THE SEX MOTEL

For five nights, Evan and I stayed at the pricey, hip Ace Hotel just off Broadway in Manhattan’s NOMAD district. This is our fourth time together in NYC and we always stay at the Ace. We like its central location, the Stumptown café adjoining the hotel and I enjoy accessing the gym in the basement. Our visits begin with a sit-down session in the lobby’s photo booth for a half dozen tiny black-and-white photos. Our room typically has an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building. We’re close enough to walk to Times Square to catch a Broadway show but far enough away to have a healthy separation from the posing Elmos, the herds of people and the massive light displays that come from mammoth billboards. The Ace is our familiar haven to begin and end fully packed days in New York.

 

After yet another pleasant stay, we packed up last Tuesday and took a cab to LaGuardia to catch our Southwest flight back to Denver. Due to weather conditions, we taxied on the tarmac for almost four hours in an increasingly warm cabin until the pilot announced that we had to return to the terminal to refuel. 

 

At the gate, passengers were allowed off the plane to stretch their legs, keeping mindful about reboarding signage and announcements. An hour later, the inevitable happened: the flight crew timed out and the flight was cancelled. The LaGuardia departures board indicated a great many cancelled flights. Basically, no one was going anywhere Tuesday night.

 

Knowing that thousands of passengers were scrambling just like us to find accommodations, I hurriedly searched “hotels near me” while Evan called Southwest to rebook our flight which was not scheduled to depart until two days later. Flight and hotel booked, we headed out from baggage claim and grabbed a taxi. The hotel near me turned out to be nearly an hour away in The Bronx. 

 

When the cabbie finally pulled into the parking lot in the middle of nowhere around midnight, we knew we had left Ace standards far behind us. The two-story motel circled the lot, every room having a view of parked vehicles and red neon cherry tree installations. Pink, blue and white hexagonal lighting dotted the overhang on both floors and room doors were adorned with white and green vertical signage that alternated the words BLISS, MODERN, CHILL, RELAX, ENJOY, EXPLORE, REPEAT.  

 

My first impression was that the place was kitschy. Evan, however, through an oh-my-god-where-are-we laugh, managed to say, “We’re at a sex hotel.” 

 

I dismissed his comment as Evan being Evan and proceeded to roll my oversized suitcase to the lobby, a small room in which the reception counter was a fully sectioned off with protective glass. While I slide my ID and credit card through a metal slot, Evan told the man behind the counter, “We’d like a room for more than two hours.”

 

“Stop it!” I told him, tired from a long day of non-travel.

 

Grabbing the key card, we lugged our bags up a central flight of stairs and passed by the BLISS and EXPLORE signage to the end room. As I opened the door, Evan resumed his laughter while we surveyed the black-lit room that made the white pillows glow. A wall-sized mirror faced us from the far side of the room and, looking up, a giant mirror was mounted to the ceiling, fully capturing the king-sized bed which had a sheet but no blanket or duvet.  

 

“Sex room,” Evan repeated.

 

View from ceiling mirror

Even though the bed didn’t vibrate, the ginormous flatscreen didn’t play porn as a default offering and the vending machine sold soft drinks instead of condoms, I couldn’t argue. Yes, we’d checked into a sex motel.

 

Rather than think in terms of sexual things, we both thought about bed bugs and questioned how clean the room might be. Despite both of us being simultaneously amused and uncomfortable, we fell asleep in minutes, motorcycles and adjacent above ground subway trains rattling away throughout our two-night stay. 

 

In all likelihood, we’ll be back at the Ace next year but the sex motel will remain but a memory.

  

CAR ISSUES

Whew! It’s good to put the car in park. I just spent four days driving 2,700 kilometres from Vancouver to Denver, managing to fit in three morning bike rides and a couple of National Parks. 

 

A couple of decades ago, those would have been easy travel days. I once pulled three 17-hour days in the car to make it to the family cottage. Wouldn’t consider that kind of road trip schedule ever again. My back just can’t handle that long in a car seat. 

