On the eighth day of this New Year of My Malcontent, I lay on a high school cafeteria floor and tried to relax.
Calm would not come easily, I knew, what with the Chaotic News of Everything and All. However, I hadn’t counted on a malfunctioning soft-drink vending machine providing the necessary distraction from those inner thoughts when I chose the location next to it, unfurled a yoga mat, and copped a squat.
I had, however, calculated that the room would be freezing, so I bundled myself in a down parka, switching it to fit like a sleeping bag by wrapping myself in its arms, straight-jacket style.
The instructor’s voice was barely audible over the racket of the machine, not to mention through the soft pillow mask I had made of my coat’s hood. I contorted comically to be able to hear her more clearly. The image I must have projected to my neighbors as we stretched this way and that, me noisily swishing around in my parka sack as we all tried to follow the clear-sounding directions of our teacher.
“Take a deep breath in,” she said to the room, which was pleasantly packed with folks, who, I assumed, had also sought out this eight-week series of calm and tranquility to hone their own inner peace.
The bargain price of the series (thanks to the value of public education) was a bonus for us all.
We – with our worn joggers and stocking feet – looked more like the rabble than the fabu.
No matter how long I’ve practiced, each class feels new. In this one, none of the poses brought us to our feet, and only a few would bring us to a seated or kneeling position. So I struggled to translate what I knew from standing into prone.
The voice at the front of the room said something about pushing against the soles of our feet with our legs crossed, left over right … or right over left?
Craning my neck to see the instructor, turned out to be a mistake. It’s been a while since THAT muscle has been asked to move independently of the other muscles that hold my shoulders and back together. I heeded the warnings and eased off.
I turned to the folks beside me, stealing enough furtive glances to understand what had been asked of us and correcting my form accordingly.
I started to sweat unnecessarily.
As the class wore on my wishing-to-be a younger self gave in to the more restful stretch. Truth be told, each motion became a surprising challenge and I anxiously wondered if somehow organs had shifted in my torso, now that I had set my intention to extend my arms toward one side of the room and my legs toward the other.
A few more uncomfortable moments (without discernible effort) remind me that I should have better appreciated the body I once had, the one that didn’t make strange cracking sounds or stab me with sharp pains out of nowhere. The body I must now accept and start to care for with patience (and no sudden movements).
My focus moved to my closest neighbor, the vending machine, which sounded as if its inner workings were spinning off cubes of ice into parts unknown. I breathed in at the whirring, and out at the clunk. In and out … until I was calm.
I lay staring at the ceiling and thinking of my son, who had been in this very room a few hours before, no doubt challenging his friends to contests of nugget eating and ice tea taste-testings.
I had asked him if he wanted to join me …believing some fallacy notion that he might enjoy hanging out with his ol’ mom at his current alma mater before trading up to college.
He’d “rather have a root canal,” he answered with a grin, which is understandable for a boy his age.
Flexibility comes and goes with age, I think. Neither of us seems to have enough of it at this particular moment.
When the class ends, I collect my things and roll up the mat.
I am grateful for this community. Grateful to be reminded so gently about what we stand to lose.
As I turn to nod to the vending machine, thanking it for its service, I notice a hand-written sign taped to the front, warning those who would dare to plunk in their quarters that the beverage dispensed would be warm. “Cold water available from the attendant. All you need to do is ask.”
And I am grateful anew, because when I get home I will ask my son about this rickety old machine, and I know he will laugh and eagerly tell me all about it.
