“Ohmygod,” comes a squeal echoing down the hallway. “Howareyouuuu?!”
I’m in the basement of a gym in Maryland, getting ready to take a Friday afternoon yoga class. This will be the first yoga class I’ve taken since leaving Los Angeles last fall, where I attended a branch of this same gym in Hollywood. Absolutely no one squealed at that location because it was filled with people who were used to being squealed at.
I once took a cardio class there with Malia Obama and her friends and not a single person reacted to sweating next to one of the most famous faces on the planet. This could have been because we all knew one or more of the women surrounding her were most certainly Secret Service agents ready to take us out if we made any sudden movements, but I chose to believe it was because we understood squealing was beneath us. Sure, her parents were international icons, but who was to say any one of us wouldn’t be joining them soon in the pantheon of American legends?
And legends obviously don’t squeal.
When I reach the end of the hallway, I find two women clad in matching leggings and different variations of graphic tees standing in the doorway to the yoga room. As I store my flip-flops in a cubby and grab a towel, I quickly gather they’re both instructors; one is just finishing her class and the other is presumably about to lead the class I’ll be taking, although I don’t know which is which.
”How was Boston?” the brunette asks the tall blonde. “Or is that this Monday?”
“That’s this Monday,” the blonde replies, attempting to keep her voice down. “I’m heading up tomorrow.”
“Ohmygodexciiiiiting,” the brunette shouts back. “Just enjoy it! Don’t even worry about your time! Just be present!”
I smile as I squeeze past them into the room, praying the blonde will be teaching this class because I’m not prepared to be yelled at for the next hour. Worry about your time? Is she running the Marathon? Is that Monday? I remind myself to Google this after class.
“Yeah, I’m thinking about not even wearing my watch,” the blonde says as she starts unpacking her bag, a positive sign she’s staying and is also apparently going to be running the Boston Marathon in a few short days. “I’ve never really cared about my time; I just do it for fun.”
I can’t imagine running any marathon for fun, let alone of the hardest and most celebrated courses in the world. I’m reminded of Roberta Gibb, the woman who snuck into the Boston Marathon in 1966 after receiving a rejection letter from the organizers that said, “Women are not physiologically able to run marathon distances. We can't take the medical liability."
I wonder if these two know Roberta’s name or how proud she must be of her legacy in breaking that barrier so sixty years later women could nonchalantly talk about running the same race for fun.
I find a mat in the back of the empty room and lie down, stretching my arms out above my head, like I’m making a snow angel without any snow.
The conversation has moved on and now they’re talking about the brunette’s two cats, whom she plans on taking from her mom’s place when she finally moves into an apartment of her own because they’ve only really bonded with her.
“The thought of leaving them,” she says, trailing off. “Can you imagine?”
The blonde cannot imagine, and they both agree the cats definitely belong with her when another pair of women enter the yoga room. There are warm greetings all around as the pair of women, whose names I hear are Sandra and Tracy, make their way to mats down the row from me.
“I told Steve I only have three more years in DC left in me,” Tracy says to Sandra. “Tops.”
Tracy is younger than Sandra, who bears a striking resemblance to Linda Tripp with a nest of greying hair piled on top of her large head. I wonder if they take this class together every week and then go out for lunch afterward to talk more about Steve. A couple more women trickle in, but Tracy and Sandra’s conversation dominates the room, mostly because they’re talking at a volume normally reserved for coaches barking from the sidelines of a professional football game.
“Where would you go?” Sandra inquires in a tone somehow managing to mix extreme urgency with mild disinterest, like she’s asking a waiter about the daily specials she knows she will never order.
“I don’t know,” Tracy says despondently. “I just don’t think I’m an East Coast person.”
They talk about a possible move to Los Angeles, but quickly decide that’s not a good fit because Steve’s factory is in New York.
