Beyonce knows what's up. As I'm placating the morning's sorrows in Noodle Box leftovers, tea and Much Music, mesmerized by her latest release, Best Thing I Never Had, I find myself inherently salivating over the couture wedding gowns in which she's frolicking along stunning beaches, attempting to show her ex what he's missing. As the song winds down, she smiles sympathetically and leaves me with, "Bet it sucks to be you right now." Damn right doll -- today, in this very moment, it kinda sucks.
My day started pleasantly enough with a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate-zucchini muffin and a mocha at JJ Bean Yaletown (their coffees make my heart smile). There's something so special about the ambiance at this particular location of my choice cafe; it's like the juxtaposition of the hipster staff and the pretentious air of Yaletown create a perfect vibe -- a place you just want to be -- simultaneously relaxed and fabulous.
After soaking in as much JJ Bean as my schedule allowed, I hopped on the Canada Line to teach a double at what used to be a studio to whose standards I held all others. Maybe it was just a bizarre collection of practitioners this morning, but it was pure chaos up in that joint. People left the room to pee without even appearing to consider whether or not the necessity was real or imagined. Hand towels to (gasp) wipe away any signs of sweat were rampant. One shining star actually brought a sweater into the room (obviously she does this on a regular basis) and proceeded to put it on and take it off at random intervals. I told her if she was cold, she should work harder. I'm not known to run a cold room -- ever -- unless it's beyond my control. It was like teaching in a bubble of disconnect. Just being in the room with that kind of unfocused energy gave me an overwhelming feeling of futility; the complete opposite of what I experienced practicing at a different studio last night.
Having narrowly missed a 5 pm class yesterday at Bikram Yoga Commercial Drive, I killed time in the always-electric neighbourhood, checking out the ecclectic shops and (of course) popping into the sweetest spot in the city to pick up a stash of my to-die-for dark-chocolate-halva cups. Thank you for your creations, Sweet Cherubim. I suffer dessert deprivation without you (okay, really only halva cup deprivation as I attempt in vain to find replacements).
Just before 6, I walked into the studio, warmly greeted, ready to get my sweat on in one of the now two practice rooms. Class was amazing -- somewhat like going swimming in a really hot pool with 30 of your closest friends and leaving the pool with no hamstrings -- fantastic; just what I needed. More please. Hopefully, I can hit up the Drive again tomorrow to re-energize, re-organize and re-vitalize the damage my enthusiasm for the yoga sustained teaching in the land of the lost today.
As usual, my love affair with words has delayed my disclosure of what really knocked me down this morning: a cop on a power trip. That's right, 24 hours in Van and I've already had a run-in with the law.
Apparently my aptitude for using the Canada Line is not up to par, as I failed to validate my ticket before ascending the stairs outside one of the stations. As I got to the second floor of the terminal, I was verbally accosted by a gruff, old dude trying to pull off his police duds as if he wasn't past pushing retirement. Squinting through his spectacles, he pointed out the fine print on the back of my ticket (because everyone reads the back of bus tickets), detailing the correct procedure to pay for and board the offending train. He dismissed my Alberta ID, explaining that my clear understanding of the English language was enough for him to assume I know the rules and was in violation of them enough to merit a $173 ticket. I know -- ouch. More than I made teaching two classes for which I had to ride the militarily-patrolled transit system.
But, alas, all's well that is made bearable by some of the best food in the world -- and that's certainly something Vancouver has aplenty. Tonight, we cool the burn of belligerent fuckers with cosmos and pasta at Anton's. Thanks Sarah for waiting in line with me and thanks Dad for the company -- and paying.
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