There’s a difference, as it turns out, between wanting to be adventurous and actually having those adventures. Especially when they take place at 7:00 a.m. Give me an adventure that starts at noon, or better yet, four in the afternoon, and we are golden. I am the most adventurous person you ever met, and I might even get there five minutes early, that’s how adventure-loving I am. And then I will be bright-tailed and bushy-eyed and you will be so impressed with my enthusiasm and go-getter attitude you might even give me a medal of some sort. One of those gold-wrapped chocolate ones, for preference.
This adventure, the yoga class I was a little afraid to take but very excited about, started at 7:00 a.m., but I thought it would be okay. 6:00 a.m., that’s not too early a time to get up, is it? Well, of course it is. It is a ridiculous hour to even be alive and breathing with your eyes open, and what are you thinking, gym scheduling people? But sometimes, you have to make sacrifices for adventure and sometimes those sacrifices are totally the equivalent of drowning heroic rescue golden retriever puppies in Jell-O. I really hate getting up early.
6:00 was probably the very latest I could actually leave the house, but
if I leapt out of bed, and brushed my teeth while leaping into my
sneakers and dragging my gym bag over my shoulder and then hopped out
the door yanking up my sweatpants, I might even be early! And then I
could warn the yoga instructor that I might fall over and then she
could accuse me of having inner-ear problems and it would be such good
times and then I could fall asleep in the downward dog position and
count it as exercise.
It didn’t work that way. It never does, does it. The alarm went off at 6:00 and I woke up yelling, slapped it quiet, and fell immediately back
to sleep. That happened at least twice. It was 6:18 by the time I
actually gained full consciousness, and I yelled again, when I saw the
time, and flew out of bed and knocked my head on the wall because that
is how graceful I am. I sat on the floor for a couple of minutes, going
ow ow ow fuck ow, and then realized that going ow ow ow fuck ow wasn’t
going to get me any closer to on-time.
Fuck brushing my teeth, I’d do that in the shower after class and I
just won’t get near any one and where the hell are my sneakers and
you’ve got to be kidding me, did I forget to pack my gym bag and what
am I going to wear and what does it matter and oh my god my keys, there
they are go go go. Come back and get my lunch, run back out the door.
Come back and get my purse, stuff it into my gym back, run back out the
door and down the block, to the bus stop.
And then, it was 6:35 a.m., and I was standing there in the dark and
cold and the bus was not coming and neither was the train and oh. Of
course. I forgot to pack regular shoes. I am going to take a yoga
class, get in the shower, and then change into a skirt and running
sneakers. I am so cool.
I debated with myself for a good ten minutes more: it didn’t matter if
I was going to be late…it does matter if I’m late to my first class…also, that
is rude. Also, the bus is still not coming, and there is a difference
between being late and showing up for the last ten minutes. But I
didn’t want to give up. I got up at 6:00 a.m.! I woke up before God. I
made an effort! I might be really stupid, but the effort, that’s got to
count for something! I must have something to show for it! I had
nothing to show for it. I picked up my bag and trudged home and sat at
my desk, looking for other yoga classes that maybe I could still make
it to, except the gym class-scheduling people continued to be out of
their tiny little muscled minds, and all the classes were at ridiculous
hours, and I had failed.
I hate failing. I especially hate failing at adventure. I mean, in this
case that didn’t mean falling off a mountain or wrapping myself around
a tree or something. It was just, you know, lots of poor planning and
a little bad luck and a soupçon of dumb on the part of both myself and
the universe and why not spread a little bit of the love to the transit
people who really ought to have buses running just a little more
I had just been looking forward to it, and ending up not going–it felt
very similar to all those times I crapped out of doing something I
really wanted to do because I was scared. I didn’t think I was scared
of going–nervous, sure, but scared? But maybe I was, secretly? Maybe I
sabotaged myself! Maybe a little bit of the coward was still clinging
to the underside bits of my soul. Who am I kidding? I’m totally still a
coward. But I think, this time, mostly I was just a little dopey.
Which, for once, is a relief.