This piece is from my archives, but I’m enjoying it again.
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After Jake dumped me, I signed up for hatha yoga classes. I figured I needed to do some deep breathing and stretching. Maybe I’d even meet a single yoga guy and we could do pranayama and who knows what else together.
By the third week of yoga, I knew the routine. I had my own purple mat and my favorite place in the back corner. On the third Thursday, I spread out my mat in my spot. I put my glasses carefully in my carry bag. Then, following others’ examples, I lay down and stretched.
We began with a short invocation and then some breathing exercises. When I opened my eyes after the pranayama, I looked to my right and my heart lurched. Jake Murray was sitting one row and two spots away. Without my glasses, I stared at his back. That certainly was the bulky, teddy-bear body I knew so well. His curly brown hair wreathed the bald spot on his head. If I squinted my eyes, I could see the black hair on the back of his neck that I’d touched only three weeks ago.
Jake! What was he doing in my yoga class? What a lot of nerve! Wasn’t it enough that he was constantly in my mind? Now he had to show up in my yoga class, the class that I chose to help me get over him.
I hyperventilated remembering that day I waited for him to call. We had planned to go for a hike together before his conference in Rhode Island. I waited all morning and then finally I called and left a message. It was a casual message, a message I rehearsed several times so that it would sound light and unconcerned, like I had plenty of other things to do than sit around pining for his company. “Hey, I thought we were going hiking today. Give me a call.”
To my shame and fury, I did wait around all day. Waited and wondered and imagined. Well, he’s a doctor, maybe he had an emergency. Not likely, since Jake had told me that Dr. Bill was on emergency call this weekend. But you never know with doctors, right? The phone only rang twice that Sunday, and neither call was for me.
When I was in bed that night, the phone did ring and it was Jake. “I ran into Barbara at a restaurant,” he said. “We decided to give it another try.”
I stopped breathing for a moment while my brain replayed the words. Then I said, “That doesn’t feel very good.”
“No, it doesn’t.” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Goodbye, then,” I said, and pushed the END button.
I called my best friend and cried.
“What a chicken-shit, doing it on the phone,” she said. We lambasted him for a good half hour. She was on my side, and it helped–a little. Still, I wept myself to sleep, feeling worthless and unloved.
During the following weeks, I kept busy after work. I raked out dead leaves and planted more perennials. I even started a new flowerbed in the back yard. My teenaged kids called it “Dr. Murray’s grave.” That made me laugh. Yet every time I shopped in the supermarket, I feared that I might bump into him.
And now here he was invading my yoga class. What will I say to him? I wondered. Or should I just ignore him? No, that’s too childish. I can’t pretend he’s not here. I must be calm and mature.
“Oh, hello Jake. How are you?”
“Hello, Jake. Do you like the class?” Maybe a simple, neutral statement was best. But wait, questions were a bad idea. Asking him a question would force us into a conversation. I didn’t want to talk to him. Did I?
While we moved through the poses of salute to the sun, I glared at Jake’s back. I was hot with fury at his presumption in showing up at my yoga class. This was another one of God‘s weird jokes. Or maybe it was a spiritual test, to see if I could remain detached and calm in this unwelcome encounter. I peeked at him doing the postures. He was lousy. He couldn’t touch his toes at all. His belly got in the way when he tried to grab his ankles.
As if reading my mind, Beth, the teacher, said, “Remember that this is your yoga, not anyone else’s.”
For a moment, I felt guilty. But only for a moment. Then my petty, picky monkey mind resumed its gleeful chatter. Ha! You fatty, you can’t do yoga. Shut up, that’s mean, I scolded myself, but the enjoyment of his ineptitude remained like a tiny, tickling flame. Hee hee hee, look at that slob, he is sweating like a pig and this is the easy stuff.
When the class was almost over, I finally decided to be friendly and breezy, “Oh, hi Jake. Great class, yeah? Got to run, bye.” Something like that.
I found this in my blog archives. A little humor in dark times.
Last week my wrist wasn’t working right, so I took my arm to the Body Shop.
“What seems to be the problem?” Dr. Scott asked.
“It hurts when I start in the morning. Sometimes it just locks up completely. I’m having trouble lifting things and opening jars.”
Dr. Scott manipulated my wrist. “Hmm, I’ll need to get in there and have a look,” he said. “We’re kind of backed up here today. One of the techs called in sick. Can you leave the arm until tomorrow?”
“Uh, not really. I kind of need it for holiday cooking. Can you give me a loaner?”
“Sure can, but this is all I’ve got left,” Dr. Scott said. He reached under the counter and brought out a man-sized arm. It was covered in curly black hair. The underside was tattooed with a skull and lightning bolts.
I eyed it with distaste. “That’s all, huh?”
Dr. Scott shrugged. “Yeah, sorry.”
He helped me snap the arm into my shoulder socket. My sweater barely stretched over the bicep. A few inches of hairy wrist stuck out below the cuff. I had planned to stop at the deli on the way home, but decided to avoid the embarrassment.
At the house, my husband was reading in his recliner.
“Well, did he fix your wrist?” he asked without looking up.
“Not today. He gave me a loaner. Look.”
“Whoa, that is some heavy duty arm you’ve got there,” he exclaimed. “Cool tattoos.”
“Not cool,” I said. “I’m off-balance.”
“Hey, let me see you flex that thing.”
I obliged with a scowl.
He grinned. “Wow! That’s some bicep! I bet you could help me replace the bathroom faucet,” he said, pushing out of his chair. “Let’s try it.”
Sure enough, the loaner arm had more than enough strength to loosen the rusty bolt. We fixed the faucet. Then I hefted three forty-pound bags of water conditioner salt from the car into the basement. I poured one bagful into the tank. After that, I carried the thirty-pound frozen turkey from the basement freezer into the kitchen.
“I don’t know, honey,” my husband said, “that arm is pretty useful. Maybe you should keep the loaner.”
“Right,” I said. “And I bet this arm can strangle a spouse pretty well, too.”
Tangled Magic 