black friday.

the slavedrivers over at amanda's job decided that she, unlike most of the world, shouldn't get the day after thanksgiving off. people have to do all kinds of extremely important business transactions, after all, as they sling themselves from mall after mall, so the bank has to be open. and amanda has to be there.

so far i've spent today hiding in the guest bedroom; amanda's mom also had to go to work today, so it's just me and amanda's brother and father in the house. of course as soon as i woke up and went downstairs to get some coffee i walked in on them having a big heart-to-heart discussion. "good morning," i quietly said to them as i sidled by them to get to the coffee pot. obviously mooching some breakfast was out of the question. it just set the stage for the awkward day ahead. ah well, amanda's coming home for lunch; then it's just another three awkward hours before she gets home for the day. good times.

just in time for black friday, here's this week's column, courtesy of the gentlemen over at baltimore gay life. and, hilary, you're a STAH!

The Practice

“I’m going to hot yoga tonight at Midtown. Do you want to go with me?” Hilary asked me at work on Tuesday. I thought for a while before answering. I hadn’t done yoga since college, and even then it wasn’t as if I was going to some patchouli-smelling yoga studio three times a week. I dabbled in yoga with my roommate Alyson, agreeing to follow along with a yoga video every night before bed. Our every-night agreement dwindled to a few nights a week until it fizzled out completely, both of us too busy drinking and hanging out with our boyfriends to care much about the downward-facing dog.

Then again, I thought to myself, I always stretch when I get up in the morning, so how ill-prepared can I be? “Ok, sure,” I told Hilary.

We got to the yoga studio early to make sure that we had time to pay our walk-in visitor’s fee and get a spot where we could see the instructor. I had visions of myself trying to duplicate the instructor’s poses without actually being able to see her: I’d be crouched with one leg shot out awkwardly to the left, the other somehow folded below me as I struggled to support myself with my right elbow. Panting, I’d look around the room to find that the rest of the class was sitting there relaxed and cross-legged. The instructor would be gawking at me from the front of the room, wondering who I thought I was coming into her class and making a mockery of it. Wanting to avoid this scene at any cost, Hilary and I parked ourselves next to the instructor’s mat. I could’ve reached out and touched her ropy, muscled arm.

I turned to Hilary. “I had no idea that my hair could sweat,” I said to her. She was pallid. I found out later that we were both silently considering the easiest way to get of the room should our feelings of nausea become too much to bear. Why in the world did I put my mat so far away from the door? I thought. If I actually have to puke I’m going to have to negotiate my way through this sea of mats and twisted, sweating bodies.

“Focus your mind completely on your breathing,” the instructor told us. “Every time your mind starts to wander, bring it back to the practice. Let your breath guide you.” I breathed in, breathed out. A droplet of sweat fell from my nose onto the mat. I wonder if anyone has noticed how much I’m sweating, I thought to myself. Hilary doesn’t seem to be sweating this much. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m going to overheat or something. I looked at the girl on my other side, the girl who had been doing sit-ups before class even started. She was sweating, sure, but not like I was.

“Allow all of your problems or thoughts of your job to disappear. Focus on your breathing. Focus on the practice,” the instructor reminded us. That’s when it occurred to me: I was trying, but focusing on the practice was not going to happen. I’d paid fourteen dollars to screw myself up into poses and wonder what the stranger next to me thought. I was trying not to let my mind wander, but it seemed that clearing my mind wasn’t an option. I’m just not good at turning off my brain.

There’s always a thread of consciousness, a monologue, churning below the surface. When I’m out with friends or watching TV or reading, it’s there. It’s the voice that says, Don’t forget you need to buy maple syrup or Don’t forget that you have to move your car so it doesn’t get towed.

It’s also the voice that says, You’re 25 years old now. Behind you are three failed, serious relationships, and if you want to know your grandchildren you’ve got maybe ten years to have kids of your own. And you know, Robert, before you have children you have to settle down and have a job that pays something. But you just had to be a musician, didn’t you? It’s a voice that nags, questions, the one I’m trying to silence when I’m laying in bed or sweating in yoga.

“Did you have a hard time focusing on ‘the practice’?” I asked Hilary as we left.

“I always do,” she said. “The entire time I kept thinking about what I was going to make for dinner.”

“Me too,” I told her. “And I felt like such a putz because everybody else seemed to get it.”

“Well,” she said shrugging, “we’re high-strung people.”

It’s true, I am high-strung. I suppose that it made me feel better to know that I wasn’t the only one struggling to turn off my inner monologue, but I still wonder: will I ever find peace? Will I ever be able to silence that self-critical voice, or will it always be there just behind my eyes? All I can do, really, is try to ignore it, to focus on my breathing; focus on the practice.

Focus more on what’s in front of me than what’s inside.