I am sat cross-legged already cramping on this yoga mat, telling myself I'm having the perfect day. The first time doesn't sit right so I adjust my ass and repeat.
Like chanting a mantra, casting a spell, I insist, to god and me, that nothing's wrong with the world and nothing's wrong with me. I'm having the perfect day.
My neighborhood park an unwalled secret garden tiny and unnamed on any map is buried downtown so deeply it almost doesn't exist. So utterly silent here, it seems undiscovered by bird or cyclist, although plenty are right around the corner. A garland and its gazebo rarely intruded upon by only the chain-smoker who takes his cockapoo out to piddle at the curb and stare aghast at me in his bathrobe. He does it even now. I wipe a closed fist across my lips to brush off a fallen pink petal when I'm actually physically restraining myself from asking what the fuck his problem was. Junkie who sold a baby, and the baby wasn't even his, think I've heard -- wait, nope. Gossip is a habit I told people I'd break. No more nastiness, at least from me. Solely pure and positive thoughts. Whatever the issue, that's his... and I don't have a problem with it or him. Why would I? I haven't met him. Forget him. My inner world is at peace. Not one cloud or helicopter in the silver sky. No wasp in my face. I close my eyes, inhale, and exhale. Did I forget to move the laundry? It's sitting there, drenched, isn't it?
Think of this yoga mat. Nothing's wrong with this goddamn yoga mat.
Despite having already smoothed out flat this ninety-dollar pastel gray yoga mat, newly bought, I still feel one creased corner somehow furl. Nuisance. Not too major to fix. At some point. In the much later future. Ninety dollars! No, not a problem, I say while I meditate. It's a little thorn, a splinter in my foot which won't budge. Can't be rid of it until I sit with it. That's yoga. The mat was overpriced. That's on me. Was in a hurry. Had a lapse in judgment. Paid for the brand. That's my excuse, my adult expense to own. I shall do a kindness and not let myself spiral in buyer's remorse. What am I grateful for this morning? I recall that with sunshades dangling nearly off the collar of my coffee-stained shirt, cowlick like a bouquet on my head, I had rushed through a heavily perfumed store, small-talked up the coughing clerk, refilled gas in my Tacoma truck, weaved through honking freeway traffic, got rear-ended, ditched without a number to call, and ended up forty minutes late to work. Nearly fired for it but hey, worth it. This yoga mat is meant to represent loving myself, a gift given to myself. The functional two-thirds of this yoga mat is fine, it meets expectations. And yet this corner is madness that springs to life on its own. It creeps and curls. It fights my respectful, polite palm, stubbornly rolling up to my ass. I give up and permit it. I allow it. I return to closed eyes, blocking out the world and the sun. Do I return this yoga mat or burn it? Have I even kept the receipt? I paid a hundred-something and from the look of the dent in my truck, hundreds more. Oh. I recall the wad of folded hundred-dollar bills pocketed in the jeans sitting drenched and unmoved. I'm having the perfect day.
Move on, I tell myself and adjust my ass. I return to war and smooth flat this automatic rolling corner of this ninety-dollar pastel gray yoga mat, and as expected, I lose. Why do I make myself go through this again? I turn around so it rolls up to my crossed legs, this time kicking up dirt. I clench in my lips, holding my breath and keeping eyes shut. I remain sat. Something itches my face. Be it shard of dirt, strand of hair, blade of grass, or string of cobweb, it's making me want to rip my face clean off. Lykiri, I soothe myself and then cringe at how nerdy and unconvincing that command sounds internally. Okay, stop. I sit up straighter, roll back my shoulders, and hear a noise. I pry open one eye.
That chain-smoking, baby-peddling junkie in his bathrobe holds his curb-piddling cockapoo and smiles a dental nightmare, scratching his beard unsure what to say.
Having nearly leapt out of my skin, I momentarily hold a closed fist to my lips to keep from screaming or squeaking fear and fury. "Hi? Can I help you?"
"Hi," he says. His poofy dog wrestles relentlessly to get out of his grip. "I, I, Ruffer stop, yeah I'm Jared. I like sitting outside too. Nice day for it."
I nod politely. Our stare-down is followed by an awkward silence. Then our voices overlap, trying to say something.
"That's a nice yoga mat, there!" He gestures in my general direction.
An exasperated sigh escapes me before I realize I've been caging it. "Thanks! Bought it this morning from Wal-Mart. Cheap, but loves it."
"No, I work at Wal-Mart. Nothing like that stocked there. Oh, not calling you a liar, but this yoga mat is the expensive kind, ah Ruffer stop it, mhm yes ma'am."