 

Instead of worrying about the possibility of hitting moose, elk or deer while driving at night, my primary concern now is about having car trouble in some remote area in Idaho or Utah. (Signs that say “No Services Next 42 Miles” are not comforting.) I drive a 2015 Mini Cooper which runs really well but, as I can personally attest, aging has its drawbacks. I sprang for an oil change the day before I left but said no to the other suggested work the mechanic pitched. (They always pitch other work, right?)

 

Everything was good until I pulled over to take yet another photo of yet another red rock formation in Arches National Park. An SUV pulled up beside me, rolled down the window and the driver said, “Hey…you’ve got something hanging low under the front end of your car.” I thanked him and he drove on toward a different pullout. 

 

I got down on my hands and knees, hoping to see maybe a plastic bag or a desert plant—I had a tumbleweed in my engine once—but, dang, it looked to be a dangling car part. Instead of hitting the road after the park to make my way to Denver I drove back into the town of Moab, Utah where I’d stayed the night before and pulled into the only autobody shop I could find. 

 

This was not going to go well. I imagined parts being ordered from Salt Lake City, taking several days to arrive, maybe having to fly out of Moab to Denver since Evan and I were due to fly to New York City two days later. I braced for being told I needed a new transmission or, hell, a whole new engine. I wondered how many thousands of dollars the repairs would cost. 

 

As soon as the prior customer paid his bill—good to see he wasn’t crying—I walked up to the counter and explained what I knew. Hanging part. The service guy then asked me a question. It might have been about a car part I’d never heard of. It could just as well have been something in Korean or Portuguese. 

 

This happens every single time I take my car in for a repair. The first question always feels like a test: How much does this driver know about cars? As always, I failed the test. The obvious implication is that the auto shop can run up the bill because who am I to argue? I know absolutely nothing.

 

On his computer screen, the guy started to create my customer profile. He went straight from name to zip code. Oh, no. Another big reveal. Canadian postal codes are a wonky mix of numbers and letters. I had to say, “It’s Canadian.” 

 

His next question: “So the plates are Canadian, too?”

 

My stomach sank and it had only twenty percent to do with the fact that earlier that morning I’d sipped one-fifth of the worst oat milk latte I’d ever had in my life before pouring the rest out. (WTF, Starbucks?) 

 

I leaned into that Canadians-are-so-nice schtick and hoped he would brush aside thoughts that a stranded foreigner was a cash cow for business.

 

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be able to take a look at your car in about thirty minutes.” Before surrendering my key, I unlocked the car to take out a bag of Trader Joe’s chocolate-peanut butter pretzels which I stress-ate while the TV screen in the reception area blasted news about Formula 1 races. I was totally in foreign territory. I had no wi-fi on my phone so I edited my photos from Arches and Canyonlands National Parks, the whole time chanting in my head, Please don’t take advantage of me. 

 

Right on schedule, I was summoned back to the counter. The man smiled broadly. To my left, a rock. To my right, a hard place. How many days? How many dollars?

 

Apparently, the problems was the skid plate. Oh, yes. That was the Korean/Portuguese term he’d mentioned at the outset. “We just gave it a trim,” he said. “The dealer can get you a new one.”

 

Um, okay…

 

He printed out my invoice. Apparently, I was good to go. The damage to my credit card: $72.

 

I swear, I don’t recall the last time I paid so little for an auto repair. My oil change from days earlier cost two and a half times that amount.

 

Hello, early Thanksgiving. I was not taken advantage of. I did not have to book an extra night in Moab. I did not have to look into propeller airplane flights out of Canyonlands Airport. I was treated with the kind of respect I’m not used to when it comes to car issues. 

 

If you ever need a mechanic in Moah, Utah, give me a shout.

 

 

 

 

TOO MUCH TRAVEL?