“Plus, people laugh too much in Los Angeles,” Sandra states matter of factly, like this is a widely known issue with Angelinos. Tracy quickly agrees and I wonder how much time either of them has spent in Los Angeles, and also how much laughter is too much laughter.
“I’d really like to go down to Florida,” Tracy laments, “I just don’t know if I can convince Steve.”
”Everyone should end up in Florida,” Sandra declares, another indisputable fact. “Just not in Miami.”
“God no.” Too much Spanish, it seems. Plus they both confirm it’s entirely too crowded. They prefer somewhere quiet, presumably so they can shout at each other in peace.
The class begins and as we all find a comfortable position on our backs, I notice I’m the only man in the room. Am I a lady who lunches?
After my last relationship ended, my brother asked if maybe the next guy I fall in love with could be rich, or at least comfortably wealthy. “It’s just as easy to fall in love with someone who has money,” he pointed out, and as I try to follow the teacher’s instructions and pull my shoulder blades down my back, I wonder if Steve has a single friend for me who also owns a factory.
We begin breathing as a group, inhaling to a four-count and exhaling to another four-count, letting go of all the things that no longer serve us.
Someone on Sandra and Tracy’s side of the room is exhaling through their teeth like they’re trying to shush the teacher. I’ve been in hundreds of yoga classes and have never heard an exhale quite as loud or one that lasts for so long; for the next hour, as we move through various poses following our breath, the dull roar of this SHHHH fills the room.
If this is Tracy or Sandra, I think in my downward dog, they have zero sense of irony.
While my body enjoys being pulled and stretched, my mind can’t seem to let this go. Did they have a teacher who told them this was ok? I wonder as we move into a low squat. Do they not notice how everyone else manages to keep their breathing to themselves?
“Use your breath,” the teacher sings as we twist in our squats, placing one hand on the ground and reaching the other toward the ceiling. “As you exhale, try and sink deeper into your twist.”
SHHHHHHHHHH.
At one point when I lived in Los Angeles, I thought about becoming a yoga teacher, or at least going through the certification process to deepen my practice. I never signed up, but as we turn our toes in and rise our hips into a wide-legged fold, I wonder if the training includes how to handle students who breathe strangely.
SHHHHHHHHHH.
Staring at my ankles and feeling my hamstrings come alive, it occurs to me that perhaps this is the correct way to breathe, that maybe we all should be doing this; literally telling yourself to shush while practicing a form of moving meditation might be helpful. Or maybe the blood rushing to my head is clouding my thoughts.
SHHHHHHHHHH.
We’re sprawled out in Savasana when it finally stops, just in time for the end of class. With the room finally, mercifully quiet, I notice my mind is also silent. Perhaps all the shushing helped, or maybe I’m just exhausted.
After we bow our heads and mumble namaste into the floor, the room bubbles back to life as we gather our things. I smile at a couple of the women while we put away our blocks and then head to the door, where our teacher is smiling and nodding at everyone as they leave, like a minister after service on Sunday.
“Good luck with the marathon!” I tell her when it’s my turn, before realizing I wasn’t actually part of that conversation earlier. I see her register this briefly on her face before resuming her placid smile.
“Thanks so much!” she says while I file past. “Great job today!”
After I put my flip-flops back on and begin making my way to the locker room, I pass Tracy and Sandra in the hallway talking about where they’re going to lunch.
“Let’s do Mexican!” Tracy squeals, clapping her hands while clutching her lavendar-colored Stanley cup.
“I love Mexican,” Sandra says, also applauding.
I turn into the locker room and lose the rest of their conversation, but I just hope they find someplace quiet.
I've been in Tokyo for 2 months where silence is the norm, so when I hear squealing Americans I want to duck and cover. But on the other hand, a little laughter, some exaggerated emotion, is a fun juxtaposition. I know you are learning Spanish, but maybe put Japan on your list. It's a trip!
I love how you acknowledge the things you don’t like, but then also question your dislike and find a way to appreciate everything. Welcome back to the states! ❤️🤩