I love when life is poetic, even if poetically shitty. Take this morning, for example: I couldn’t find my keys. Car keys, house keys, keys to various studios where I teach, keys to my parents’ home, a mailbox key, and let’s not forget all those various tags, which shower me with shopping discounts wherever I go. OK, scratch that last part; those tags are useless. Except, maybe, the ones for my 17 gym memberships. Gyms are never useless.
I awoke in a state exceeding exhaustion. Near-dead is more accurate. And how do I say this politely, yogically? It’s been a “challenging” week. My hope for Friday was that it might cut me some slack, and my schedule looked willing to oblige. Relatively light, for a change, with some enjoyable highlights—a morning private yoga session with a pleasant, dedicated client, who’s training for the Boston Marathon; some time to write; and a meeting at Neiman Marcus, where I would flit around choosing my hypothetical dream closet, as part of an upcoming Fashion Rules event—the day looked innocent enough (heck, it looked fabulous!), with the potential for delivering me, emotionally intact, to the weekend ahead. Then, again, I couldn’t find my keys, so nobody was going anywhere.
It features the personal styles of six Boston trendsetters—and then there’s me. I’m not sure why I was chosen, but I think the following must have happened:
Neiman Marcus Executive to Marketing and PR Staffers upon hearing of the selected list of Bostonians: What a stellar collection of inspiring people! They exude creativity, personal style, and fun. You’ve done an excellent job!
Marketing & PR Staffers: Thank you. We worked really hard. We’re very happy with this group.
Exec: You know, there is just one person missing . . .
Staff: There is?
Exec: Yes. [Insert long pause, as the executive stares off, toward the fashion horizon, eyes squinting thoughtfully, arms crossed over her exquisite Diane Von Furstenberg blouse]. We need one more person…
Staff: Who? [The team is riveted by the task of filling a now apparent void].
Exec: Someone who wears broccoli hats and digs through garbage.
One junior staffer pops up: Oh, I’ve got it! Let’s call that Rebecca-Om-Girl person.
Exec: Eureka! You just got yourself a promotion…
I’m honored, to say the least. I promise, Mom, I will NOT wear a tablecloth as a skirt to the nice party. But before you go all Boo-hoo, it must be really hard to go to an elegant fashion playground when you’re tired and select beautiful clothes that you would love to wear, accompanied by a charming, grounded, glamorous personal stylist who doesn’t once make a mockery of the fact that you keep selecting insanely bright, billowy dresses. She doesn’t once say, “Um, have you tried wearing pants? Ever?” just hear me out.
I didn’t choose these Christian Louboutins in case you’re wondering.
It was to be a charmed afternoon. One so indulgent and fun that I might start to think myself a little fancy. Perhaps I would feel special. Maybe even a little smug.
Which is why the Universe said, “Not so fast, sister. Today will begin with you digging through garbage.” Not emotional garbage so frequently referenced on yoga blogs—actual trash.
I’m not sure how I realized this might be a logical place for me to look for my keys, but there I was. It would have been simple enough to lightly rustle through the garbage bin beneath the kitchen sink, but that’s not nearly poetic enough. If you’ve had a royally stinky week, then a little rustling through your own trash is nothing. You must march bravely into the trash closet of your entire apartment building in search of your garbage, praying that your bag is still there (thankfully, it was), since today was Trash Day.
Then, you pray that you can identify your bag of trash, among everyone else’s bags of trash. (Thankfully, I could). You will even be a little amused, not at the rotten brussel sprouts or discarded Band-aids but, at the Universe, quite a witty writer, if you think about this storyline. I wanted to throw out the week. I didn’t want to deal. But, I was forced to examine further…
Sometimes, life stinks, and you want a break. You need a break. So, you ask for one. And, instead of getting it, you are forced to sift through trash–of all kinds.
But, there they will be: the keys. Right underneath the Greek yogurt and soggy tea bags. In your garbage. In the trash closet. Because you were too exhausted last night to realize you knocked them in there while preparing dinner, err, Thai takeout.
Maybe the Universe wanted to keep me humble before I got too swept up in the fashion fun-time. Maybe it was a little lesson in Buddhist non-attachment or yogic vairagya (letting go) or whatever the philosophic lesson is that says your life will be composed of trash and treasure, garbage and glamour, rain and sun, success and failure, good weeks and shitty ones, and you should keep your wits about you through them all. Or, at the very least, try not to throw your own keys into someone else’s garbage.
Whatever it is that I was supposed to learn, this much I know: I’m grateful I found my keys, happy for the dose of glamour, and relieved, finally, to call it a day.