I’ve long said that travel is the best antidote to the up-and-down swirls I feel due to mental health challenges. A quick trip to Whistler or Seattle can calm my nerves, lift my mood or just provide a preventive booster to keep me on track. 

 

I’m not sure how I’d feel about travel as part of work, the kind where you check in to one hotel after another and spend 9 to 5 in one office tower after another, then unwind in a bar seven floors down from your room. That seems like travel without the experiences that make being away from home so special. No matter how luxurious they may be, I don’t want to sign up for what are basically hotel room tours. A successful trip involves as little time in the room as possible (and time in an office cubicle doesn’t count at all). 

 

Still, I’ve often thought that, if I could land a kind of job where I’m paid to venture to cities and countries and hop on trains or roam in a rental car from city to beach from art museum to funky café, I’d have found my sweet spot. Bring on the next destination!

 

Lunenburg, Nova Scotia

But here I am, momentarily between trips, three days at home after being away most of the past month and heading out again for two more months. So far I’ve covered Taos, Denver, Halifax, Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton. Upcoming: Portland, Canyonlands National Park, Denver, New York City, Dallas, Aspen and another stint in New Mexico along with a few places that haven’t been slotted in yet. 

 

To be sure, I am lucky. Privileged, in fact. I’ve loved going to each place up till now and I have no doubt I will thoroughly enjoy the places to come but these three days at home aren’t so much about rest but instead are filled with preparation for the next two months: a bike tune-up, an oil change, a laptop repair, a volunteer shift, a mortgage renewal, medication refills, a library stop, an insurance appointment, a meeting with a writing colleague, unpacking and packing, hotel bookings and loads of laundry among other things. No doubt, there is an item or two I’m forgetting. It feels like a lot.

 

I’d be okay with it—I think—if one item weren’t left off the list: writing. I define myself as a writer. Writing essays, outlining a new story and revising a manuscript bring me joy. I don’t have the time or the focus for these tasks right now and they fell off my radar during the most recent week of travel. As I take to the road for another extended period, I don’t see a time in the near future when I can fit in a few decent writing sessions. 

 

That boost I feel from travel is taking a hit from the absence of writing as my passion. I just can’t balance the two at present. It’s put me in an unfamiliar sort of funk that is clouding the glory of travel adventure.

 

Writing just doesn’t fall off my agenda.

 

Even during my first stint in a psych ward, when they took away all my possessions, including my backpack with a writing notebook, I found the fortitude and the supplies—a single sheet of white paper and one of those teensy pencils they give you at miniature golf—to write. I wrote my ideas in the tiniest print possible, filling up every inch on both sides of the paper. In my deepest ever depression, writing was what gave me hope that I could continue to be something once discharged. 

 

It’s scary to not be writing. What if ideas and inspiration don’t come back when I’m ready to slot in more writing time? What if this unprecedented break just keeps going?  

 

I have four days by myself on the road beginning tomorrow. I have a pad of paper, pens and pencils always placed in the driver’s side door pocket. As I navigate some of the less scenic patches of highway, I hope to be that guy talking aloud to himself as speedier drivers pass. Let the ideas flow again. I don’t care whether they’re about a current project or something entirely new. Let me start thinking like a writer again. Let the ideas feel so urgent and compelling that I find myself pulling over at rest stops or even the road shoulder to scribble my thoughts on that pad of paper. I normally enjoy the quiet time but I’m hoping, as this trip begins, there will be a lot of noise inside my head. The good kind. The kind that affirms that, yes, I am still a writer.

 

     

 

  

TRAVEL WITH AN EATING DISORDER

I pack my laptop, my hiking boots and, yes, my eating disorder when I travel. Really, it would be nice if I forgot that last thing but it insists on tagging along everywhere I go. This time, I’m in Canada’s Maritime provinces: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. 

