Operation Make New Friends at Yoga
It’s happened.
My fear has been realized. I am in love with Marc and just as I have
finally come to terms with my feelings, I find out that he has received
a job offer in San Francisco he "simply can’t refuse."
What am I to do without him? Over the last few months Marc has become so much more than my boyfriend, he is my best friend. Now my best friend is moving away and I will have no one to play with.
Operation Make New Friends
I ran through all the possible ways to meet new people I could think of: sign up for my much needed French lessons and kill two birds with one stone, go back to that acting class and make friends with the lost boy from Peter Pan or the retro girl who dyes her hair jet-black… I even made a few phone calls to my friends from home, thinking I might be able to convince any going through a "Life after College" crisis that their problem would be solved by moving to Paris.
What am I to do without him? Over the last few months Marc has become so much more than my boyfriend, he is my best friend. Now my best friend is moving away and I will have no one to play with.
Operation Make New Friends
I ran through all the possible ways to meet new people I could think of: sign up for my much needed French lessons and kill two birds with one stone, go back to that acting class and make friends with the lost boy from Peter Pan or the retro girl who dyes her hair jet-black… I even made a few phone calls to my friends from home, thinking I might be able to convince any going through a "Life after College" crisis that their problem would be solved by moving to Paris.
Several
failed attempts later, and having run up a phone bill I never want to
see, it occurred to me that I have been here before. Junior year of
college, my B.F.A. class was forced to take a yoga class on Friday
mornings. Attendance was mandatory. The faculty cleverly linked our
attendance to our acting grade, otherwise nobody would have shown up
for an 8 a.m. 90- minute session of glorified stretching. Still, the
majority of the class was out partying late Thursday night and on
Friday morning, hung over and sometimes still drunk, Myke Anthony and
Jessica would fight over who got to use the mat closest to the
trashcan. Heather Weeks and I, on neighboring mats in the back of the
room shared a weekly laugh over Myke and Jessica's agony, despite that
before this she was far from my favorite person in the program, as
she flipped her long blond hair so incessantly that often, when
bored in class I would find myself plotting ways to spike her shampoo
bottle with Nair.
Heather and I
are now best-friends and we owe it all to a much too early Friday
morning yoga class in which we bonded over the misfortunes of others.
Two years late, living in Paris and desperate for new friends, I Googled "yoga Paris classes." I found a studio located in the 9th arrondissement near Grand Boulevards. Perfect. Only one train change.I arrive at a pair of enormous green wooden doors at 10:35 on a Saturday morning. The only part of the web site that I could understand perfectly (the site’s in French) was the schedule: Saturday 11:00, 15:00 and 18:00. I thought it best to arrive early on my first day to sign any necessary forms .
I push against the doors but they do not budge--my sweater however did attract several splinters that make their way through the fabric; I itch all over. Why won’t the door open? I realize that there must be a code but I don’t know it and my French is at the level of a pre-schooler. So even if a code was listed on the site I wouldn’t have found it.
Thank God! A woman in a purple head-wrap and sandals arrives and punches in the code. Smiling at me she pushes open the doors. I say, "Merci," thinking that maybe she’ll be my friend, but she ignores me. We walk through a quiet cobblestone courtyard, and everything is peaceful until the silence is broken by an annoyed American on a cell phone. A tall brunette comes into view. She’s leaning against the studio door, which seems to be locked. She flips the front, highlighted portion of her much too long hair in a Heather Weeks way…swish, swish. She’s a supermodel.
This is why I don’t go to gyms in Los Angeles—hot skinny girls who flip their hair.
The woman who ignored my thank you is now dancing in circles behind me. She waves her arms up and down, bending her knees--it reminds me of an African tribal dance I learned in the fifth grade. She has tiny speakers in her ears--she’s listening to music. So it wasn’t that she ignored me before, she just couldn’t hear me. I’m not sure that I really want her to be my new best friend anyway because I think it’s weird that she’s wearing sandals when it’s 2 below. And I know this is superficial, but I don’t like her dance.
