Sliding Doors

In my last post, I expressed the hope that I would retain some of my Yogic balance as I re-entered the real world. This, I’ve discovered, was quite a lofty goal. After just two days, I notice dramatic changes. My shoulders have re-clenched. I’ve stopped valuing fresh air. I view life as a hundred-yard dash. My skin has lost the “I work in a yoga studio” glow and turned a “I had 6 cups of coffee today” shade of gray.

Oh, and I hate everyone. The people at Starbucks move too slowly. The people around me are too pushy. And that woman’s outfit just completely sucks. Or at least that’s how I felt last night when I got on the train, grumpily munching on a bag of soy crisps, wishing that I wasn’t eating on the train, and that everyone else would disappear.

So you can imagine my chagrin when a man sitting directly across from me said, “Hmm..oh those look good.” I immediately halted consumption and looked furiously in the other direction. There was a pause, and then laughter. The man’s friend wheezed out like a hyper-active third grader, “uh oh. She’s like..pissed.”

The only thing I hate more than being spoken to rudely by strangers is being spoken about rudely in the third person when I’m right there. But then I had a glimpse of my old, civilized yogini self. I realized, “I am pissed, But maybe I don’t want to be.”

I spun around back towards them and reached my hand with the chips across the subway car.

“Here! You want some.” [Full disclosure: This was a gesture was one of challenge, not of pure kindness.]

To my delight, I really caught them off guard. But they recovered, and the man who spoke first replied, “I do want some, but I feel bad putting my hand in your bag.”

“Ok! Fine!” I reached my hand in and grabbed a handful. “Do you mind if my hand touches them?” He did not and accepted my offer. “What about you?” I turned to his friend.

“Well, I want some…but…I…you know…”

I interrupted, “You’re a germaphobe and you don’t believe I wash my hands?”

“No!” He laughed, clearly embarrassed. “Too much pride!” (I think he said that just because he didn’t want me to know he was a germaphobe.)

“Oh, whatever, your friend took some.” He accepted and I passed over some chips.

Now, his friend was looking at me like I was kind of nuts. (I can’t imagine why.) “Where are you from, anyway.”

“New York!” I sighed. His jaw dropped.

“Seriously…you’re from here?” He shook his head. “I thought you were from California because you’re just so…liberal.” I refrained from pointing out that California was the state to elect Arnold Schwarzenegger and ban gay marriage. He continued, “Are you an artist, then?”

“Why?”

“Well, you look like an artist… I mean… you don’t look you work for one of those Silicon Valley companies.”

I had to laugh. “Well, up until Sunday, I was a ‘writer,’ so I guess I was an artist. But as of Monday, I do in fact work for one of those Silicon Valley companies. In marketing.”

He shook his head, wallowing in his two strike-outs so far. He picked up back up. “So..what’s your background?”

“Huh? You mean like in marketing, or in life?”

“I mean…shalom, shalom?’

More in shock than anything, I blurted out, “Are you asking if I’m Jewish?” He nodded eagerly.

“No way, man, she’s Italian!” His friend interjected.

“I am Jewish,” I responded evenly. “But I guess you just knew that because I tried to feed you.”

“No.” Now was he was aggressive. “I knew. I could tell. I have an Uncle from Israel.”

Not sure what that had to do with anything, I continued, “Where are you from?”

It turned out that they were both from Haiti. The first one was Clifford, and the second was Randolph and they had a grown up there together only to run into each other on Broadway, where Randolph was studying to be a chef.

“The French Culinary Institute?” I offered.

“Wow, Yeah,” They chorused in shock as though I had re-discovered relativity.

Then Clifford asked, “How long have you been married?”

I glanced down. I haven’t pretended to be married since Halloween when I made the rather grandiose gesture of giving away my fake engagement ring. However, my class ring had spun around again to look like a wedding band.

“I’m not married.”

“So you’re single? Or do you have a boyfriend?”

“Umm..” I looked away.

“Look at me in the eye,” he nearly shouted. “Do you or do not have a boyfriend.”

I looked him in the eye. “I do not have a boyfriend. To my knowledge.”

“Is that like, I do not have a child, to my knowledge?” Randolph asked.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend.” Clifford declared. He cocked his head at Randolph. “Get her number.” Randolph reddened.

“I’m not giving my number out on the subway train!” I laughed. They continued to try. They spoke French. Clifford ran across the subway and sat next to me. “It’s not about dating,” he explained, “It’s about energy! It’s about an energetic connection.”

Celebrity death match: Yoga RB vs. Silicon Valley RB. Did I believe in energy, or did I believe you shouldn’t talk to strangers? That’s when I noticed that my boxing ring had an audience–everyone else on the train car. They looked either uncomfortable, or amused. Needless to say, Google won out.

“Listen, you can’t have my number, but you can have my name. It’s really really easy to find me on the Internet, and if you’re serious, you can look me up.”

“What!” yelped Clifford. “The Internet? Are you kidding???”

“I’m very searchable!” I assured him with a smirk. Then I noticed that he had some of those wooden Hindu yoga beads. I forgot about the audience. “The yoga bracelets!”

“I bet you didn’t think I’d be into yoga!” He paused. “Give Randolph your number.”

“Nope. But if you want you come into Yoga__ for a free week of Yoga you can!” Yup. I was still marketing the yoga studio.

“Do you go there?”

“No, I work there. Well..I used to.”

“Where is it?”

“You can find it on the Internet.”

“Man! What the hell is it with you and the Internet?”

Yeah, I wondered suddenly, What was it with me and the Internet?

“You just have to google it…” I assured him weakly.

He wrinkled his eyes brows. “Fine. If that’s how it is. If you want to be that way.”

Be that way. That way that cranky, unfriendly and frightened people are, I guessed. Shamed, I started to scurry off the train, before it dawned on me how silly this all was. Screw the audience. And screw fear–these guys were never going to show up at yoga. But at least I could avoid being rude.

I turned over my shoulder and called, “19th and 5th” before darting through the closing doors.