 

Usually when I’m visiting other places, food is not a highlight. Being a vegetarian, I won’t be sampling the local seafood on this trip. I probably won’t be hitting restaurants at all. The first half of my adventure, I’ll be on my own and, although I prefer solo travel, I’m not a fan of solo dining. I tell myself I don’t mind the spectacle of appearing like some lonely soul. That’s an extrovert’s POV. As an introvert, it’s nice not having to respond to small talk about how big my meal is. A seemingly innocuous comment about portion sizing is dangerous territory for people with eating disorders. An offhand remark about my meal (e.g., “Are you gonna eat all that?”) means I’ll feel obliged to eat even less than I intended. Any joy in eating will be lost. 

 

My hangup over eating alone in a restaurant is that I intone judgment from the server. I’m taking up a two-top so the check will only come to half of what a couple orders—less since I don’t order alcohol, an appetizer or dessert. I’ve eaten enough times on my own in restaurants and the server consistently offers minimal service. Maybe they sense I want to be left alone. The weird thing is that, rather than try to rush me out so a couple will be seated in their section, it’s almost always a chore to flag down the server so I can pay and leave.

 

When I book my hotel, I always ensure there’s a mini fridge. I’m good with picking up yogurt and cold brew coffee at the grocery store. I like eating in the room while surfing on my laptop to get directions to activities I want to do during my stay. I like that eating takes five minutes and then I can move on to more exciting things.

 

My eating disorder is a bigger focus on this particular trip. I’m attending a conference put on by the Eating Disorders Association of Canada (EDAC). For two days, I am sitting in on keynote speeches and breakout sessions from academics talking about what they are learning from professional studies about People Like Me. 

 

My fear is that the presentations and discussions will mostly be about People Like Me Who Are Happen to Be Women. (Yes, so far, that is the case.) Although I’ve read that men make up 25-40% of those with eating disorders, that has not been my experience in hospital or in outpatient treatment. Often, I am the only guy in the room. Where is everyone else?

 

When going to a conference, I seek to be validated and to connect. Regrettably, that doesn’t seem to be happening. Whether I am in the ballroom for keynote speeches or in smaller rooms for breakout sessions, men are an underrepresented minority. To emphasize, the conference is targeted to researchers and service providers, not people with lived experiences in having an eating disorder. Most of the therapists, dietitians, nurses, occupational therapist and other professionals who have worked with me in the past nine years since my official diagnosis for anorexia nervosa have been women and the vast majority of the people in group sessions have been women. I wonder how many men have backed away from support after continually walking into rooms and not seeing themselves represented.

 

I feel it is important for me to be a participant…a face. I want to remind academics and service providers that, yes, there are men with eating disorders and, yes, there is a greater likelihood they are not seeking treatment. This trip has me feeling more agitated about being a guy with an eating disorder. It’s unexpectedly triggered more food restriction and a sense of disillusionment. What’s wrong with me? Indeed, sometimes I wonder if that 25-40% figure about the proportion of people having eating disorders being men is inflated. Sometimes it’s another reason for me to wonder, Why can’t I be more like other guys? If I could, I might deal with feelings of anxiety and alienation by hitting up a convenience store and washing down a family sized bag of Doritos with an extra-large cup of Coke but, no, that’s just not me. Most of the time travelling solo just means I’m on my own but, on this occasion, it does feel lonely. 

SO FAR AWAY

I often say a long-distance relationship suits me. I like my time with my partner, but I also value time on my own. As an introvert, I can never seem to get enough quiet time to myself. 

 

But having returned from Evan’s home in Denver three days ago, I haven’t settled in the way I usually do. I know a big part of it has to do with the fact I’m flying again at the end of the week to Canada’s East Coast for a conference that I’ll stretch into a week of travel. So, yes, the suitcase only gets a brief period in my closet before another round of packing. Vancouver doesn’t feel like home at the moment; instead, it’s a pit stop. 

