. Everything falls away until it’s just me and the bag facing off.

A parade of “motivation” appears in my head like a private
PowerPoint slide show, exposing all my bottled-up frustration. Each becomes a satisfying bull’s-eye and I let loose. There’s smug Priscilla. Take a roundhouse kick. The solid smack of the impact feels oh so good. There’s Jacob
for being so stubborn
. Jab-cross-jab. There’s Billy
for being too damn cute
. Left hook—upper cut—raised knee strike. And, ultimately, there’s myself
for getting in this mess
. I show no mercy.

I’m winded. My arms and legs burn. I wipe a glove across my sweaty brow.

But Izzy’s right. It
is
incredibly cathartic—an almost primal breakthrough.

A fresh start.

After a round of blissful showers and a change to clothes from this decade, Izzy and I spend the remainder of the day lying around the condo with Lizzie. We watch a
Top Chef
marathon, comb through old photo albums (laughing over regrettable hair and wardrobe choices), take a short field trip to the condo association’s pool to commandeer prime lounge chairs, and then return home at dusk to grill burgers, since we burned enough calories earlier to eat whatever we please.