Tonight Kiki had us lie down on thin blue mats strewn across the floor before she turned off the lights and turned on new age music interspersed with whale sounds.
“Breathe,” she said, the light from the hall illuminating her hair bun and sweats as she walked between the mats like a ballet instructor. “Again!”
Struggling with a cold, I tried to oblige.
Next she told the women to sit up and lean their backs against their spouses and pretend to push. “You might even want to moan,” Kiki encouraged.
It was all the permission Chip needed. “Ooohhh,” he said in my ear.
“No!” I hissed.
But he wasn’t going to be deterred. This was payback for my spending eighty bucks on nonsense birthing classes and making him waste evenings that could have been spent more constructively in front of the television, which, he liked to point out, is free.
“Ooohhh,” he said louder. Couples on either side began to giggle.
“Ooohhh!” he ripped a third time.
Poor Kiki. She decided to dismiss us early.
Chip whistled almost all the way home. “You know, tonight was kind of fun,” he admitted.
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