The Hot Flash Club Read Online Free

twenty-nine, overweight, out of shape, and lonely. Because she could make money sitting at home playing the market from her computer, she’d stopped going out. Now she was almost agoraphobic. She lived on boxes of Cheez-Its and chocolate doughnuts. She didn’t own a cat or dog. The concept of coordinating sheets, comforter, and curtains had never occurred to her, nor had the thought of artwork for her walls. She was too timid to join a health club, too shy to dream of working with a personal trainer, but when she’d read in Shirley’s online ad that Shirley made house calls, she summoned her courage and phoned. Shirley gave Julie a few weeks of massage, then decided that the younger woman needed gentle but firm guidance toward a healthier lifestyle.
    One day, instead of giving Julie a massage, Shirley sat Julie down and talked with her. By the end of the hour, Julie had agreed to let Shirley order a week’s groceries to be delivered, and she promised to eat them. After a few more weeks, Shirley learned that Julie wouldn’t actually get around to preparing a salad, so lettuces wilted, unnoticed. So Shirley ordered finger foods on which Julie could munch while typing: little carrots, radishes, apples, bananas. Julie would microwave food; in fact, Julie
liked
to microwave food; it fit into her understanding of how the world worked. Shirley ordered pots of ramen noodles, and vegetable soups, and tofu-rich casseroles. And after a while, Julie reported she felt better.
    Shirley’s goal was to help Julie realize that her body was more than a brain with two eyes and ten typing fingers. She designed a series of daily stretching exercises for Julie, who
said
she did them, but most probably she was lying, if the tension in her back was any indication.
    Now Shirley switched on her CD player, and gentle music filled the air. They both sat, cross-legged, on the living room floor as Shirley led the other woman through some simple exercises, saddened at how disconnected Julie was from her body. Shirley climbed onto the sofa behind Julie, who was supposed to be stretching both arms high above her head, and who
was
trying, but lethargically. Shirley pulled Julie’s arms up high, then opened her fists and pulled her fingers up and out.
    “Extend,”
she told Julie. “Be a cat. Be a tigress flexing her paws.”
    After twenty minutes of stretching, they sat facing each other while Shirley talked Julie through deep breathing and simple meditation. When the weather was warm, Shirley opened the windows to let fresh air in, and she was certain she could feel all the sharp electronic molecules crackle out the window, leaving the air fresh.
    She ended the hour with a brief massage of Julie’s neck, shoulders, and arms, accompanied by one of her little pep talks. Over the past year she’d learned that Julie’s parents were dead, her brother lived in Japan, and whatever friends she’d had once had dropped her because of her habit of forgetting social engagements. Sometimes during a massage, Julie would begin crying, in high little squeaks, her throat tight with embarrassment as she nearly hyperventilated. This was good, Shirley assured her miserable client. She was releasing toxic emotions and opening her chakras.
    Sometimes, like today, Julie actually
communicated
. “I can’t imagine my life without you.” Julie’s voice was almost a whisper. “You make me feel like a human being.”
    “I’m so glad, honey. I’ll see you next week.”
    As she steered her coughing old car through the congested streets to her home in the crowded Boston suburb of Somerville, Shirley indulged in her favorite daydream: One day she’d establish a retreat for people like Julie, a beautiful space where people could come to rest and rejuvenate their spirits. Her clients would listen to music, do yoga and tai chi, hear lectures on spirituality and health, learn how to cook healthy, delicious meals; they’d learn to laugh again, to move gently with the