Page 28 of The Yes Factor

“Birdwatching and beer? That’s what British guys do for bachelor parties? Sounds crazy,” Bex says.

“No, birds as in girls. You know, slang for girls.”

“Hmm.” Bex squints at me. “Well, these birds are going to be late for class. And does Ethan even let you in bed with that thing on?”

I know where she’s going with that question, so I ignore it. And yes, I do sleep in it. Half the time Ethan comes and goes without even waking me up. He doesn’t know what I am (or not) wearing in bed. It’s an issue, to say the least.

We hustle into Bex’s car and in her haste to put her phone in the hands-free holder, the entire contraption falls off the dashboard.

“Shit, here hold this.” She hands me the phone as she backs out of the driveway. “I already typed in the address. It should be fine. Just tell me which way to go because the navigation voice thing isn’t working.”

We drive for a while through the heavy traffic of a late Monday morning, passing block after block of taco stands, nail salons, health food stores, and the occasional psychic storefront. All under the umbrella of that bright blue LA sky, fringed every now and then with towering palm trees.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Bex says. “I thought it was somewhere off Olympic. Here, give me my phone, let me see.” She reaches out to grab the phone.

“Hold on, hold on!” I squeal, pulling the phone close to me like a hand of cards I don’t want anyone else to see. “Hands free, it’s the law! We don’t want to get pulled over. Um, okay, Olympic, where are we…” I try to switch back to the navigation map. I’ve been secretly looking through the dating apps on Bex’s phone. She may have changed her passwords, but all’s fair if she gives me her phone. “Yeah, left here and then take a right at the next light.”

“Okaaaay.” Bex turns up the radio and sings along to “You Can Go Your Own Way.” “Yoga cult, here we come.”

I quickly scroll back to Tinder and adjust Bex’s criteria, lowering the age range to twenty-five. Bex had it at forty to fifty! I practically shout it out loud. Bex is in her thirties—thirty-nine still counts as thirties!—so she should definitely see what’s on the market below forty. Why should it only be older guys who can date below their decade? Didn’t Demi Moore make this a trend? And Kylie Minogue? Okay, let’s go shopping, I think to myself as I look through the growing number of potential matches that are now coming through. I see a guy that kind of looks like Channing Tatum. Yes, that’ll do just fine. I swipe to indicate interest and almost instantaneously the phone chimes with a loud ding.

“What’s that?” Bex gives me a quizzical glance.

“Oh, I think the navigation alerts are working again. Keep going straight.” I quickly mute her phone.

Whoever Jason aka Mr. Channing Tatum Look-alike is, he’s definitely on his phone all the time. He’s a match with Bex! I send a message.

Hi! You look hot.

God, I think to myself, how is this supposed to work. This is like sending notes back and forth in junior high. Should I write “circle yes or no”?

Immediately a response comes through,

Hi there. Drinks on Wednesday? Come to the upstairs bar at Glamour & State. 9:30.

I message back. See you then and there!

Maybe my wingwoman skills are improving. So that’s Wednesday night sorted. Tuesday I have something in the works, and as for today, well, I think we can consider Monday morning yoga courtesy of Hot Biceps Alex a Yes even if it’s not a date.

“What?” Bex catches me looking at her.

“Nothing, just feeling happy on a beautiful LA day with my best friend.” I flick back to the navigation map. “I think we’re almost there. Just up two more blocks on the right.”

“Okay, I see it. LoftYoga. Now, where are we going to find parking? Wish my car could do yoga and bend into a spot on the sidewalk. I don’t see any street parking. Looks like it’s going to be valet. There’s only, like, five minutes until class starts.”

“Valet? At a yoga studio? What kind of place is this?”

As we would soon find out, it’s the kind of place with two-hundred-dollar yoga leggings and a menu of international bottled water. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a water sommelier on staff.

“Namaste and welcome to LoftYoga,” A slender, super toned and tanned young woman purrs to Bex and me as we enter the airy reception space, almost bowled over by a wall of incense-laden air that smells like the lobby of a medicinal marijuana dispensary.

“Hi,” Bex says with a fake smile.

“Wow, what’s that smell?” I say, trying to decide if I love it or hate it.

“It’s palo santo and sage. Isn’t it beautiful? Totally chakra cleansing and it clears out all the negative energy. Not that we have negative energy here. Guru Stan provides such a positive space. We sell it for twenty-five dollars per stick if you’d like to clear your domestic dwelling.” She displays an incense stick like it’s an Oscar statue.

Bex’s eyes bulge at the price and her fake smile gets even faker. “Um, that’s nice, but no thank you. Alex left me two guest passes for the yoga class at eleven o’clock.”

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