“Wow. I’ve got some big shoes to fill,” I said, and they all burst out laughing. If the big red ball and nervous stomach didn’t already make me feel like a fourth grader, the feeling like everyone’s in on the joke but you sure did.
“No, sorry,” explained Lars. “I was talking about your glory days. No pressure, though, okay? I’m sure the champion still lives within you!”
Great. I hate it when people have expectations. Hopefully my inner champion isn’t too busy kicking the crap out of my frustrated artist.
“That was a long time ago,” I said in case they didn’t notice I wasn’t eight years old. Just in case they didn’t, I found a paper bag and started chugging.
The team seemed nice enough and I took some comfort in the estimation that people who drink beer out of lunch sacks in the middle of a highly trafficked neighborhood before sunset don’t take many things seriously. When the other team showed up, they greeted each other like long-lost friends. In fact, although not “long-lost,” most of them were friends.
“We’ve all been playing together for years,” Lars explained. “Sometimes you’re on a team together, sometimes you’re against one another.”
“Ah, such is life,” I mused.
Regardless of what side they were on in the park, they were all on the same side of the bar. The first rule of kickball is apparently to get nice and drunk first. I hope this game goes into extra innings because there’s no way I can drive home.
I was banished to Jenny’s usual spot in the outfield.
“Stay there,” some guy named Jack told me.
“Righty-o,” I answered, taking about ten giant leaps backward from where he told me to stand. Those playground drunks couldn’t walk a straight line. Let’s hope they can’t kick a ball in one. About four seconds later a giant, arching, growing red dot came crashing toward me.
“You got it, Shelly!”
Kord, damn it! I now know what it would feel like to have Mars spin right off its axis, drop from the sky, and land on your chest.
I opened my arms, closed my eyes, and yelled, “Thunder!”
Whoosh! I felt the breeze as the ball sailed right between my forearms and then, whack, bounced back up to smack me in the face.
“Ow.”
When I opened my eyes, Sarah, the left fielder, was standing over me. “Oh dear, someone have a towel?”
“Ah wink ah whenaled mah wop whip,” I said.
Lars and some other guy (I stopped caring who these irresponsible jackholes were) helped me off the field and gave me a can of PBR from the cooler to hold on my lip.
“That was a good try!” Sarah cooed. “ ‘A’ for effort.”
Thut up, Thara.
WEDNESDAY’S GOD: IOUN
GOD OF: KNOWLEDGE
Promotes: mental power, prophecy, and skill
I fell asleep with a bag of frozen peas on my face and when I woke the next day, I realized the damage wasn’t as bad as I initially thought. My top lip was a bit swollen but the bruising was minimal. At least I could say my S’s again.
“You look like Taylor from The Real Housewives,” Laura said when she saw me.
“Sadly, my nose didn’t get broken,” I lamented. “I was hoping to get a nip and tuck when the doctors had me under.”
“Does this mean your kickball career is over?” Chris asked. “For a second time?”
I wasn’t sure what was worse. Being compared to a Botox-addicted bored housewife or having a career-ending injury crush my hopes and dreams for a second time. Didn’t matter. Today was a new day, and a new day meant a new god. I sat in my desk chair, closed my eyes, and took a deep inhale, letting my abdominal cavity expand and lengthen. And then I got dizzy and almost passed out.
I’m still learning here, people.
“Om …”
“Oh no. Who are you worshipping today?” Laura asked.
“Today I shall pray to Ioun, the god of knowledge, skill, and prophecy.”
“Great!” Laura said. “Then you can work on this presentation.”
“PowerPoint will not help me bridge my mental and emotional faculties,” I answered. “But yoga will. I’m taking a class tonight!”
“What the hell does yoga have to do with Ioun?” Chris asked. “She wants you to seek and distribute knowledge. Educate yourself and others.”
“Um, what part of class did you not understand?” Look at me distributing knowledge already.