"Ciao," the supermodel says, and gets off the phone. She wears the Cartier watch that I have put on my Christmas list for the last two years, the silver square one with the Roman numerals. I picture myself on a Sunday morning throwing on an over-sized button-up collared shirt with jeans and my Cartier watch, pulling on a baseball cap and heading out to the market. Everyone thinks that I rolled out of bed and threw on my boyfriend’s shirt and borrowed his watch…hot.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window--un-showered and no make-up…and I’m standing next to a supermodel. I hear the wooden doors creak open, and a short, skinny blonde with a brown knit hat pulled low over her eyes approaches with a set of keys. She greets the supermodel, referring to her as Polly, and unlocks the door to the studio. All three women immediately sit on a wooden bench and take off their shoes. There is no room left for me to sit so I bend over and pull up my jeans to unzip my knee-high black leather boots. My long black knit scarf hangs in front of my eyes. I have to keep flipping it back so that I can grab hold of the zipper.
"Ouch!" the supermodel cries out. She is grabbing her eye--I swooshed her with my scarf. I apologize. She goes to the front desk behind which the skinny blonde in the brown knit hat is now standing.I return to my zipper, but a piece of fringe from my scarf is lodged between the leather and the metal teeth…it won’t come out. I fasten my fingers around the piece of fringe tightly and pull.
The next few moments are a blur. I don’t know how long it took me to tumble to the ground--it felt like five minutes, but I know that it was probably only about two seconds. It was not my intention to pull out a clump of the supermodel’s hair, though later in class that day I would fantasize about shaving her head when I should have been concentrating on sucking in my belly, or pulling on my toes.
What I do remember is grabbing for the towel rack to catch my balance, but my body tilted backwards, causing my left leg to rise. My right arm, fist opening and closing trying to grab for something, anything to prevent the fall. Finally my fist closed around something…
The supermodel and I are on the ground, intertwined like a pretzel. She is holding the top of her head and crying. How vain…a few split ends and a bruised bum and she’s ready to slit her wrists.The blonde with the brown knit cap comes rushing out from behind the counter; the woman in the purple hair wrap and sandals, undisturbed, is bobbing her head to the music playing in her ears. The blonde helps pull the supermodel up off of the floor. I push my palms against the concrete floor and as I do a clump of brown hair falls out of my hand. It’s the size of a small hamster. I close my fist back around the fur ball.
"I am so sorry." I utter, but the supermodel has disappeared into the women’s dressing area.
I approach the blonde at the desk, who avoids eye contact. She wants to know if I speak French and I tell her "un petit peu." Apparently that’s no problem since all of the instructors speak English. She gives me some forms to sign. They’re in French. I let a few minutes pass while I pretend to read them. I sign my name at the bottom of the contract. The blonde hands me a towel and a bottle of Evian, and points me in the direction of the women’s dressing area.
Whew! No supermodel…she must have already changed. I strip off my winter armor and pull on a pair of Marc’s boxers and a tank top. I grab my towel, tuckthe bottle of water under my arm and head into the studio. It’s packed. There are bodies everywhere, sprawled out on yellow, orange and purple mats. I have to use a gray one because I rented mine for a Euro. I search for a window in the mass of bodies where I can put my mat. There’s no room. Why is it so hot in here?
I stand by the door and wait for the instructor. I glance at the clock--ten minutes until class begins. I scope out the students, most of them lying flat on their backs, eyes closed, palms up. Who wants to be my friend?Well certainly not the supermodel, who’s lying in the front far-left corner. Probably best to avoid the two girls in black bikinis situated on either side of her--they look like supermodels too and probably heard her whole sob story, and now hate me. Why are they wearing swimsuits?
There’s a bald man in right center of the room. He’s snoring. This causes the patch of thick black hair between his collarbones to blow back and forth. It looks like a ferret is popping its head out of his black fishnet tee-shirt.I spot three hippie dippys so far who definitely ate granola for breakfast; two have henna designed palms and the other has thin brown dreadlocks and a tattooed ankle bracelet. Hmmmmm…anybody… anybody? Anybody normal? Just a little bit?
"Oh, I am out of breath in this fond chase. The more my prayer the lesser is my grace."
I’m nudged forward. Ah, the instructor: I step aside and let him in. He too is perplexed by the lack of space. He takes a walk around the room and finally says "Polly (the supermodel), could you please slide your mat over to the left and make room for one more?"
