The news of Angie’s new love had left me feeling a little cold. Not that my friend didn’t deserve to find someone special after so many years of ecstasy-fuelled three-ways and orgies—or whatever went on at those trendy nightclubs she frequented. Obviously, that lifestyle couldn’t go on indefinitely. It was just that I always thought I could count on Angie to be my one single girlfriend. My list of unattached pals was dwindling rapidly, now down to gay Martin and Mel, who was in love with her dog.
“I mean, it’s only been a few weeks...” Angie was saying, her pink knitting returned to the sofa beside her. “But he’s had such a huge impact on my life already. He makes me...” She paused, seeming almost overcome. “He makes me want to be a better person.”
“Oh my gosh,” Nicola said, obviously touched. In fact, she looked like she might cry.
Angie smiled. “It’s the way he lives his life . . . He’s an inspiration, really.”
“An inspiration?” I snorted. I hated to let any bitchiness seep into the discourse, but come on! The guy lived in LA and worked in the movie business!
“He’s not about ego and selfishness,” Angie explained. “He’s all about positive thinking, positive energy... You know, putting good vibes out into the world.”
Martin laughed. “What is he—a Buddhist?”
“No...” Angie said, picking up her yarn and needles. And then she added casually, “He’s a kabbalist.”
“Oh my god!” Sophie blurted out. “That’s like a cult isn’t it?”
“It can’t be that bad,” Nicola countered. “Madonna’s in it.”
Angie laughed, patiently. “It’s not a cult. It’s not even a religion, in fact. It’s a spiritual power, a way of being in the world.”
Uh-oh...Someone had drunk the Kool-Aid. “What about you?” I asked fearfully. “Are you a kabbalist?” That would be just perfect. Not only was Angie no longer single, but now she would probably drop me to hang out with Demi and Ashton.
“No . . .” She waved me away. “I’m not. But I do want to respect the way Thad lives his life. I’m going to try to live more purely and honestly. I’m not going out to nightclubs as much, I’m being kinder in the way I deal with people, I’m learning to knit... I really just want to turn the light on, in my own world.” She reached for her glass of wine.
After Angie’s confession, our conversation was a little stilted as we focused on our projects. Even as I attempted to purl, I was wrapped up in my own thoughts. I couldn’t let go of the fact that my eternally single friend, the one I could always count on to take me out for martinis and then dancing until the wee hours, would now be spending most of her time visiting Thad in LA, and praying or chanting or whatever kabbalists did. One thing was for sure—the new pure and honest Angie wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun as the old one. My fellow knitters seemed equally absorbed in their own thoughts, each of us concentrating on our knitting as the discourse slowed to a trickle. Finally, at nine o’clock, I yawned loudly.
Martin seemed to jump at the opportunity to call it a night. “I’m beat, too,” he said, stuffing his tarp-sized knitting into his bag.
“Are we on for next week?” Angie asked.
“Sure,” everyone said, but with markedly less enthusiasm than after our previous get-together.
“We can meet at my place,” Sophie offered, “on top of Queen Anne Hill.”
“Great!” I said, hurriedly gathering my accoutrements. “See you all then.” And, somewhat thankfully, we dispersed.
Eight
WELL . . . THAT HAD been interesting . Angie had wanted the stitch ’n bitch club to be a place where we felt comfortable being open and honest with each other, but had we, perhaps, taken it a little far? We’d only been meeting for a week and we had already shared so much personal information. Last night alone, we had learned that:
1. Sophie was married to a self-absorbed jerk, and was more
“I mean, it’s only been a few weeks...” Angie was saying, her pink knitting returned to the sofa beside her. “But he’s had such a huge impact on my life already. He makes me...” She paused, seeming almost overcome. “He makes me want to be a better person.”
“Oh my gosh,” Nicola said, obviously touched. In fact, she looked like she might cry.
Angie smiled. “It’s the way he lives his life . . . He’s an inspiration, really.”
“An inspiration?” I snorted. I hated to let any bitchiness seep into the discourse, but come on! The guy lived in LA and worked in the movie business!
“He’s not about ego and selfishness,” Angie explained. “He’s all about positive thinking, positive energy... You know, putting good vibes out into the world.”
Martin laughed. “What is he—a Buddhist?”
“No...” Angie said, picking up her yarn and needles. And then she added casually, “He’s a kabbalist.”
“Oh my god!” Sophie blurted out. “That’s like a cult isn’t it?”
“It can’t be that bad,” Nicola countered. “Madonna’s in it.”
Angie laughed, patiently. “It’s not a cult. It’s not even a religion, in fact. It’s a spiritual power, a way of being in the world.”
Uh-oh...Someone had drunk the Kool-Aid. “What about you?” I asked fearfully. “Are you a kabbalist?” That would be just perfect. Not only was Angie no longer single, but now she would probably drop me to hang out with Demi and Ashton.
“No . . .” She waved me away. “I’m not. But I do want to respect the way Thad lives his life. I’m going to try to live more purely and honestly. I’m not going out to nightclubs as much, I’m being kinder in the way I deal with people, I’m learning to knit... I really just want to turn the light on, in my own world.” She reached for her glass of wine.
After Angie’s confession, our conversation was a little stilted as we focused on our projects. Even as I attempted to purl, I was wrapped up in my own thoughts. I couldn’t let go of the fact that my eternally single friend, the one I could always count on to take me out for martinis and then dancing until the wee hours, would now be spending most of her time visiting Thad in LA, and praying or chanting or whatever kabbalists did. One thing was for sure—the new pure and honest Angie wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun as the old one. My fellow knitters seemed equally absorbed in their own thoughts, each of us concentrating on our knitting as the discourse slowed to a trickle. Finally, at nine o’clock, I yawned loudly.
Martin seemed to jump at the opportunity to call it a night. “I’m beat, too,” he said, stuffing his tarp-sized knitting into his bag.
“Are we on for next week?” Angie asked.
“Sure,” everyone said, but with markedly less enthusiasm than after our previous get-together.
“We can meet at my place,” Sophie offered, “on top of Queen Anne Hill.”
“Great!” I said, hurriedly gathering my accoutrements. “See you all then.” And, somewhat thankfully, we dispersed.
Eight
WELL . . . THAT HAD been interesting . Angie had wanted the stitch ’n bitch club to be a place where we felt comfortable being open and honest with each other, but had we, perhaps, taken it a little far? We’d only been meeting for a week and we had already shared so much personal information. Last night alone, we had learned that:
1. Sophie was married to a self-absorbed jerk, and was more
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