“I’m not sure that’s entirely what she means, but go ahead. Knock yourself out,” he said, in an unfortunate choice of clichés. “Oh no, wait. Don’t do that. Have fun.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
Sadly, I sort of agreed with him. It would be nice to enroll in a Spanish class or finally learn how to knit or sit in on a lecture at the Seattle Art Museum. But yoga is the only class I could find that was available on such short notice. Just in case Chris was right and I failed to properly educate and enlighten, I’d go to NPR.com and donate $25.
My neighborhood is riddled with yoga studios so I picked one closest to home. Okay, that’s not why I picked it. It happens to be across the street from my favorite tap house. Bart is meeting me after class so I can deposit some delicious hoppy calories back into the old reservoir.
I haven’t taken a yoga class since … well, ever. I tried to do one of those On Demand videos when I was feeling lazy about not going to the gym for three days but the teacher was so Zen I fell asleep in chair pose and only woke up because of the charley horse in my quad. I was a bit nervous about class until I walked into the studio’s lobby, which smelled like my old friend Phoebe. A woman behind the desk greeted me. Her long, lithe limbs were enshrouded in a black body suit. She looked like a vanilla bean.
“Is this the beginner yoga class?” I asked.
“It is!” she said with so much glee I wondered if she thinks I’m from Extreme Yoga Studio Make-Over Edition or something. “Is this your first time?” she asked, handing me a clipboard full of paperwork.
Sure that I will never muster that much glee in my own voice, I just nodded and started initialing things.
My future classmates didn’t look very “beginner.” Maybe it’s because they all had Klean Kanteen water bottles and were wearing those expensive yoga pants and matching tops that I pass over at T.J. Maxx in favor of the cheap cotton sweatpants and T-shirts I find around the office. It’s not like I’m going to a bar dressed like this. Bart’s bringing me a change of clothes.
Their clothes, on the other hand, you could go to happy hour in if you were the kind of person who enjoyed drinking half-price appletinis while showing your midriff.
I did not have my own yoga mat, so Vanilla Bean lent me one. I’m instantly grossed out over the thought that my face is going to get pretty intimate with this rubber cesspool. I exfoliated for this? Why didn’t I plunk down the $10 it probably costs to get a mat? Even if I used it only once in an actual yoga class, I’m sure I could have found another use for it. Cushy shower mat? Beach towel? Protecting valuables like those Stuart Weitzman boots I just purchased? Instead I’d probably get a staph infection to go with my fat lip.
I unfurled the borrowed mat next to a woman I perceived to be the least yoga-ish. She was about my age and her sweatpants didn’t match her sports bra. I liked her instantly.
She smiled at me as I set up. “Hi, I’m Becky.”
“Hey,” I said, introducing myself. “It’s my first time. I’m terrified. Hold me?” I’m a tad nervous and when nervous, I overshare. “Just kidding. You don’t have to hold me. Yet.”
“My second,” she said. “Wait until you see my killer moves.”
Aw, Ioun, I think I love you. I’m already chalking this up as a win. I may not leave with my moon in the seventh house, but I’ve already met a nice person. Now as long as the instructor is an actual human and not a tape recorder, I think we’ll be in business.
She was human, and after her welcome, she had us close our eyes and breathe. In and out. Innnnn and ou
uuuut. Innnnnnnnnnnnnn and ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.
Snort.
I’m falling asleep again! What the heck is wrong with me? Is there no middle ground between ZEN and REM?
After we had sufficiently expanded our rib cages we moved on to some stretches.
“Is this yoga?” I whispered to Becky. I know there are types of yoga that are vigorous and athletic, but this ain’t it. I’ve done more strenuous moves just turning off my alarm clock.
“It’s this kind of yoga,” she answered, mock yawning. We both stifled giggles.
When the woman in front of us bent over, I got all Sir Mix-A-Lot on her and whispered, “Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt.”
Becky did a fantastic job of turning her snort into a cough. I tried to behave.
If I’m not going to justify that beer and barbeque sandwich I might as well get something out of this, I thought. I concentrated on getting in the Zen zone. I opened my mind and my rib cage, ready for enlightenment.
It really was peaceful in there. And the stretching did feel good. Perhaps my spirit guides had come for me after all.
