I have a yoga towel. Nothing special- a fairly thick beach towel that I bought at Costco for fifteen bucks a few years ago. I store it in my closet, away from the family towels, so that I always have it when I go to yoga in town.
It covers my yoga mat perfectly.
It has pineapples on it.
The kids all know it’s my yoga towel. I try to take care of the washing of it but sometimes it gets mixed in with the regular towels. They know if it comes through the wash they’re supposed to put it in our bedroom instead of the linen closet. This actually happens sometimes, depending on which kid finds it, how much they care, and whether or not they’re currently pissed off at me.
A while back, while frantically searching for my towel to take to class, I found it. In the kids’ bathroom. With muddy dog prints all over it.
At least, I hope that was mud.
So I grabbed another towel. It was a thin, innocuous-looking beach towel. A bit girly for my taste- kind of looked like there might be butterflies on it, but I thought, what the hell.
A towel is a towel, right? If I’m worried about my damn towel in yoga class I clearly have more serious issues.
And I did, in fact, have more serious issues, as I discovered when I got to class and flung the towel out over my mat.
CC mentioned to me on our way in to work the other day that I needed to put a post up explaining myself and my absence. As if somehow I were unaware that I haven’t posted on this blog, Facebook and Twitter for like three weeks now.
He said I needed to let the people who follow my blog know what’s going on. Apparently both of you are worried about me.
So here’s a story:
I go in to the city early one day to hit a yoga class before work. I drop my bags at my work area and go into the bathroom. Remember that I work in a theater.
The bathroom is in the basement and is, as my sister would call it, a one-butt bathroom. I d0 what I need to do, wash up and go to leave. I grab the doorknob, pop the lock and turn.
The doorknob spins in my hand. Loosely. Ineffectively. I would go so far as to call it impotent and flaccid, even though it’s a doorknob. The doorknob isn’t doing a goddamn thing. The door is still closed, and, somehow, still locked, even with a freely spinning doorknob.
Okay, I think, no biggie. I’ve been locked in far worse bathrooms than this. Plus, I’m a stagehand. Oh, wait. All my tools are at my work area. Not in here with me. As is my cell phone. Crap.
So I dig around the bathroom and find. . . a roll of paper towels. That’s it. No pipe wrench. No random screwdriver. Not even a goddamn plunger.
I start yelling and banging on the door to try to get someone’s attention, because people are actually in the building even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. The only thing is that I’m in the basement. They’re on stage, rehearsing. Far, far away.
I may as well be on the moon.
And suddenly I’m pissed, you know? I get dinner made early, I arrange a babysitter early, I pay extra for early parking all to come in early and take this goddamn yoga class and now I’m stuck in the frickin’ bathroom? Are you kidding me?
I’ll be damned if some doorknob is going to steal my peace.
So I start kicking the crap out of the doorknob. It takes a little while, but eventually the doorframe bends, the knob breaks off and I am free and I have exactly five minutes to haul ass down 8th avenue to get to my yoga class.
I drop the pieces of the doorknob off at the stage door on my way out and tell our doorman, Gus, what happened, apologizing as sincerely and as fast as I can.
I make my yoga class.
When I come back I have to endure a rash of crap from lots of people for breaking the bathroom door and leaving.
House Head Carpenter: I don’t get it. I don’t understand how you were locked in. The doorknob still works.
Me: But it came off! Completely! That’s how I got out.
House Head Carpenter: The door’s bent now where you kicked it, but nothing’s wrong with the doorknob. Even though it broke off.
Me: Dude. I don’t know what to tell you. I was locked the hell in. For like twenty minutes.
House Head Carpenter: I’ll replace it, I’m just saying it still works. Don’t kick me.
None of this has anything to do with my absence from all things social media. But it does explain these:
The old doorknob is still on the door and sometimes I forget and try to lock it instead of using the latch.
Sometimes I practice at a yoga studio in New Jersey, one not above a “video” store. They teach hot yoga, but it’s more of an Om-oriented place.
My favorite teacher quote came from Jagadisha, who also happens to be the studio owner. We were in some posture that was pure evil, probably triangle, and he was walking around adjusting postures, empathizing with our pain. “I know,” he said. “I wish I could sit on my couch and eat cake and it would make me one with everything. But it doesn’t work that way.”
Last week I left the house after getting the kids off to school and brought my yoga clothes with me so I could catch a class in the middle of my day. I changed clothes in the studio’s changing room. I pulled on the pants.
They felt strange.
I tugged. I looked down.
These were not my yoga pants.
I have to back up a minute and talk about laundry. Everyone participates in laundry at our house. I learned early on that I should wash my clothes separately from the kids’ clothes and also never make them fold my stuff. Otherwise they steal it.
It isn’t just me they steal from. They all steal from each other. If a sibling has somehow managed to skate out of laundry detail and another sibling is folding their shirt, the laundry-working sibling considers it well within their rights to swipe the shirt for the next wearing. In everyone’s defense, there are a damn lot of clothes in our house and we don’t always know whose is whose. If you’re not there to speak up for your clothes, it’s your own fault.
I’m not morally superior to this practice myself, in theory. It’s just that I don’t actually fit in to any of their clothes, a fact I am reminded of when random kid clothes end up in my dresser and I don’t pay attention and try to put them on.
Which is how it came to be that yoga pants, size zero and belonging to #1 ended up in my closet, in my bag, and on my size eight ass at power Vinyasa last Monday.
Had I five extra minutes, I would have bought a new pair in the appropriate size from the studio. As it was, I didn’t, so I Om’d- for the space-age-stretchiness of synthetic fabrics, and Om’d some more that the seams would hold up, and took the Divine Guidance that came as a small, still voice inside me that said to sit in the back of the room. Or, more correctly, try not to sit.
I had a pretty stressful downward facing dog when the teacher came over to adjust my posture.
But then I remembered that I was in Jersey, and if you’re a woman and don’t wear clothes that are several sizes too small for you at least twice a year, they kick you out of the state (though you can usually bribe someone to get back in).
Have you made any. . .large mistakes lately? What can get you kicked out of your state?