He’s American. Shirtless. And really, really hot. Curly sandy-blonde hair and a very hard set of abs. Wait--I don’t want to sit next to the supermodel! She rolls her eyes at her friends and moves her mat a quarter of an inch to the left. Very helpful, thank you so much. Maybe if I go throw up my breakfast in the bathroom I can fit in the pigeonhole you’ve made for me.
I squeeze my mat into the space next to Polly. The instructor smiles at her, but I pretend he’s smiling at me. Jesus it’s hot. We begin with a breathing exercise. Ten minutes later, I’m trying to stretch my right leg above my head… Wow, am I red in the face, and dripping sweat. My hair is soaked and my periwinkle tank top now deep blue. I might as well be jogging in a sauna.
And then I realize…I’ve heard of this. My friend Sophie in New York told me about this Birrac… Bicra… It starts with a "B" and ends with an "M." Whatever. It’s basically power yoga in a room heated at a 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Good God, I think I might die.
My heart is beating a million times a minute--obviously I should not drink venti black coffees before boiling my body parts. I have to lie down. How could I have missed this on the site? Yes, it was in French but I mean you’d think I would have gotten… Oh, no wonder I had to sign all of those forms.
Ow, my eye…something’s hit me. What the he… Ew. Ew. Ew. The supermodel’s perspiration is dripping off her abs and into my eye.
I never made it back off the mat that class. My heart was beating too fast and my left eye developed a twitch--though I think it was more psychological then it was a reaction to the supermodel’s sweat. The perfume the supermodel "accidentally" sprayed in my eye later, when we were in the dressing room, didn’t help much either.
After class I took a shower in the changing room—. I didn’t really want to do because I hate showering in public, but I had to because everyone would have thought that I’m disgusting if I hadn’t. In middle school, the kids who didn’t wear deodorant always sat alone on the bus. So, I took a shower under a schizophrenic shower head, cold one minute, hot the next. I leaped out mid-shower, naked, performing my "hot, hot, hot" dance for three supermodels who laughed.
"…Now I perceive they have conjoined all three/ To fashion this false sport in spite of me…"
It was clear that the supermodel would not be a Heather Weeks for me. As Polly and her friends were bonding over my misfortunes. On the metro ride home, Helena’s lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream repeat over and over in my head: "…I am as ugly as a bear; for beasts that meet me run away for fear."
My self-deprecating chant is interrupted by the faint "meow" of what I thought was a kitten. The man seated across from me in the Russian fur hat and the pink silk scarf tied in a bow around his scarred neck is meowing at me. The woman to my right starts to giggle. I look over and it’s a girl from my yoga class.
Her name is Heidi. She’s Canadian and she just moved here with her husband.
"Give me your hands if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends."
We made plans to see Something’s Gotta Give Friday night. I’ve already seen it three times, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. So looks like maybe the yoga thing wasn’t such a bust after all--not to say that I will be going again. At least not till Polly loses all of her hair and develops cellulite.
Two years late, living in Paris and desperate for new friends, I Googled "yoga Paris classes." I found a studio located in the 9th arrondissement near Grand Boulevards. Perfect. Only one train change.I arrive at a pair of enormous green wooden doors at 10:35 on a Saturday morning. The only part of the web site that I could understand perfectly (the site’s in French) was the schedule: Saturday 11:00, 15:00 and 18:00. I thought it best to arrive early on my first day to sign any necessary forms .
I push against the doors but they do not budge--my sweater however did attract several splinters that make their way through the fabric; I itch all over. Why won’t the door open? I realize that there must be a code but I don’t know it and my French is at the level of a pre-schooler. So even if a code was listed on the site I wouldn’t have found it.
Thank God! A woman in a purple head-wrap and sandals arrives and punches in the code. Smiling at me she pushes open the doors. I say, "Merci," thinking that maybe she’ll be my friend, but she ignores me. We walk through a quiet cobblestone courtyard, and everything is peaceful until the silence is broken by an annoyed American on a cell phone. A tall brunette comes into view. She’s leaning against the studio door, which seems to be locked. She flips the front, highlighted portion of her much too long hair in a Heather Weeks way…swish, swish. She’s a supermodel.
