Drinking vodka out of a watermelon because it’s Tuesday night baby and I’m alive!
I hadn’t been in over a year, but something made me run to the yoga studio near my apartment tonight. Maybe it was the perfectly crisp and inviting summer breeze, maybe it was the fact I’ve felt hunched over and small lately…maybe because there’s a yoga class on a rooftop in New York City and that should be more than enough. But when I got home from work, I avoided an encounter with the couch, threw on an I’ve-clearly-never-been-to-the-Lululemon-store ensemble, retrieved my mat from the dust bunnies under my bed and made it to the 8pm class with a minute to spare. And I’m glad I did because there’s nothing quite like doing sun salutations under the moon. And there’s nothing quite like lying on your back, feeling your muscles, your bones unravel and expand, watching the underbellies of planes gliding overhead (wondering, of course, if they belong to JetBlue), and there’s nothing quite like having a coy audience, neighbors pretending not to notice the 30 wobbly statues below their wide-open windows, or an instructor softly telling you to let go of the day, even though your day can still be seen and heard and felt. And it doesn’t matter that the three beautiful men behind you are probably too aware of the hole in your yoga pants or that the occasional mosquito is practicing its downward dog on your forearm or that someone is cooking a meal you can almost taste or that the cycle of city sirens doesn’t cease for those trying to find peace outdoors in the middle of Manhattan. Because meditation is subjective, and silence is not always a requirement for spiritual insight and because I guess some of us find comfort and control over body + mind amid quiet chaos, in measured breaths under starless skies, in twisted shapes atop pre-war buildings in Midtown.