the studio. Knowing how committed I am to the place, seeing I’ve been practically running it for the last year or so, investing in things, buying some of the gear out of my own pocket, she turned to me with a proposal before putting it on the market. Owning my own studio is a dream. One I assumed I’d be pursuing somewhere in the future, maybe after some business classes and a greater fortune for a down payment. It’s not a big studio by any means: three smaller rooms and a large one with a capacity of about twenty people. Personnel-wise, there are four instructors including me. Mrs. Rotfield, the owner, hardly teaches anymore. We offer Pilates, Zumba, body balance, aerobics, and yoga classes.
The studio is doing well, could be better but nothing to complain about. Taking it on would be quite the challenge. I love teaching but managing the place and the people would be a whole new experience for me, one that I’m not entirely sure I’m up to. But when the offer came, the more I thought about it the more it seemed like a leap I’d like to take. A great idea that still gives me one heck of a case of heartburn. Committing to something like this at the age of twenty-seven – that’s full functioning adult territory. I hope I know what I’m doing. I seriously hope I’m ready.
But I’m jumping the gun here.
First and foremost I need to get approved for a loan, which brings me to the current moment, where I’m sitting on an uncomfortable sofa, tapping my feet nervously, in a killer pantsuit and some serious heels, feeling like a little kid who’s about to be patted on the head with a consolation smile and a gentle encouragement to go home and come back in a few years. I try to remind myself that the studio is doing more than well, mostly due to my classes (if I may say so myself). My Pilates, and not to mention, the 80’s Throwback Aerobics are always at capacity, with a prominent waiting list.
I cross my legs and uncross them again, check my watch for the umpteenth time, and try to subtly take some deep yoga breaths. Nothing helps. I’m still a tight spring of edginess. I pull out my phone, looking for a diversion. It comes in the form of an email I’ve practically forgotten about.
Hey there, nice person who signs off her emails weirdly,
First off, let me rectify my lack of proper email signing etiquette. Nice to e-meet you, Anna, I’m Liam.
Thanks for being a cool person and letting me know you’re not Little Shit.
I trust you will find this reply satisfactory, and remain yours faithfully,
Liam
“The first step for change is to become aware of your own bullshit.”
PS. What’s up with the motivational quote sign off, Anna?
An involuntary laugh leaves my lips. So many things to address in this message. First, who thanks random people these days? Bonus point to Mr. Liam. Then, if there’s something I find special about guys, and by special I mean scorching hot, it’s got to be guys who read. A guy with a book? Visual/mental foreplay. This Liam guy signed off his email with a J. R. R. Tolkien quote, nonetheless! Okay, the little jab about my quote wasn’t cool, but his responding quote was sort of funny. And he quoted Tolkien! Not to mention—
“Miss Nielsen?”
“Oh, hi, hello, hi,” I throw the phone into my bag and stand up with a start, all while extending my hand for a shake. “You must be Ms. Blake, nice to meet you.” I fumble a little with the folder that almost falls from my hand and my bag’s strap is slowly sliding down my arm. I try to hoist it up through the whole handshake thing. I must look lightyears away from the serious businesswoman I opted for.
Luckily, by the time we reach Ms. Blake’s office, I manage to get a grip and actually pull off a more collected and purposeful version of myself. I answer all the questions Ms. Blake has for me and present her with all the documents she requests. As we review the business plan, I answer a few more questions, and it’s the longest hour of my life.
When I leave the office and close the door behind me, it’s the first time since I came in that I feel like I can finally relax.
Done.
Nothing more to do but wait. Wait up to two months