This is why I don’t go to gyms in Los Angeles—hot skinny girls who flip their hair.
The woman who ignored my thank you is now dancing in circles behind me. She waves her arms up and down, bending her knees--it reminds me of an African tribal dance I learned in the fifth grade. She has tiny speakers in her ears--she’s listening to music. So it wasn’t that she ignored me before, she just couldn’t hear me. I’m not sure that I really want her to be my new best friend anyway because I think it’s weird that she’s wearing sandals when it’s 2 below. And I know this is superficial, but I don’t like her dance.
"Ciao," the supermodel says, and gets off the phone. She wears the Cartier watch that I have put on my Christmas list for the last two years, the silver square one with the Roman numerals. I picture myself on a Sunday morning throwing on an over-sized button-up collared shirt with jeans and my Cartier watch, pulling on a baseball cap and heading out to the market. Everyone thinks that I rolled out of bed and threw on my boyfriend’s shirt and borrowed his watch…hot.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window--un-showered and no make-up…and I’m standing next to a supermodel. I hear the wooden doors creak open, and a short, skinny blonde with a brown knit hat pulled low over her eyes approaches with a set of keys. She greets the supermodel, referring to her as Polly, and unlocks the door to the studio. All three women immediately sit on a wooden bench and take off their shoes. There is no room left for me to sit so I bend over and pull up my jeans to unzip my knee-high black leather boots. My long black knit scarf hangs in front of my eyes. I have to keep flipping it back so that I can grab hold of the zipper.
"Ouch!" the supermodel cries out. She is grabbing her eye--I swooshed her with my scarf. I apologize. She goes to the front desk behind which the skinny blonde in the brown knit hat is now standing.I return to my zipper, but a piece of fringe from my scarf is lodged between the leather and the metal teeth…it won’t come out. I fasten my fingers around the piece of fringe tightly and pull.
The next few moments are a blur. I don’t know how long it took me to tumble to the ground--it felt like five minutes, but I know that it was probably only about two seconds. It was not my intention to pull out a clump of the supermodel’s hair, though later in class that day I would fantasize about shaving her head when I should have been concentrating on sucking in my belly, or pulling on my toes.
What I do remember is grabbing for the towel rack to catch my balance, but my body tilted backwards, causing my left leg to rise. My right arm, fist opening and closing trying to grab for something, anything to prevent the fall. Finally my fist closed around something…
The supermodel and I are on the ground, intertwined like a pretzel. She is holding the top of her head and crying. How vain…a few split ends and a bruised bum and she’s ready to slit her wrists.The blonde with the brown knit cap comes rushing out from behind the counter; the woman in the purple hair wrap and sandals, undisturbed, is bobbing her head to the music playing in her ears. The blonde helps pull the supermodel up off of the floor. I push my palms against the concrete floor and as I do a clump of brown hair falls out of my hand. It’s the size of a small hamster. I close my fist back around the fur ball.
"I am so sorry." I utter, but the supermodel has disappeared into the women’s dressing area.
I approach the blonde at the desk, who avoids eye contact. She wants to know if I speak French and I tell her "un petit peu." Apparently that’s no problem since all of the instructors speak English. She gives me some forms to sign. They’re in French. I let a few minutes pass while I pretend to read them. I sign my name at the bottom of the contract. The blonde hands me a towel and a bottle of Evian, and points me in the direction of the women’s dressing area.
Whew! No supermodel…she must have already changed. I strip off my winter armor and pull on a pair of Marc’s boxers and a tank top. I grab my towel, tuckthe bottle of water under my arm and head into the studio. It’s packed. There are bodies everywhere, sprawled out on yellow, orange and purple mats. I have to use a gray one because I rented mine for a Euro. I search for a window in the mass of bodies where I can put my mat. There’s no room. Why is it so hot in here?
I stand by the door and wait for the instructor. I glance at the clock--ten minutes until class begins. I scope out the students, most of them lying flat on their backs, eyes closed, palms up. Who wants to be my friend?Well certainly not the supermodel, who’s lying in the front far-left corner. Probably best to avoid the two girls in black bikinis situated on either side of her--they look like supermodels too and probably heard her whole sob story, and now hate me. Why are they wearing swimsuits?
