I get up, pack, force myself not to drag Jackson out of bed. I tell myself that wanting to get out of the Baymont Inn & Suites more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, doesn't make leaving at 9:30 for a 2:45 flight any less crazy. I drink half a styrofoam cup of Folger's coffee (the second this week), eat half a styrofoam bagel (both from the Breakfast Nook out in the lobby), read last week's NY Times Magazine section, the whole time wondering, existentially and materially: why? (see: questions for Tony Blair, Spalding Gray's journals and the Ethicist)
I am not centered. This is my sudden realization while Google-mapping Enterprise Rental Car at Logan Airport for the third time. Yoga is the answer. I stand in the narrow hallway next to the bathroom and closet alcove (non-removable hangers, iron). There is no room to do a real sun salutation because it's a hallway, and the carpet is too slippery for a real downward dog. I tell myself, this is okay. This is fine. This is imperfect yoga. It's better than perfect yoga. I see this in a way only the actualized can.
It's my second set of sun salutating. I raise my arms forward, in a clever adaptation of raising arms from the side, looking up toward the pebbled foam-tiled ceiling. Something brown and hard falls on my face. I Google-map Enterprise again and wake up Jackson.
When I say "Jackson, it's time to get up," he mutters, "I'm up. I'm washing my face."
& no time to pop up Route 10 for a visit with Ayn Rand Youth...
Posted by: Tim | October 18, 2011 at 08:09 AM