On Having A Day

I had the chance to engage in some truly superlative activities today. A five-dollar yoga class, a drive by myself, coffee and water, sitting in the steam room, thrifting. A dream day off--floor swept, dishes done, time to myself, plenty of sleep, the prospect of a long afternoon spent luxuriating in preparing for a dinner date in the evening.

And some truly superlative things happened.

I wore my roommate's amazing yoga pants that are somehow deliciously comfortable and make me weep over my own ass. I had on my favorite hoodie that I rescued from a broken relationship, soft and grey with "KINK" instead of "PINK" written in white across the chest. A perfectly worn-in white bra under an orange tee that grazes my hips exactly. Beat up blue tennis shoes I bought in Las Vegas this summer.

I managed to bring water, cash for the class, my debit card, an elastic for my hair, a banana, and still have time to stop and put ten dollars of gas in the car. Triumphs all for the attention-deficit.

There was a choice parking spot in front of the yoga studio I pulled into with a minute to spare.

Ten other women and I breathed and stretched and balanced and sweated and rested for an hour.

I bought coffee and garlic and boric powder capsules and a spinach-ricotta croissant for myself.

I went to the place I used to work and held my longest-ever headstand in a glowing patch of sunlight on a black yoga mat on a wooden floor.

At Goodwill I found my dream red blouse, a slouchy-but-tailored grey sweater from J. Crew, a lacy black shirt I can wear to work in all weather, little grey stripy socks. Elton John was on the radio and I fingered all the baby Halloween costumes and admired myself even in the awful fluorescence of the dressing room--my strong freckled arms, the hair falling down my back, the shadow of a bruise on my inner thigh. No one talked to me or hit on me or gave me a hard time in any way.

The ride home offered crisp breeze, falling golden light on mountains slowly becoming a riot of color.

When I got home, there was a warm, tan egg left in the nook of our porch recliner on a blue blanket.

And yet.

I scuffled with my sister over coffee and putting gas in the car and slammed the door when I left the house. "Everyone here drives like a fucking idiot" was my audible soundtrack on the drive downtown. I bitched inwardly all through my opening meditation because the class I thought I would be attending is no longer offered.  Every time a piece of clothing dropped off its hanger and onto the floor I let out a sigh the sheer force and desperation of which could move governments.

I ran into my old boss and friend at the Y and followed the interaction down into all the ways I had failed in that job and all the ways I had failed in that friendship. I cursed the ache in my back as I bent to try on clothes, brought on by a long, hard weekend at the restaurant. The thought of my sixteen-dollar purchase against the enormity of my debt and my dreams worked me over, punishing in its narrowness. The tiny batman costume made my insides clench with sorrow.

Sometimes truly perfect days offer themselves to us at a time when we are unprepared to accept them. Writing this down helps. Taking deep breaths helps, movement helps, and eating something good. Music can get me there, or cleaning up my bedroom. And sometimes even taking these small steps to feel better can be the hardest goddamnest son-of-a-bitch of a thing to ask of ourselves. We have to try, I think, to do them anyway, even when the benefit is not immediately forthcoming. We have to trust that it's on the way.

In some ways I cherish these days even more than the easy ones. The days I feel like ungodly shit for no reason at all, the days where I am 112 pounds of sheer rage one moment and a puddle on the floor the next, restless, despairing, scared, at loose ends.

I remind myself I'll feel differently soon. I ask myself questions about what I am experiencing and why. I try to notice all the good things that are happening even while there's an anvil on my chest or a vise around my brain. I sit with my sadness and my stupid hurt feelings and my pain and I make allowances for them even when I feel to do so is a waste of precious time.

It's not. It's good work if you can get it.