I recently started yoga. And by “started” I mean “I’ve gone to two classes in the last few weeks.” Between my real job and my freelance jobs and the hours I’ve set aside to watch television, I don’t have any time. So finding activities that fit into the narrow window I have not dedicated to making money for someone else is rare. I hated the physical therapy I was doing for my broken foot that never healed, so my podiatrist suggested yoga. Gross, right? The only class I could find that’s (1) cheap, (2) near the train, (3) at a time I could actually make, and (4) not taught by a person I know in real life was for pregnant women. And I signed right up. The flyer at Metropolis coffee shop advertised the class as “incredibly easy, laid-back, no pressure.” I guzzled my scalding coffee—I hadn’t put enough sugar in because a handsome stranger had been standing next to me and I didn’t want him to know I’m a child—and studied the faded pink sheet of paper. I figured it would be my kind of party because the word “easy” was underlined five times with a thick black Sharpie. Who the fuck wrote that? I mean, nothing says “easy” more than “a pregnant lady could do this,” I guess? If I saw a pregnant woman skydiving or bungee jumping or performing open-heart surgery, I would think smugly, “Hey, I probably could do that.”
I didn’t hesitate or think twice until I walked into the room in my comfiest outside pajamas and found myself surrounded on all sides by gestating bellies and nervous preclass chatter about back pain and morning sickness. Oh, right, these women are actually pregnant. I was so busy thinking about how no one would ask me to touch my toes that I kind of ignored the whole carrying-another-human-being aspect of this physical and spiritual practice. In general, I’ve got enough stomach jibs to pass for early second trimester if anyone decided to really get up close and inspect me, but I decided to keep a low profile and chill in the back, not saying a word. If there’s any place where staying mute with your eyes on the floor is appropriate, a yoga studio has got to be it.
I loved that first class. It was air-conditioned and the yogini used the word “gentle” about eighty times, which is music to my joints. My foot felt good, my self-esteem wasn’t shattered into a million pieces, and everyone appeared to be having as hard a time as I was getting up off the floor. I went back a couple of times, but nobody likes an outsider. Seriously, skinny people want your fat ass out of their clothing stores. Straight people want your gay ass out of their bars. And white people want your black ass out of their presidency. So my empty womb and I were scared to admit that we weren’t packing no embryo. I really liked the teacher and I hope Diana’s baby isn’t breach and I would love to know what names Maureen decides on for the twins, but I don’t want to look like a weirdo with a pregnancy fetish or some other Dateline-type shit. Nor do I want to be the douchebag who couldn’t cut it in regular yoga. (Because, yeah, I couldn’t, and let’s not even talk about that two-hundred-degree sauna yoga, are you kidding me?) But I’m not savvy enough to keep a good lie going. I can’t keep rolling into class and not talking. OR GROWING. Plus, I don’t trust myself. One of these days I’m going to forget where I am and ask one of these girls for an emergency tampon and the whole lot of them will realize what I’ve done and line up to beat the crap out of me.
Living Is a Mistake.
Mavis wanted to host a brunch for me to meet all of her close momfriends. I wasn’t nervous about it, because I’m charming and do well with moms. I couldn’t decide what to wear, because I’m at a time in my life when nothing I put on feels good and even fewer things look good, and the T-shirt and jeans I would like to spend my days wearing aren’t always appropriate. Nor is the hoodie. And, if we’re being honest, the jeans don’t always fit right. Jeans and bras, man: ARE THEY EVER 100 PERCENT COOL? So while homegirl was downstairs baking the quiche and cutting fruit into appetizing shapes, I was trying on and taking off the three hideous shirts I leave in the half a drawer designated as mine. I knew before I even got my clothes on that the day was going to be a toilet. Sometimes you just know.
It’s hard not to feel like an animal on display when someone throws a party for people to meet you, even though I am always 100 percent flattered when someone wants me to stammer awkwardly through an introduction and try to come up with a sincere response to “I’ve heard a lot about you!” that isn’t “Oh my god, am I not satisfying her sexually?!” Women started to arrive, wearing their nicest smiles and loaded down with church doughnuts and breakfast casseroles, and I felt better than I’d expected. My clammy nerves had settled down, I was picking at my breakfast in a convincing way (I hate eating in front of strangers), and I had just begun to relax when I felt a weird hitch in my wobbly chair. Three seconds later, I went CRASHING TO THE FUCKING GROUND, taking a platter of French toast bites with me.
The five stages of Holy Shit I Just Broke a Chair in Front of People:
1. Denial. “I’m not on the floor, you’re on the floor!!”
2. Anger. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU BUY CHAIRS AT A RESALE SHOP, BITCH.
3. Bargaining. “Please, God, if you kill everyone in this dining room right now, I promise I will try to recycle all of the SlimFast cans I swear I’m going to start buying.”
4. Depression. “I am fat enough to kill chairs. I don’t deserve oxygen.”
5. Acceptance. “Welp, since I’m already fat, fuck these toast points; let’s get a pizza.”