Friday, March 29, 2013

Blame the ping pong for this one

Yesterday morning, against most odds, I headed west for a yoga class that began at 6 am. I make no bones about it; I am a morning person. There are few things better to me than the crisp, clean, quiet air of an early spring or early autumn morning. Yesterday the moon was still out in big and bright and full roundness. I caught a glimpse of its reflection on that small runt of a lake that I pass daily on my way to somewhere else and for once I could actually say that in that early morning stillness, it actually looked beautiful. The moon: making ugly things look idyllic by reflecting the light of the sun. Someone should stitch that on a pillow.

I love driving under only one circumstance: I am alone on a road in the early morning hours when there is still the occasional streetlight on and everything feels just on the brink of waking up.The possibilities are still so infinite. Only then can I relax into driving; when I can't tell what is ahead. Then again, doing anything at that time of day is pretty good to me. I suppose I feel like I'm seeing and doing things no one else is around to see or do. It can be a little lonely but it makes me feel unique. It is lonique.

In attendance for the yoga class were the pregnant instructor and three other women. One of them was quickly revealed to be the female Woody Allen. Not in appearance, she was very tall and graceful in her movements with very long and thick chestnut brown hair. But her mannerisms were such that I had the thought that she might be doing an impersonation. The instructor asked her about why she hadn't been to class in awhile and she told everyone present that (and please read this in a Woody Allen voice) "Uh...y'know, well, well I had an eye problem. Not a detached retina or anything but my doctor said I needed to stay home and you know, no yoga for me." I wanted to hug her, or at least talk about Russian novels.

I didn't want to like the yogi. She is pregnant which really just means she will not teach the class for much longer. I get too attached to the yogis; they tap into something with me. The last time I had a pregnant yogi teach me something she went off and disappeared forever. I mean children and blessings and busy mothers and blah blah but stay with me! Anyway, I ended up liking her very much. She had a playlist for the class that reminded me of being 19, which was one of my favorite ages. The fact that the class was heavy on the hip openers probably contributed to the elation I felt afterwards. If you don't practice hip openers, you definitely should. I don't know the specifics or even if there is anything to it in a scientific or spiritual sense but when you stretch out your hip joints, something happens to your mood. It happens to me every time. Try it, then report back to me if I'm alone in that.

During the class I also had a very random revelation about the recent film adaptation of Anna Karenina, which starred Keira Knightley. I saw it a few days ago and didn't really think much of it but just then I realized that I understand 100% of what it was aiming for in style and narration but that there was an essential piece missing and I just can't pinpoint what it is.  It probably doesn't matter much. I have no clue why that popped into my head during yoga but I liked reflecting on something and then understanding its intention but not liking the end result and appreciating it for what it is anyway.

Today is a short day tacked on to the end of a short week for me and there isn't much to do. I knew I wanted to blog today to feel slightly productive but I had writer's block so I left my office and took a walk. The library held only one student. One student who is always here and whom I have nicknamed "1940s pilot" but that's only because he is dashing, incredibly good looking and looks like he would have been an air force hero in the second world war. Only because of that. Anyway, whenever I find myself in a wander of this building, I'm always struck by how jagged and awkward and grey and sterile it feels. There is something almost M.C. Escher about it, its randomly placed staircases, its dead end hallways with strange double glass doors that you can't really walk through without moving to another floor.

A dramatic recreation of my workplace. I'm the one with the basket.
Despite the fact that I have worked here for almost five years, there are nooks I have never seen and rooms and doors that lead to mystery places. There are never opened doors that have labels like "JC-C" or "PA-12" and if I thought any deeper about it, I'm sure I could decipher the dna of the school but I find that I just don't care. However, when there are no (or one) students here, I like to walk around hallways and deserted classrooms. This morning I had a hankering for a snack from the machine in the student lounge which is in the basement of the building. Since it was completely deserted I ventured a little further back into the basement than I normally do and ended up inside a large room that was pitch black. When I found the light switch (by feeling up the wall) I wasn't surprised to find myself facing this:

I kid of course. What I actually did find was a few ping pong tables and some randomly placed office cubbies stuffed with ephemera and random objects like unblown balloons and unsharpened pencils. There was a whole aura of "un" about it frankly; not much fun in the student lounge but it is after all, a law school. How does one blow off the steam of torts? Well, if my discovery teaches us anything, you can use random cubbies and ping pong to feel better.

Anyway, having nothing better to do an on an unofficial break I picked up one of the ping pong paddles and proceeded to do bounce the ball off it for about 10 minutes, thinking about what to blog about today. And frankly, I'd rather blame the ping pong paddle inside the musty basement of this huge and sharpened building with more corners than windows for the poor quality of this blog post. Actually, I feel totally relieved in the confession and feel no need to continue with this charade. It is time for a glass of wine.

No comments:

Post a Comment