 

But backing things up a bit, I didn’t want to fly home from Denver in the first place. I’d been there three weeks which is about as long as any of our visits, but there was nothing beckoning back in Vancouver. Even my introverted ways were subdued rather than begging for respite. 

 

I suppose that means our relationship is continuing to grow after four years together, always living in different cities with Evan first in Seattle, then Denver. Each time I visit, Evan says, “I wish you weren’t going. Can’t you change your flight?” This time, instead of saying no, I offered an alternative version of yes. I might drive back in a couple weeks’ time with the intent of staying for two months. 

 

Big step.

 

Of course, there’s the obvious—it would be our longest time together. But a two-month stay also changes the dynamics in terms of what is legally permissible. I am only allowed to visit the U.S. for a day less than half the year and a two-month chunk all at once eats up a lot of visitation time, frontloading the year. I’ve already been in the U.S. for five or six weeks so more than half of my year’s allotment will be eaten up after this extended trip. It means we’ll have to plan more carefully for the second half of the year. It’s like eating too much pie all at once and then having to spread out and savour the last bites, although not to such an extreme.

 

Evan can, of course, visit me in Canada as well, but he’s just started a new job and can’t get away as often or as long. Again, his trips, when even possible, will need to be thoughtfully scheduled over the rest of the year. 

 

It’s not a bad problem to have. Four years in, we want to see more of each other. We want to see how we handle being together for a longer chunk of time. In the meantime, it feels like I’m stationed in Vancouver, feeling like it is but a stopover, trying to make the most of my normally coveted downtime. 

 

My, how a relationship changes everything! 

HANDYMAN

I’m regularly reminded how different my partner Evan and I are. And each time I feel blessed that we are able to overcome, appreciate and even lean into those differences. 

 

We’re currently in Taos, New Mexico, spending an extended long weekend at his Airstream trailer. Taos? Trailer? Four years ago, I’d have said that’s not me at all. And yet I love it. The trailer is just another place where our relationship feels at home—the sagebrush, the sunsets, even the ponchos. Evan bought his after a day trip we made to Santa Fe a few years ago. This weekend I found myself nodding to a woolen raspberry poncho of my own. (The chill in the air may have played a factor.)

 

I’ve been a vegetarian for 41 years and, well, Evan is inclined to order the meat lover’s pizza. Still, the meals we’ve made here together have been entirely meatless: veggie chili, veggie tacos, and veggie tikka masala Indian bowl. He still feigns energy and protein deprivation each time but he’s joking…I think.

 

Evan’s Airstream is a vintage trailer from the 1950s. Since he’s a gifted interior designer, the space makes a statement worthy of the cover of Architectural Digest if the magazine ever published a special issue on glamping. But a 70-year-old trailer requires ongoing maintenance. Parts break down. Newer “fixes” can sometimes be temporary. While Evan works on minor repairs, I typically stand clear. I know I have nothing to contribute. I will be in the way. My questions will only shine a light on my ignorance.

 

And, no, I am not putting myself down. I am simply being a realist. I’ve long since come to terms with many things I’m incapable of and being a handy man is at the top of the list, even above throwing a football, drawing a stick figure and firing a gun. 

 

Growing up, my father held out hope. Just as he thought I could learn to throw and catch a ball—any freakin’ ball—he figured I could learn how to do an oil change, how to start the pilot light for a gas fireplace and how to replace a light fixture. Actually, he may have equalled my own low expectations. It was my mother who nudged us both—to my Dad, “Show him”; to me, “Go see.” These were always futile moments, me staring at my shoelaces until my father would sigh and say, “Just go watch your MTV.”

 

My father hopefully never took it personally. Typically an A student, I made Ds in Woodworking every term in junior high school. Mr. Bentley had less patience than my father as he frequently called me an “incompetent ninny” in his British accent. I avoided the power saw, the lathe and, well, even things that required a hammer and nails. (I believed it was important to hang on to both my thumbs…and all other digits.) 

