By Kitty
Making friends as an adult wasn’t something I thought was in the cards for me. First, because it’s hard. Second, because my default facial expression (a deeply furrowed brow) paired with a stoic energy reads the opposite of welcoming. For a long time, I’d embodied that furrow—overwhelmed, anxious, and stuck to my couch in two-day-old sweatpants. Years of plans and productivity to avoid the grief of losing my mom were halted during COVID, and the whole homemade sourdough trend just didn’t do it for me. I’d eventually get sick enough of myself to find a therapist and ask her if she thought I was made of stone. A week after my first appointment, I discovered a new-to-me workout studio by way of Instagram. It was time to shake shit up.
Nestled in a little red barn in Cumberland, Bad Yogis Club has the kind of come as you are, chill vibe that puts you immediately at ease. It’s twelve minutes from my house, and I was already living in athleisure, so getting there wasn’t hard. I stayed because the way the instructors make sure each toe is tucked under your blanket during savasana made me feel cared for. This spirit is reflected in the clients they attract—a group of genuinely curious women who are interested in getting to know you whether or not you show up in a good mood. Weeks of wincing in chair pose turned into months, which turned into chit-chats after class, and the ultimate exchanging of numbers to plan group outings on the town.
One of the first was a trip to a floral and home goods artisan market in Providence, where we splurged on houseplants and ceramics, followed by dinner at a Japanese restaurant called Warawara. A member of the group had previously raved about their crispy chicken skins. When an order arrived for the table, the part of me longing for a rebrand whispered, “Dig in, bitch!” They were as delicious as she'd promised—crunchy, airy, salty, and dripping in teriyaki glaze. When it came time to order, I decided on the Tan Tan Men, which included spicy miso broth, ground pork, soft-boiled egg, shiitake mushroom, bean sprouts, and bok choy. I fucking love bok choy. I sipped and I slurped and I tried my best to put in work with the chopsticks. Every so often I'd sneak a peek down at my smocked green blouse to make sure it wasn't covered in soup. I felt proud of myself for trying something new…but was I? After all, at home, where I am my truest self, there's almost always remnants of lunch on my tits.
Something about my mom was that she had a real “dance like no one's watching” attitude. I can’t say I’ve embodied. On the anniversary of her passing, I teared up during class under the safety of a lavender-scented towel. I shared with some of the girls my plan to honor her memory through ice cream for dinner. Dumping the contents of my proverbial purse on the mat and not having anybody bat an eye made me feel seen.
In August I decided to leave “what-if’s” and worries behind to cross the Canadian border in a Chevy Malibu rental complete with a tub of body glitter, an industrial-sized box of Cheez-It snack packs, and enough hot hair tools to fry a cheerleading team. Three Bad Yogis and I would spend the weekend at a music festival in Montreal called Osheaga.
On Saturday we decided we'd venture out for brunch—the only specifications being a location of Old Port and Insta-worthy vibes. We landed on Piel Canela, a Latin-inspired brunch concept housed in a Mexican restaurant. We relied heavily on the menu’s photos and our phone's web translation feature as none of us spoke French. I ordered something called La Patate Bénie. A play on a benedict with cardamom-crusted potato and pork belly hash browns, topped with poached eggs, spicy pickled onions, and chimichurri cream. As someone whose safe word is baconeggandcheese, you’re correct in assuming I didn’t choose this restaurant, but the energy of the group convinced me I could embrace something outside of my comfort zone. To be tickled pink by pickled onions at 10:00 AM and shaking ass to Pink Pony Club in a sea of bedazzled cowboy hats by 3:00 PM made for a thrilling day. I carried this sense of adventure with me throughout the rest of our weekend.
Growing up a shy little girl, my mom would often spot kids my age at the park or the beach and ask them if they wanted to hang out with me. Once the initial wave of embarrassment wore off, I always appreciated the push. She was the queen of forging connection. At the ripe age of 36, I guess I’ve finally found the courage to do this for myself. Look ma, new friends. Opening up to joy and new experiences, in the form of both fun and food, is giving myself permission to join the party. The extra pep in my step hasn’t gone unnoticed by the people around me. And while my face still doesn’t do much in terms of emoting, I’ve certainly started to feel again.
Name drops: Warawara, Piel Canela, Bad Yogis Club
Related: Sweet Cream and Bitter Greens
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Oliver Li1. See more of his work here.