I open my mouth and pause. For the first time in years I can think of nothing to say except, "Welp."
"Better get back. Ruffer's going berserk. I'll bring my yoga mat next time... See ya."
Jared jogs off smug at his self-invitation before my face registers my next intrusive thought: to find a different park.
My eyes close. I see a flashback to the bearded, toothless face of the one who hasn't called me a liar. And Ruffer, who unlike me is blatantly wrestling for dear life to get away from the thirdhand smoke of his odorous bathrobe. I cringe but sit there with it, and with this curled yoga mat. I see the annoyed faces of my co-workers and my boss. The desperate face of the woman who rear-ended me. The tired, overworked face of the clerk at the gas station. The coughing, painted face of the clerk at the expensive fitness store. Then god the sweet faces of my three kids who live with my ex-husband, only seen in facedown photographs in my empty house. The cluttered sink, the cluttered dishwasher, the cluttered laundry room, the cluttered garage, but it's only me there. And I'm bringing home this ninety-dollar yoga mat that doesn't work like a yoga mat, and a dented truck. That's... wonderful. Positive thoughts. Sitting with it.
I'm having. Ah, fuck! Leg cramp, leg cramp! Should've had a banana. I'm having the perfect day. Sitting with this yoga mat.
Nothing's wrong with the world or with me. I adjust my ass and repeat. Nothing's wrong with the world. Nothing's wrong with me.
Actually, yes, everything's wrong with this. Why is my matcha latte not in my hand right now?
No, I get up off this ninety-dollar pastel gray yoga mat that magically rolls up on its own, kicking up dirt all over it. This goddamn yoga mat. Oh I'm burning it. I paid for this. I get to tear it apart. I shove it into the truck with a deranged smile on my face knowing just what to do with the rest of my perfect day. Because I can't lie; everything's wrong with the world; everything's wrong with me. I just had to sit with it and I suppose, I had to learn how to love it. I look back when I hear frenzied barking. It's Ruffer. He's escaped Jared. He's sprinted madly across the park and leapt into the back of my totaled truck panting and staring at me. And for a divine and ephemeral moment, I swear, I could hear this poofy cockapoo shout at me to take him and fucking go to the infinite casinos of Vegas. I happily obliged. Why not. There's no use looking through the rear-view. We're not going back there.
First things first. Got to make a stop and get my matcha latte and of course Ruffer his puppy cup.
Like chanting a mantra, casting a spell, I insist, to god and me, that nothing's wrong with the world and nothing's wrong with me. I'm having the perfect day.
My neighborhood park an unwalled secret garden tiny and unnamed on any map is buried downtown so deeply it almost doesn't exist. So utterly silent here, it seems undiscovered by bird or cyclist, although plenty are right around the corner. A garland and its gazebo rarely intruded upon by only the chain-smoker who takes his cockapoo out to piddle at the curb and stare aghast at me in his bathrobe. He does it even now. I wipe a closed fist across my lips to brush off a fallen pink petal when I'm actually physically restraining myself from asking what the fuck his problem was. Junkie who sold a baby, and the baby wasn't even his, think I've heard -- wait, nope. Gossip is a habit I told people I'd break. No more nastiness, at least from me. Solely pure and positive thoughts. Whatever the issue, that's his... and I don't have a problem with it or him. Why would I? I haven't met him. Forget him. My inner world is at peace. Not one cloud or helicopter in the silver sky. No wasp in my face. I close my eyes, inhale, and exhale. Did I forget to move the laundry? It's sitting there, drenched, isn't it?
Think of this yoga mat. Nothing's wrong with this goddamn yoga mat.
Despite having already smoothed out flat this ninety-dollar pastel gray yoga mat, newly bought, I still feel one creased corner somehow furl. Nuisance. Not too major to fix. At some point. In the much later future. Ninety dollars! No, not a problem, I say while I meditate. It's a little thorn, a splinter in my foot which won't budge. Can't be rid of it until I sit with it. That's yoga. The mat was overpriced. That's on me. Was in a hurry. Had a lapse in judgment. Paid for the brand. That's my excuse, my adult expense to own. I shall do a kindness and not let myself spiral in buyer's remorse. What am I grateful for this morning? I recall that with sunshades dangling nearly off the collar of my coffee-stained shirt, cowlick like a bouquet on my head, I had rushed through a heavily perfumed store, small-talked up the coughing clerk, refilled gas in my Tacoma truck, weaved through honking freeway traffic, got rear-ended, ditched without a number to call, and ended up forty minutes late to work. Nearly fired for it but hey, worth it. This yoga mat is meant to represent loving myself, a gift given to myself. The functional two-thirds of this yoga mat is fine, it meets expectations. And yet this corner is madness that springs to life on its own. It creeps and curls. It fights my respectful, polite palm, stubbornly rolling up to my ass. I give up and permit it. I allow it. I return to closed eyes, blocking out the world and the sun. Do I return this yoga mat or burn it? Have I even kept the receipt? I paid a hundred-something and from the look of the dent in my truck, hundreds more. Oh. I recall the wad of folded hundred-dollar bills pocketed in the jeans sitting drenched and unmoved. I'm having the perfect day.