 

As Evan worked to stop some water leaks—something about changing copper and plastic gaskets or other thingies—I stood outside the trailer, gazing at the sweeping mountain and valley views while pretending I knew how to set up the firepit for a nighttime bonfire. Since the water leak issue required several tweaks over the course of a couple of days, I was finally put to use, turning on and shutting off the water from outside. It was a minor task a Labradoodle could be trained to do, but then we don’t have a Labradoodle…or any pet. I filled in.

 

Yesterday, a crank for opening and closing one of the trailer windows had to be replaced. This was more challenging than one might think because they no longer make the size or brand of window handle cranks that corresponded with the original Airstream. Evan ordered two different ones and had to figure out whether he could use some combination of the parts to be able to open and close the window. I resumed my role of avoiding the scene/staying out of the way by editing sunset photos on my phone. (Really, Taos sunsets are so stunning no edits are required; I just had to appear busy.) 

 

But then Evan said five dreaded words, “Hey, can you help me?”

 

Gosh darn it. I should have driven into town to write at a café. 

 

“Help” meant doing something with a washer and nut from inside the trailer while Evan poked a screw through from outside the trailer. Yes, by its very nature, it was a two-person task. (I’m working on us getting a Labradoodle, dammit.) 

 

It only took fifteen seconds for me to feel I wasn’t doing it right. Evan would tell me to line up the holes—“Higher”—but the holes could not be aligned. I had no Plan B. 

 

We switched positions with me now standing outside the trailer holding a screw and a washer, my head wedged between the trailer wall and the tiny window opened at a small angle. Despite it being decades, I suddenly wanted my MTV…that cool video by A-ha, Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” or even Phil Collins’ grating “Sussudio.”

 

It took a few attempts but apparently we did it. Next thing I knew, I was holding a screwdriver and using it properly. Again a Labradoodle or a captive crow could accomplish as much but I was the only being available in the moment. Window crank replaced. Ta-da!

 

We did it. Evan’s patience, persistence and making do with what he’d been dealt paid off. There are so many things about Evan that make me grateful, but him being a handy man is up near the top. 

 

I have a few little “projects” awaiting him next time he visits me in Vancouver… I’m hoping one of my neighbour’s cats can provide an assist.

 

  

THE YOGA STRETCH

I knew Evan was a yoga regular when we first started dating four years ago. He wasn’t a runner, a swimmer or a gym goer like me, but that was fine. I wouldn’t drag him to the gym and he wouldn’t con me into going to the yoga studio. We both talked of liking hiking. Let that be enough. It’s good to have separate interests and activities, I told myself. We were a couple of fifty-something guys, not high schoolers who had to like the same movies, have the same favourite Depeche Mode song and eat off each other’s plates at Denny’s.

 

For almost three years, I managed to avoid yoga. Evan would go five or six times a week at some insanely early hour while I would try (unsuccessfully) to fall back asleep, knowing my workout would wait until midafternoon. Time apart was good, plus we’d each have separate stories, him telling me about a guy who was too gassy doing his downward-facing dogs and me sharing about the woman with headphones on the elliptical machine who always sang bits hysterically off-key without knowing her attempt at lip synching could be heard by everyone in the gym. (The hysterics are gone; it’s now plain annoying.) 

 

And then it happened. For the umpteenth time, he tried to get me to go with him to yoga. “Come on. Just try it. Once.” For some still inexplicable reason, I said, “Okay.”

 

Let’s just get this over with, once and for all. All along, I had told Evan I didn’t have a body for yoga. I lack balance. My body is unstretchable. I would be a distraction to others. I would cause the instructor to lose the beat, to mistakenly do a star pose when he called for a mountain pose. Surely, that would be enough. One class. Half a class, actually. The instructor would boot me. Namaste.

 

My kind of place...

