I scrambled. All day long I scrambled with the goal of getting to a 6:30 p.m. yoga class – the last offering of the day. And after a day of frustrating phone calls and greater than normal frenzy, I hurried out the door at 6:08, wanting, wishing, desperately seeking a yoga class to work out my stress and get my head straight. I knew I’d have to come back to the office, but the 90 minutes of sweat and exertion would me good.
What happened next?
The parking lot to the studio was full. Every single level. And the neighborhood streets all around my little downtown studio were packed. I wish I’d had the nerve to park in a damned handicap spot, but I’m not that girl, so I drove back to the office. Unexercised and pissed off, I drove back to the office.
I don’t recall ever having hated my car so much. All I needed was some place to put the damn thing so I could get into my studio and decompress. That’s all I wanted. A yoga class at the end of my day. I didn’t want a drink or a date. I didn’t need a parade or even a pat on the back. I just wanted 90 minutes in a hot room with my towel and mat.
I’d curse the happy hour goers at the neighboring bar who most certainly took my spot. I’d curse the yogis who arrived early or lived closed enough to walk or ride bikes to my studio. I’d curse the contractor for not building more parking or the studio for launching the 60 day challenge that packs my studio at the start of each year. I’d curse Ben Affleck for writing and directing “The Town,” the movie that kept me up far too late last night and made me sleep in this morning – through the 5:45 a.m. class. But at the end of the day, I have only myself to blame.
I slept in. I chose to work rather than make a morning, lunchtime or afternoon class. I pushed the day until the last possible minute that I could leave and make it to the last class. I did this. And that is precisely why I am fuming in this moment.
The idiot/bastard/object of my wrath in this story is me. Dammit.
I hate that.