All sorts. I'm pretty non-discriminatory at this point in my life.
When I got back to Philadelphia after Christmas Break at the end of December I was having a very difficult time re-adjusting after having spent ten days with many of my favorite humans and my family. Never mind that there was nothing to do until the fourth week of January. So I signed up for a yoga studio special. The first money I had spent on myself in Philadelphia that did not relate to sustenance or something that was school required.
The studio is a three minute walk from my apartment. It's a version of hotish yoga, which wasn't my first choice, but it was so close and it was Winter, after all. My first few classes there were great. I love being a student in a yoga studio. I loved being somewhere anonymously again. Sneak in, sweat, sneak out. I quietly mumble hellos and goodbyes and give a small nod and briefest of eye contact as I'm scooting out the door. Part of something bigger than yourself, while still able to hide behind the masses. No one knows my name. I don't know anyone. I just leave my troubles in a puddle on the floor in the studio.
I went for all forty days of my intro package. More than a few times I went twice in a day.
I love yoga, but I'm so much more apt to practice with a class. Structure.
Toward the end of my package deal, an announcement was made after class that they were still looking for people to help with their Energy Exchange program, which means if you work three sessions a week, helping the instructor check students in, tidying up after class and making a commitment to the community, you were given free access to all classes at the studio. It was perfect, and the only way I'd probably be able to continue practicing. And it meant giving up something I had become so comfortable in: anonymity.
I volunteered and started almost immediately. The processing of students and regular tidying around the studio is easy enough. If, like me, you've worked a zillion costumer service and retail jobs, all the steps are pretty much the same, just with different intentions and a different computer system. I arrive at class a half hour prior to practice and stay about a half hour later. I check people in and answer any questions they might have. I encourage and congratulate them if it's their first time.
It started to sink in slowly, then once school started back up and I was regularly running around hardwood floors with a band of crazy weirdos, it really started to hit me. I don't belong there. I think I noticed it for the first time when one of my fellow "Energy Exchange-ers" said,
"Let's get a picture of all of us in a row doing headstand!"
"Sure!" I replied.
I don't really have headstand. I mean, I have MY headstand. Yoga's a practice after all. But it was about community. It was about sharing with people.
She later posted the picture to Facebook and it struck me hard and fast. Second in from the left, like a slightly dangerous adolescent turkey in a flock of graceful and still flamingos was a very physically honest me. One leg half raised and blurry, the other bent and resting in my hip socket. My generous hips and thighs taking the space and drawing attention to themselves by a ridiculously bold henna print neon teal and pink yoga pant.
Good God I don't belong there. It was so clear in that moment. Among these graceful women whose arms were lean and ate quinoa and kale and sipped wine on patios. Who were either already taking teacher training or being courted by the studio owners to do so regularly. Me and my home-made hair cut and thrift-shopped yoga clothes and a mat my sister had gifted to me ten years ago. Me in my 450 square foot apartment in the same neighborhood as the studio. Me an my sweat the second I walked into the lobby. Me and my beer. Me and my chipped teeth. Me and my movement-based theatre program. Me and my shame shame SHAME.
I continued to feel this way. I was relating to my partner how uncomfortable I was with how much I felt like I didn't belong. How I felt like I could never be a part of this community. How I wondered if it was a Philadelphia thing or a me thing. Without missing a beat he said, "I don't understand why you're not embracing being an outsider. That's what I've always seen you do."
Oops.
So here I am. No longer sneaking out of the studio. No longer making eye contact for as little time as possible with the fancy lululemon-wearing, artist warehouse-living, hairs done every 6-8 weeks clientele. Now it's a big giant smile, my best shot at remembering their names (forever a curse. Face blindness is real.) and still working on unfurling that headstand (and handstand).
That makes it sound really easy. It's not. I'm nervous to smile at these people. I'm nervous every they'll see how I'm sweating before I even walk into the studio because I rode my bike there. I'm nervous they'll see me sweating because I'm nervous. I'm nervous I don't belong and no amount of being a novelty weird theatre grad student is going to help that. Really, I'm nervous every they don't want me there, because I want to be there. But it's not our samenesses that make us interesting as humans. The exciting part of most humans is what makes us weirdos.
I'm a weirdo in most social settings. It only really stands out to me when I've been around performers for a long time and then I'm thrown into a more "average" social setting, which is very much what the yoga studio is. I still feel shame- more on that next week, but I mostly feel lucky that I get to see these people as they are and I'm getting better at letting them see me for who I am. I'm not ashamed to be here studying devised theatre, even if no one knows what that means. I'm immensely proud. It took a shit ton of work to get here, and I will weirdo all over the place to celebrate.