Move on, I tell myself and adjust my ass. I return to war and smooth flat this automatic rolling corner of this ninety-dollar pastel gray yoga mat, and as expected, I lose. Why do I make myself go through this again? I turn around so it rolls up to my crossed legs, this time kicking up dirt. I clench in my lips, holding my breath and keeping eyes shut. I remain sat. Something itches my face. Be it shard of dirt, strand of hair, blade of grass, or string of cobweb, it's making me want to rip my face clean off. Lykiri, I soothe myself and then cringe at how nerdy and unconvincing that command sounds internally. Okay, stop. I sit up straighter, roll back my shoulders, and hear a noise. I pry open one eye.
That chain-smoking, baby-peddling junkie in his bathrobe holds his curb-piddling cockapoo and smiles a dental nightmare, scratching his beard unsure what to say.
Having nearly leapt out of my skin, I momentarily hold a closed fist to my lips to keep from screaming or squeaking fear and fury. "Hi? Can I help you?"
"Hi," he says. His poofy dog wrestles relentlessly to get out of his grip. "I, I, Ruffer stop, yeah I'm Jared. I like sitting outside too. Nice day for it."
I nod politely. Our stare-down is followed by an awkward silence. Then our voices overlap, trying to say something.
"That's a nice yoga mat, there!" He gestures in my general direction.
An exasperated sigh escapes me before I realize I've been caging it. "Thanks! Bought it this morning from Wal-Mart. Cheap, but loves it."
"No, I work at Wal-Mart. Nothing like that stocked there. Oh, not calling you a liar, but this yoga mat is the expensive kind, ah Ruffer stop it, mhm yes ma'am."
I open my mouth and pause. For the first time in years I can think of nothing to say except, "Welp."
"Better get back. Ruffer's going berserk. I'll bring my yoga mat next time... See ya."
Jared jogs off smug at his self-invitation before my face registers my next intrusive thought: to find a different park.
My eyes close. I see a flashback to the bearded, toothless face of the one who hasn't called me a liar. And Ruffer, who unlike me is blatantly wrestling for dear life to get away from the thirdhand smoke of his odorous bathrobe. I cringe but sit there with it, and with this curled yoga mat. I see the annoyed faces of my co-workers and my boss. The desperate face of the woman who rear-ended me. The tired, overworked face of the clerk at the gas station. The coughing, painted face of the clerk at the expensive fitness store. Then god the sweet faces of my three kids who live with my ex-husband, only seen in facedown photographs in my empty house. The cluttered sink, the cluttered dishwasher, the cluttered laundry room, the cluttered garage, but it's only me there. And I'm bringing home this ninety-dollar yoga mat that doesn't work like a yoga mat, and a dented truck. That's... wonderful. Positive thoughts. Sitting with it.
I'm having. Ah, fuck! Leg cramp, leg cramp! Should've had a banana. I'm having the perfect day. Sitting with this yoga mat.
Nothing's wrong with the world or with me. I adjust my ass and repeat. Nothing's wrong with the world. Nothing's wrong with me.
Actually, yes, everything's wrong with this. Why is my matcha latte not in my hand right now?
No, I get up off this ninety-dollar pastel gray yoga mat that magically rolls up on its own, kicking up dirt all over it. This goddamn yoga mat. Oh I'm burning it. I paid for this. I get to tear it apart. I shove it into the truck with a deranged smile on my face knowing just what to do with the rest of my perfect day. Because I can't lie; everything's wrong with the world; everything's wrong with me. I just had to sit with it and I suppose, I had to learn how to love it. I look back when I hear frenzied barking. It's Ruffer. He's escaped Jared. He's sprinted madly across the park and leapt into the back of my totaled truck panting and staring at me. And for a divine and ephemeral moment, I swear, I could hear this poofy cockapoo shout at me to take him and fucking go to the infinite casinos of Vegas. I happily obliged. Why not. There's no use looking through the rear-view. We're not going back there.
First things first. Got to make a stop and get my matcha latte and of course Ruffer his puppy cup.