I should mention that Evan always goes to hot yoga. This is even worse. I do not like heat. This is why my last vacation was to above the Arctic Circle in Norway. In January. Sweaty me is definitively unsexy. I’m an uber-pale white dude whose face gets blotchy red after a few minutes of heat. The blotchiness remains even after a cold shower when I’ve been removed from the heat zone. 

 

I don’t do saunas. I don’t do Death Valley any time of year. I don’t even like standing in front of an open oven. 

 

Happy baby pose...
not gonna happen.

So, yeah, getting kicked out halfway through my first and last hot yoga class would be more of a relief than an embarrassment. I could say to Evan, “I tried,” and he’d never mention me going to yoga again. No more happy baby poses, otherwise known to me as, “Simon says, ‘Touch your knees.’” Very, very sad baby.

 

Gilbert was the pour soul who served as the yoga instructor. As Evan introduced me at the check-in counter and Gilbert handed me a two-dollar rental towel and a four-dollar rental mat, I apologized for what we were all about to experience. “I will put my mat in a corner,” I said. “Don’t look my way. It will throw you completely off.” 

 

As expected, I sucked. My chair pose was more of a standing lean, my Warrior II unfit for battle…even my cow pose (basically a head-up crawl position) stank like manure. Yes, I humiliated myself. No, I did not get kicked out.

 

Dammit, Gilbert was too much of a professional. I was giving him the all-out worst and he had the nerve to say after class while standing behind the counter, “You were really getting it.” Had I known then. there was a fire hydrant pose, I’d have attempted it because this liar, liar’s yoga pants were definitely on fire. 

 

The next f#%king week, Evan wanted me to go to hot yoga again.

 

Oh, no. This was not the deal.

 

I only got my wisdom teeth pulled once. One time for having to take a girl to prom. I don’t even have to have another colonoscopy in the next ten years.

 

Yes, I just compared yoga to a colonoscopy. 

 

Thank god for cow pose!

But the following week I was back at the yoga studio with Evan, this time apologizing pre-class to Jenny whom I could tell was a formidable force just from the way she said, “You’ll do fine.” It was more of an order than an expression of encouragement. Jenny’s class felt like hot yoga boot camp, the pace and the moves exponentially upping both the sweat factor and level of personal cluelessness. I’d sort of figured out cow pose and its corresponding cat pose, but what the hell was a chaturanga? Could we please stick to animals? Flamingo pose, elephant trunk sway, wet dog shake. I could visualize these things but not a chaturanga which sounded, if anything like a drink at a bar you down in one swallow. Maybe a shot was exactly what I needed before class even if it was 6:15 in the morning. Something with Kahlua, please.

 

Jenny should have been the end of it. She scared me. She overwhelmed me. Still, as I tried to sneak out to the parking lot after class, she stopped me and said, “You were great.” Another liar. Must be part of yoga training. She at least had the sense not to add an exclamation mark. 

 

I’ve probably done hot yoga fifteen times now, including a week of free classes over New Year’s. Every time has been with Evan. (Why else would I go?) I know what more of the poses are supposed to look like. I just can’t do them. I’ve reached a level of proficiency in ugly-sweating and that hasn’t scared Evan away yet but apparently even a pose as elementary as downward-facing dog remains aspirational. 

 

It doesn’t help that I have a hard time hearing what the instructor is saying because the music is too loud for me. It probably also doesn’t help that Gilbert is the only instructor that has had to endure me a second time. Fourteen instructors’ different styles and routines for fifteen classes. I’ve stopped apologizing, maybe even stopped feeling humiliated. Still, my body’s lack of flexibility is as glaring as ever. I’m telling myself this morning’s class was the last. But, well I’ve said that fifteen times now. 

 

Evan has a way of making me think I’m almost capable or at least looking past my flaws—in the studio and beyond. If he can accept me looking my absolute worst, I suppose I can keep showing up. Something tells me there will be a sixteen occasion. Fortunately though, hiking season is right around the corner.