Free The After Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer

memorial in here,” I said, referring to the deceased plastic surgeon. Chloe stuck her palms under her feet. Bitch . As we moved through our first down dog, I recalled a death at the serious (i.e. no fun) yoga class on Main. A bulimic yogini went into shavasana and never got up; it ain’t called “corpse pose” for nothing.
    It was just after we moved into triangle pose that I started to experience the Five Stages of Yoga Grief.
    Denial: My triangle feels good. I’ll whip through this class, no prob. In fact, I’m so relaxed and confident, I almost feel normal.
    Anger: Sun salutations. I’ve lost my breath. Shit. I’m a grieving widow surrounded by hairless, nubile bodies. Why is everyone else able to touch their toes with their tongues? And why aren’t thesepeople working at ten on a weekday? (Porn isn’t a 9-to-5 job, I remind myself.)
    Bargaining: Holding warrior two. Dear Lord, Mary, Dear Baby Jesus, if you get me through this pose, I will devote my life to helping others. (I’m not sure how, maybe I can find something that doesn’t take time away from my breakdown.)
    Depression: I am not the skinniest, sexiest, richest, bendiest, down-doggiest in this class. I may be the funniest, but that’s only because the porn twins, or T-Rex, the tall guy in the corner who wears the ski cap, or the good-looking, creepy guy I call “Bundy” have no idea how funny they are. I could be the widowiest, but I don’t think I qualify as the depressed-est: Crazy loves yoga.
    Acceptance: I accept that I suck at yoga.
    I’m rolling up my mat when a woman with matted hair and a Pillsbury body squeezed into neon tights bounds over. Her silvery eyes are going off like the Fourth of July. (She does yoga three times a day. Which begs the question: Yoga or Muffins?)
    “Oh my God!” she says, grabbing me in a sweaty, neon hug. I can’t think of her name. Morgan? Marianne? “How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
    “I’m … okay,” I say, as I watch Chloe weaving her way through the crowd. I ache to be away from this person.
    “How’s that handsome husband of yours?” she asks. “How’d you get so lucky, huh?”
    I really just want to leave. Do I lie and say he’s fine?
    “Um,” I said, “he’s … he passed away. He died.”
    “Oh!” she says, her eyes popping out like a Tex Avery cartoon character. “Oh my God. Well … no wonder you look so skinny! You look amazing!”
    L.A. is no place for widows.
    Aimee was in my driveway, smoking a cigarette, wearing a leather jacket, and leaning against her black convertible BMW. She looked like she belonged in the Brentwood traveling company of Grease .
    “We’re late. You smell like wet cat,” she said, as I limped up withmy yoga mat. Chloe coughed at Aimee, then sped off in her dog car toward the West L.A. shelter. Her Pomeranian, Bakasana, had refused Doggie Dramamine and vomited in the backseat.
    “I’m just relieved I don’t smell like rescued Pomeranian vomit,” I said.
    “They don’t really have Pomeranian Rescue?” Aimee asked, wrinkling up her nose, the only part of her that can wrinkle. “That’s just going too far.”
    “So, what are your orders for the day?” I asked. “Apparently, there’s a lot of concern about me.”
    “Concern?” Aimee said. “Concern is putting it mildly. I was right there with you when you got knocked up. I was right there when you got hitched. But crazy, I don’t know if I can do.”
    “Reassuring,” I said.
    “Marriage and babies is bad enough.” Aimee shook her head. “Look how it ends.”
    “So … where are we going?”
    “To the spa. There’s a new treatment I want to try.”
    “There’s a treatment you haven’t done?” I said, in mock horror.
    “State of the art,” she said. “Don’t ask questions.”
    Aimee is “I don’t know how much over forty.” That number is buried, like Jimmy Hoffa’s body and Vanilla Ice’s career, where it can never be found. She loses her driver’s