Occasionally, I have trouble realizing whether I'm dreaming or awake. At least twice in my life (once last week), I've cried out in my sleep after convincing myself that I was indeed awake. Believe me, it scared the hell out of my boyfriend, and embarrassed me.
This morning, I thought I must be dreaming at the gym. I was doing what has always been the most humbling physical act I've ever attempted: stretching. I was roughly half-way through my "gym routine." I hesitate to say "work out" because I feel such a term is best reserved for the graceful, confident, and frankly beautiful movements of my fellow gymgoers, rather than the ogre-like trouncings I push through in an hour and ten minutes each morning. Plus, I associate the term "work out" with the physical act of getting fit. I think of my "gym routine," however, as an awkward attempt to delay obesity and improve my chances of staying on this Earth a bit longer, depriving my boyfriend his valuable inheritance of Star Trek DVDs and Jane Austen novels. I am nothing if not selfish, after all.
Those of you who have known me for more than five minutes have realized my inflexibility - body, mind, and soul. Inflexibility is actually a thrilling existence. You truly haven't lived until you've stood on your balcony in your underwear yelling at the weather, "Stop raining! STOP RAINING! I want to go to the zoo today!" The neighbors should charge admission. As I was raised to strive for self-improvement in all aspects of my existence, I would work to be more flexibile, except I can't fathom such a reality in my current body. If I could change my legs and arms for better models, and maybe get a deal on a new torso while I'm at it, greater flexibility could fall within my realm of possibility. But, as it is, the only improvement (body, mind, and soul) I can imagine is less inflexibility... which, to me, is a vastly different mindset compared to greater flexibility.
Thus, while stretching in my "gym routine," I open my raw, naked soul to the world. This is James at his most fragile, most humble, and least confident. If I could, I'd stretch alone - but, it looks like there isn't enough room to stretch in the bathroom stall. I've tried. Instead of solitude, I've tuned my soul to project, in as many metaphysical ways as possible, the message "DON'T APPROACH ME" while stretching. So far, it's worked. Even my closest friends have given me a wide berth when they see me stretching.
Thus, I thought I must be home, in bed, and dreaming when I heard a high-pitched and cheerful female voice while I was splayed out, humble and vulnerable, on a gym mat this morning: "Are you happy?"
"Really," I thought, "Dreaming about the gym lacks creativity, James." Earlier that night, I'd had a number of interesting dreams, and I was disappointed to find out that - sandwiched between a dream where my skin turned purple and a dream where Zach and I found our cat moonlighting as a substitute geometry teacher in Cal Anderson Park ("How unrealistic... I mean, all you have to do is look at her, poised proudly like a Greek statue, for two words to enter your head: algebra teacher..."), was this ho-hum snoozer about me stretching at the gym. I was hoping I could just partially wake up, move the cat off my feet, tear my fair share of the covers away from my cover-klepto boyfriend, and move on to more interesting dreams.
Except that I wasn't dreaming. I was laying out on a gym mat with my eyes closed, attempting to will my limbs into a state of less inflexibility, and projecting with all my mental will these metaphysical signs ("STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"). And here was a bright and chipper voice: "Are you happy?"
I meant to say "What?" (followed by some four-letter words), but the best I could do in my surprise was a neanderthal grunt. Just ten days after passing my graduate school general exam, and here I was communicating at a level below, "Me Tarzan, you Jane."
Thoughts of Dolores Umbridge's sweet, terse voice swam through my head as the young woman standing over me continued: "Are you happy with your flexibility? Because I noticed that you aren't very flexible."
At this point, a man on an exercise bike nearby turned his head to watch and listen. He probably thought I was going to pull a scimitar out and slice this woman in two. Then, he'd go to work and tell his friends in the neighboring cubicle, "See what happens when you interrupt James while he's stretching? I hope she learned her lesson."
I, in the meantime, regretted leaving my scimitar in the car. Before I could muster a defence of my flexibility, the woman continued. It turns out she used to be a yoga instructor "back in college," and had decided this morning that my lack of flexibility was alarming. "You shouldn't be lifting weights and running, you should join a yoga class immediately." She put such a tense emphasis on "immediately" that I was jerked back to my Air Force ROTC days in high school, and nearly dropped and gave her twenty.
I rejoined the present and realized that she had paused in her criticism, waiting for me to respond. I was too busy burying my four-letter words, looking for something to throw at her, and rushing to improve my metaphysical warning beacon ("If you value your life, stay the f*** away from me!"). She shrugged, smiled sweetly, and purred, "Anyway, just wanted you to know that. It's really not healthy, and yoga from people like me can help you!" She skipped spritely down the stairs and out the door.
The man on the exercise bike broke into a sympathetic grin when he saw me flip off her retreating backside, and I mustered all the inflexibility of my soul as I hissed the greatest insult I know: "Damn hippie..."
After the rest of my "gym routine," I dragged my heavy, awkward limbs back home, hoping to find that I had indeed been dreaming. I approached my sleeping cat, placed my black-and-blue glasses on her face, and asked her to teach me the Pythagorean theorem.
Alas, she wheezed in response.
Posted by James at March 31, 2008 06:17 AM