“Now we move into downward dog,” the instructor cooed.
Becky, still smiling, slowly bent at the waist and I followed suit. Just as I came mere inches from the mat, I heard something amid the pan flutes and whales calls coming from the CD player.
Pfffffffffffftttttttttttaaaaaaaaaapppppppprrrrrrrrrr.
The unmistakable sound came from my right. Oh dear God! Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh! Oh my god, Becky, look at your butt! But it was nearly impossible for me to suppress the laughter because when it comes to bathroom humor, I’m an eight-year-old boy. My new friend must have been humiliated. The least I could do is pretend I didn’t hear it.
I wouldn’t look at her, so instead I focused on the instructor and the more advanced beginner yogis. And oddly enough, they were all focused on me. Wait a minute …
I looked at Becky. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m sure you’re not the first.”
“Oh wait …” I began. “That wasn’t …” Becky couldn’t possibly believe that was me? Was she that out of touch with herself, she didn’t notice an emission like that? Becky needed yoga more than I do.
“Let’s move on, class,” the instructor urged. “These things happen.”
Sure, they happen! I wanted to yell. To Becky! I’d barely broken a sweat, let alone wind. The class returned to their downward dog poses, and I spent the rest of the class sneering at Becky. It’s not very yogalike, and probably even Ioun would be disappointed, but still … if only I had a fraction of my tiefling wizard Tabitha’s magical prowess I’d have cast diarrhea on that fart-framer right then so the class would know exactly whose butt cheeks were heralding the great downward dog fart. But I refrained, and not because I’m not a spell-casting wizard but because I knew I’d never be back.
Namaste, bitches.
THURSDAY’S GOD: MORADIN
GOD OF: CREATION
Promotes: artisans, miners, and smiths
Still reeling from Fartgate, I go into Thursday feeling a little shell-shocked and more jaded than ever. Judy almost busted a lung when I told her about the yoga class. She was laughing so hard she had to hang up to find her inhaler. She called me back a few minutes later.
“Oh, Moo Moo, I’m sorry. I couldn’t breathe,” she said. She was still laughing. “Which is probably what your classmates were saying, too.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I said. “I didn’t do it! I should hang up on you, but Moradin wouldn’t think that was exhibiting family loyalty.” There. I worshipped.
I was excited to be revering Moradin, as he’s one of the more famous D&D gods. His followers have even made some appearances in my D&D games. I feel like Moradin and I share a lot of the same principles. He demands his followers be loyal to their families (duh; got that covered), welcome adversity with strength and fortitude (see “Fartgate”), and strive for making a lasting impression in this world. (If by “world” you mean yoga studio, then done and done.)
All day I waited for a sign from Moradin, but today appeared to be just another spiritually vacuous day. No dwarves, no miners, not even much love from Judy unless you count laughing so hard at your daughter you bring on an asthma attack. So I decided to visit the place I go when I’m seeking solace and inspiration—a lovely, 187-year-old oak tree in Volunteer Park.
Oh, please. I went to Nordstrom. What? Moradin is also the patron saint of artisans, and no one can deny those Tory Burch riding boots I saw in the catalog are art.
Boots in trunk, I headed back to work, but I wasn’t feeling the exhilaration I usually experience post-consumerism. Had my quest for holy happiness bled me dry? If new shoes can’t make me happy, I don’t know who I am anymore.
After work I headed over to my favorite coffee shop for a tall skinny caramel latte served by one of the finalists in the barista showdown. Yes, that’s a real event. This is Seattle, remember? And those little petiole leaves don’t just form in the foam themselves, you know.
The coffee is free-range or fair trade or something else I know I’m supposed to care about, but even more important, it’s delicious and heavily caffeinated. I come here whenever I’m on a deadline, parking myself at a table near an outlet and away from the toy kitchen set up for the kids who hang out while their mommies complain about motherhood with other mommies. (Once I sat near a group of mommies who did nothing but wax on about the terrors of child rearing. Potty training, preschool enrollments, picky eaters! Their honesty was quite refreshing, really, and I’m sure the kids were much too young to know who their mommies were talking about.)
