Umm…

Sorry, I meant “Om” because I’m taking yoga and I’m all enlightened and shit.

Here’s my problem with yoga: It reminds me of a fish tank.
When I was in teenager, I got a fish tank because I read somewhere that it was relaxing. I have no idea why a teenager needs to relax, although I am confident that in my case, I was always up for some rest and care.

So, we got the fish tank, set it up in my room and I sat across from it on my bed, ready to relax.
Within five minutes, one of the fish started darting maniacally around the tank and before I could call marine 911, jumped out of the tank.

What the fuck?
Of course it wasn’t dead, but I was certain that it had suffered a bad fall, possibly brain damage, and I was worried that if I put it back in the tank, it would have an adverse effect on the other, better adjusted fish.
This wasn’t relaxing.
Nor was it relaxing a few weeks later when the fish started giving birth and eating their young. (Although, to be fair, their young were just overgrown caviar).
What was supposed to be my relaxation turned into a nightmare of carnage.

Sort of like yoga.

Which should be relaxing and perhaps will be, if I remember to Xanax myself.
Like I get to this new place on Sunday morning and it’s just me and this guy. So of course I put my mat in the place furthest from him, because I don’t want him to think that I’m just there to pick up men. I have no idea why he would think that I showed up at a 10 am yoga class on a Sunday, dressed as a sausage, to pick up men, but I want to send a very clear “I am not available message.”

But then I get confused. Because I’d read The Rules and I know that if I want him to ask me out, I have to be sort of aloofish. But since I don’t want him to ask me out, I should probably blow him.

Fortunately, the yoga teacher arrives, and introduces herself. Like me, she is not a native English speaker. And she has an accent and I’m fucked. Because while “relaxing” in yoga, I need super easy to understand instructions, delivered by Shakespearean thespians. We do some sun salutations and everything is fine and then she tells us, while I’m Downward Dogging, to look at my neighbor. That’s a little weird, because I’ve never heard of that before, but whatever, I’m here to learn, so I look over at this guy. Except he’s not looking at me, which is super rude. I bet when he’s asked to do Greeting in church and shake his neighbor’s hand, he just checks his Blackberry instead. So I’m looking at him and thinking that this yoga place should really screen their students for mental illness, because this not looking at me is clearly a sign of a psychopath.

And the teacher says “Neighbor! Look at your neighbor!”
And I’m thinking, “What an asshole. How can he not know that she’s talking to him? So fucking rude, I mean, there are only two of us here and I’m clearly looking at my neighbor.”
And then I realize that she’s addressing me. “Look at your neighbor,” she says and for some reason, when she says it this time, it sounds like “navel”.
Huh.
I’m supposed to look at my navel, not my neighbor.

Ha ha, easy mistake.
I’m sure my neighbor and I will laugh about it together for years. Right after the Order of Protection that he got against me expires.

Namaste.
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And are you in NYC? Or at least a broomstick ride away from it? If so, great! Please come join me at Afternoon of Indulgent Moments! Featuring Dove Chocolate and Gallo wine, and decadent treats and beauty and relaxation treatments, and did I mention DOVE CHOCOLATE AND GALLO WINE?!

How do you reach this Nirvana? Go to The Chelsea Market, 75 Ninth Avenue, in NYC, 3 to 7 pm on Tuesday, March 9th, and just tell them that Marinka sent you.

One year ago ...

• Distracted - 2012