There’s a bald man in right center of the room. He’s snoring. This causes the patch of thick black hair between his collarbones to blow back and forth. It looks like a ferret is popping its head out of his black fishnet tee-shirt.I spot three hippie dippys so far who definitely ate granola for breakfast; two have henna designed palms and the other has thin brown dreadlocks and a tattooed ankle bracelet. Hmmmmm…anybody… anybody? Anybody normal? Just a little bit?
"Oh, I am out of breath in this fond chase. The more my prayer the lesser is my grace."
I’m nudged forward. Ah, the instructor: I step aside and let him in. He too is perplexed by the lack of space. He takes a walk around the room and finally says "Polly (the supermodel), could you please slide your mat over to the left and make room for one more?"
He’s American. Shirtless. And really, really hot. Curly sandy-blonde hair and a very hard set of abs. Wait--I don’t want to sit next to the supermodel! She rolls her eyes at her friends and moves her mat a quarter of an inch to the left. Very helpful, thank you so much. Maybe if I go throw up my breakfast in the bathroom I can fit in the pigeonhole you’ve made for me.
I squeeze my mat into the space next to Polly. The instructor smiles at her, but I pretend he’s smiling at me. Jesus it’s hot. We begin with a breathing exercise. Ten minutes later, I’m trying to stretch my right leg above my head… Wow, am I red in the face, and dripping sweat. My hair is soaked and my periwinkle tank top now deep blue. I might as well be jogging in a sauna.
And then I realize…I’ve heard of this. My friend Sophie in New York told me about this Birrac… Bicra… It starts with a "B" and ends with an "M." Whatever. It’s basically power yoga in a room heated at a 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Good God, I think I might die.
My heart is beating a million times a minute--obviously I should not drink venti black coffees before boiling my body parts. I have to lie down. How could I have missed this on the site? Yes, it was in French but I mean you’d think I would have gotten… Oh, no wonder I had to sign all of those forms.
Ow, my eye…something’s hit me. What the he… Ew. Ew. Ew. The supermodel’s perspiration is dripping off her abs and into my eye.
I never made it back off the mat that class. My heart was beating too fast and my left eye developed a twitch--though I think it was more psychological then it was a reaction to the supermodel’s sweat. The perfume the supermodel "accidentally" sprayed in my eye later, when we were in the dressing room, didn’t help much either.
After class I took a shower in the changing room—. I didn’t really want to do because I hate showering in public, but I had to because everyone would have thought that I’m disgusting if I hadn’t. In middle school, the kids who didn’t wear deodorant always sat alone on the bus. So, I took a shower under a schizophrenic shower head, cold one minute, hot the next. I leaped out mid-shower, naked, performing my "hot, hot, hot" dance for three supermodels who laughed.
"…Now I perceive they have conjoined all three/ To fashion this false sport in spite of me…"
It was clear that the supermodel would not be a Heather Weeks for me. As Polly and her friends were bonding over my misfortunes. On the metro ride home, Helena’s lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream repeat over and over in my head: "…I am as ugly as a bear; for beasts that meet me run away for fear."
My self-deprecating chant is interrupted by the faint "meow" of what I thought was a kitten. The man seated across from me in the Russian fur hat and the pink silk scarf tied in a bow around his scarred neck is meowing at me. The woman to my right starts to giggle. I look over and it’s a girl from my yoga class.
Her name is Heidi. She’s Canadian and she just moved here with her husband.
"Give me your hands if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends."
We made plans to see Something’s Gotta Give Friday night. I’ve already seen it three times, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. So looks like maybe the yoga thing wasn’t such a bust after all--not to say that I will be going again. At least not till Polly loses all of her hair and develops cellulite.
Kirsten joins Bonjour Paris from Los Angeles, California where she recently graduated from the University in Southern California with a BFA in Acting. Last year Last year she co-wrote the book and lyrics to a new pop musical which expects to open in Los Angeles next spring. Two years ago, while studying at a conservatory in London, Kirsten fell in love with Paris and decided that she was destined to return for some time. She's thrilled to experience this dream come true.
