Yeah, motherfuckers, I’m bringing my yoga mat on the train during rush hour.
I see that look, Silver Haired Lady on the Red Line. You’re damn right I don’t have one of those fancy yoga mat holsters so I can easily maneuver. I bought this thing at Target years ago because it was the most inexpensive one I could find. Turns out, I actually kinda dig yoga. You’d think I’d spend a little bit more on a nicer model that comes with a bag. Yeah, I don’t dig it that much.
This thing’s been sitting in my office for months, just gathering dust in the window. My old office was close to a yoga studio, so on busy days when after-work fitness wasn’t in the cards I’d take my yoga mat upstairs and squeeze in a quick lunchtime session. But the new space isn’t near a yoga studio. So what good is it to me there? Determined to open up my hips after a recent spate of pretty crappy runs, I grabbed the mat on my way out the door this evening, stuffed it in my ancient Strand book tote, and brought it on the train with me. And now it’s pissing you off.
Sorry. Maybe I’ll put it on the floor. But wait! When people get on and off the train, I have to shuffle around to make room for them. Which means the mat is going to brush your leg a bit. And I might accidentally bump your plastic rain boot with my foot a few times. My apologies. I hope I’m not interrupting your very passionate cellphone conversation about The Voice with my existing.
I’d like to thank you, fellow passenger, for your patience as I take a slightly awkward item home at a slightly inopportune time. If you need me, I’ll be rolling this motherfucker out and doing some down dogs.