Yogis on the Elevator
This past Monday felt like SUCH a Monday; nothing went according to plan. Per usual, I found myself running around the city like a mad woman all afternoon and when things finally settled down, all I wanted to do was duck into downtown Worcester Fitness and pound out a few miles on the treadmill.
I was so preoccupied with my mental to-do list that I barely made eye contact with a fellow passenger on the elevator until he held the door and said, “How are you Sarah?”
I snapped to attention.
“Hello, how are youuuu?” I crooned. My tenure as teacher/waitress/columnist has made me dangerously good at this game.
‘Must be a parent,’ I concluded.
He gave me a really funny look.
“Sorry,” he said. “We don’t actually know each other.”
Now I was the puzzled one.
“Your first name is monogrammed on your backpack,” he explained.
He and the receptionist chuckled.
“Are you here for his class?” she asked me.
As far as I was concerned, treadmill miles were the only things looming in my future.
“What time does it start?” I asked to be polite.
I looked at my watch…it was 5:25.
“Maybe,” I shrugged, and I darted down the stairs at lightning speed.
In the locker room, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Even for a Monday, I was a sight for sore eyes. I looked tired, stressed, and frankly, unapproachable.
I paused on my way past the glass studio. ‘Should I?’ I wondered.
Steve was a delight. (He teaches yoga, by the way – a fact I was not privy to when I popped into his 5:30 mystery class.) He stretches your mind and your muscles with equal fortitude. And, he tells jokes. Lots of them.
Sometimes the right people find you. Thank goodness Steve loves a good monogram.