“For Here” patrons get to drink their coffee out of a large eclectic mug that looks like it was excavated from Jack Tripper’s kitchen.
“Hey, Shelly,” Barista Extraordinaire said, smiling. “On a deadline?”
“Yes, I need to find Jesus in the next forty-eight hours or I’ll have to apologize to my mom.”
“Yikes,” he said. “Let’s make it a grande.”
About five minutes into my spiritual revolution, my ADD kicked in. Rather than actually writing, I scanned the room and counted seven men and thirteen women among the patrons. Four of them had ponytails—the majority belonging to men. (Why do guys with ponytails like coffee shops so much?) Out of the fourteen laptops parked on tables, twelve of them were Macs. There was one girl who appeared to be with parents who were not filled with rage by her existence. In fact, they were the opposite, what with the constant patting on the head and conspiratory whispers. Did her dad wipe a tear from his eye?
Every now and again another patron stopped by their table and said something to the little girl that made her smile. When they left Dad would fill up the kid’s cup with apple juice and say cheers! What were they teaching this kid? Through it all, the family appeared rather fixated on the walls.
Ah, the walls. Right. They were looking at the artwork, which quite honestly wasn’t much to write home about. Each piece was mounted on what looked like a piece of sketch paper and pressed into an Ikea frame. The art looked a bit like those ribbon potholders I used to make Judy in second grade, only there was no ribbon—just paint. Caitlin signed each piece with big, loopy, novelty penmanship that said By Caitlin. I’m no curator but these looked like a child did them. In fact, that baby boozer up front with her parents could have done these.
“Congratulations, Caitlin!” a departing patron waved to the table. “You are so talented, young lady!”
Wait. We’re already offering compliments to kids for their drinking skills? She’s not even in high school yet!
Caitlin blushed. Her mom patted her head. Dad filled her cup again.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh.…
I didn’t have a clue what I’d do with the end result but suddenly it became clear what I had to do. Caitlin had produced quite the body of work and had managed to land an art showing right there in my favorite coffee shop. Quite a coup, indeed. I laughed, thinking of what my parents wou
ld do if I were Caitlin. She was lucky to get away with some faux scotch and a few cheek pinches.
“Excuse me,” I said when I approached the family’s table. “Do you happen to know who the artist of these fine pieces might be?”
Again, Caitlin blushed. Her parents looked so deliriously happy I thought the pride swelling their heads would surely cause them to pop right off.
“Caitlin?” her mom whispered. “Do you want to tell her?”
“Me,” Caitlin said softly. “I’m the artist.”
“Well, your paintings are beautiful,” I told her. “I’m no expert but if I had to guess it looks like you practice the ancient art of blue and yellow squiggly brush? Tough medium to master.”
Caitlin giggled but her parents acted like they were watching the headliner at the Laugh Factory. And slightly drunk.
“Are they for sale?” I asked.
She nodded her head. The parents were turning an alarming shade of scarlet. Yes, they reminded me a lot of my parents.
Scanning the wall, I found the biggest, most gaudy one and pointed at it. “Is that one still available?”
Caitlin nodded her head.
“Great!” I said, “I’ll take it.”
“Oh my God, Cate!” Her mom screeched. “Your first sale!”
The dad stood up, smacked me on the back, and immediately apologized for letting the excitement get to him.
“We’re just so proud,” he said, then whispered, “It’s supposed to be $40. But you can pay whatever you want.”
“I’ll pay $40. Totally worth it.”
Cate and company made a big production out of sticking the red dot next to the painting I chose. Caitlin beamed when she told me I could come back in four weeks to pick it up. Lots more congratulations and cheers ensued. Dad was full-on crying.
When I got back to my table, the barista brought over my extra-caffeinated latte. He had crafted one of those Christian fish symbols in the foam.
See? That’s why this guy was nearly a champion.
FRIDAY’S GOD: PELOR
GOD OF: SUN AND SUMMER
Delights in: helping those in need and opposing evil
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons Page 5