This morning when my alarm went off, I tried hard to remember what I'd meant to do before work, before I remembered that it was Saturday. "Oh, it's Saturday," I said, sighing and turning off my alarm. I'd signed up for a yoga class at a new studio. I rolled out of bed and got ready to leave, was already singing along with the oldies by 9 when I headed out. It was windy outside, my favorite weather -- it feels like the elements agree anything could happen (and it dries my sweat). It turned out to be the first class at this studio's new space.
The new space is bright and long. The instructor was a thin, tan, beautiful woman with a British accent. I wanted to laugh out loud at how easy her social life must be. I hated every moment of our flow. I was struggling, I was suffering -- but at the same time I knew it was hitting every muscle group I'd been trying to target. My chest and hips opened up almost against their will. I left feeling released. I took a nap.
I met an old friend for a drink. I took two trains to the end of Astoria and was reminded that I don't even need to leave the city for a new perspective -- that leaving my own neighborhood reminds me of how much a cocktail should cost and how common botox is (isn't), really. I do love my neighborhood, truly -- love the lights of the waterfront at every time of day, love my local gym and my local coffee shops and my local yoga studios and the walk to the L. I'll be so so sad when I'm priced out.
When am I not sad, though? I've been daydreaming lately of the back porch of my house in DC, of living with Sarah for five years, of the Polish mineral water in Greenpoint and our built in bookshelves in the apartment above Tip Top. All seasons of life come to an end. I don't know how to balance fighting for what I know I love, with succumbing to what I might not know I love yet.
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