I took a programming class in college and have had this inside joke url ever since
This is perhaps the cruelest security question I have ever set for myself. The question, in being asked, manifests its correct answer.
Favorite teacher? Favorite pet? Mother’s maiden name? No other query has proven to be as steadfast in its ability to simultaneously log me into my bank account and ruin my day.
The first time I saw the Skinny Russian Girl, I judged her in the exact way I dread others judging me. She tiptoed into yoga class late, and before I’d even seen her face, when all I knew of her was a vaguely narrow form in the periphery of my vision, I thought the damning word: weak.
It became pretty clear almost immediately, however, that she was the strongest person in the class, let alone girl. Whenever we went into twists, I propped my elbows on my knees and innocently stared. Where did her strength come from? She had no outward appearance of muscles. She was a twig in shorts and tank-top, braless and small-chested with dark hair elaborately pinned to a delicate head. Chandelier earrings dangled from her ears in small crystals. Her eyes were heavy with kohl. When arched on all fours, she could swing through her arms in one graceful motion and land noiselessly into a seated forward bend, her body creased in half at the hips like rolling paper.
After class, the few men in the area would line up to speak with her.
“Where are you from?” I heard someone say, leaning towards her intimately in the coat room as I struggled to find my scarf in a pile of boots. “Russia, right? Somewhere in Russia?”
She shyly mumbled a response, seemingly eager to get around him and out the door.
“You know,” he smiled wolfishly, “I . . . speak a little Russian.”
Dipshit, I thought at him. That’s exactly the sort of thing you’re supposed to say in Russian. I mean, come on. I’ve never taken a single Spanish class, but I could tell you I spoke it, un poco.
“Some guy touched her arm today!” I would exclaim. “Like he owned her, and he said ‘hey, nice to see you here again.’ Come on. Doesn’t he know that she’s always there? She could freaking teach at that studio, and he says nice to see you here, like she’s doing him some kind of favor by showing up. Geez!”
Or, “she seems to know Elliot, the instructor, pretty well. He asked her if she’d be attending his workshop this weekend, and warned her that it’d be a long drive from her place.”
Or, “I heard her talk today. I’m not sure what she said. She has the quietest voice.”
I’d recount the amazing physical feats I’d seen her accomplish, the neverending pairs of earrings, the heavy eye makeup that wouldn’t smear a centimeter. I had begun to suspect that she was magical. Every class, she would tiptoe in a minute or two late, and place her mat next to mine.
I stepped my bare feet to the front of the mat for Mountain Pose, the way we begin every Ashtanga class. Ashtanga is the same, somewhat rapid series of poses every time, which means that the first time I was here I spent most of my time stumbling around and looking bewildered. But not this time, I thought. I’d been going twice a week for three weeks, and now this was my seventh class. Time to rock.
Our instructor Elliot entered the class and smiled, turning down the music. From the first time I saw Elliot, I secretly referred to him as “Moby”: like Moby, Elliot has a very shiny head. Unlike Moby, Elliot could probably kick your ass if it didn’t go against everything he stood for. I am massively intimidated by Elliot, and also kind of in love with him: the way I am in love with anyone who even slightly touches me.
“Welcome, everyone, to the secondary series of this class. Is anyone new to secondary series?”
Secondary, secondary, I flickered vaguely. Isn’t this class usually called primary?
“On the last Tuesday of every month, this class becomes the secondary series. It’s a little more advanced, and with a lot of back bends, so . . . feel free to stop whenever you need to. Everyone okay?”
This was met with blank, uninterpretable stares. Wait, what did he say again? Should I —
“Now let’s take a deep breath.”
Fuck, you’re out of your element, aren’t you? I thought to myself rapidly, raising my arms upward. You’re out of your element. Exhale and bend. Whooooooosh. Here we go.
Every now and then I go through a phase where I have absolutely no desire to write, whatsoever. It generally means that I’m either being dishonest to myself about something, or I just haven’t felt real sunlight on my skin in too many days (or is it weeks, or is it months).
In honor of the Third Coast Audio Festival, and my friend Dennis (front center, beardy) visiting our one-pony town, we held the first annual First Coast Audio Festival: in a basement rare books store, with pizza, nice scotch, and cheap wine. Because that’s just how we roll.
“Uh, that greasy pizza box is sitting on top of a signed book by Adlai Stevenson,” I noted. “Cool?” I was eyeballing the e.e. cummings paintings leaning nearby against the stacks, John Adams’ framed copy of the constitution.
“Eh,” the technically-an-employee shrugged. “Yeah.”
Every now and then I would sneak upstairs to the art gallery, which was brightly lit and completely empty at this late hour, pristine and silent — exactly the way I’ve always wanted art galleries to be when I visit them. I padded along quietly in my rubber-soled shoes and imagined that this was my house.