Becca Faith Yoga

Yesterday was a bad day.

Okay, not bad so much as weird, really:  I woke up after dreaming a recurring nightmare I have where I see my cracked front teeth in a mirror and then, before I can do anything about it, they break in half horizontally [shudddderr].  I called my sister in the morning, but we had an argument.  I sat down to write and found I had forgotten the idea I had come up with the night before.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, I figured I could salvage the day with a yoga class. As soon as I got off the subway, a woman walked right into me and I said “Excuse me” and she was all “EXCUSE YOU.” I arrived at the bank just as I was letting my irritation subside, only to find a line — winding practically out the door — of people sighing and foot-tapping because the online system was down and every transaction was taking triple the time.

My regular yoga instructor was absent. The sub was…substitute-y.

I called my dad after class.  We argued, too.

By the time I got to Whole Foods to buy fresh veggies for dinner, I was basically prepared to battle vicious crowds, trip down the escalator, and discover food rotting beneath my fingertips (reverse-Midas-touch-style). I am happy to report it was not so.  In fact, if you’ve been to the WH in Union Square, you know the simple pleasure of gazing out over the cornucopia of produce as the escalator carries you underground.  I la-dee-dah’ed among the vegetables for a few minutes, stood in a relatively short line to check-out, and caught an R train almost as soon as I reached the platform.  It was a crowded car but I found a seat, and somehow managed to wedge myself + yoga mat + giant purse + eco-friendly, grocery-filled bag into place without dropping anything or intruding on another rider’s personal space.

Just as it was occurring to me that a bad day doesn’t have to precede a bad night, I noticed the man next to me wince and clutch at his left knee.  He was stuffed into a seat by the window, a tight squeeze for anyone over 5’5″.  I asked him if he was okay. He said he was fine.  I asked him if he wanted to switch seats with me so he could stretch his legs. He said no. Was he sure? He was.

I had an innocuous walk home, cooked a pretty tasty dinner and fell asleep next to the man I love.

It’s so easy to get attached to our “off” days. First one thing goes awry, then another, and then we’re just waiting for the next thing to fall apart.  And, self-fulfilling-prophecy-style, it usually does.  But what if we chose to look for the moment when everything changes instead?  What if we looked for a turnaround as if it were a shiny gold coin in a mud puddle — there, but almost impossibly hidden?

The truth is, a bad day doesn’t mean a bad night.  In fact, a bad morning doesn’t guarantee a bad afternoon and a single, wonky instant doesn’t necessarily precede an entirely messed-up minute.  It’s not just that our days can change on a dime, it’s that they do — as long as we let them.