I am not a drinker. I never have been. I barely even recall a night where I'd said, "Oh a glass of wine after dinner would be fine." Trust me, I've tried to force myself to get in touch with my alcoholic side. It's the legal option to my preferred method of intoxication. But, that's another story for another time...
So again, just like last summer, I drank way too much. One of my sweet friends had given me a bottle of tequila for my birthday back in October. The plan for the evening was to meet neighbors at a Mexican restaurant, so I thought to myself, what better time to crack the seal on this bottle of Esperanto.
No good comes from doing shots of tequila before going to dinner, then sharing a pitcher of margaritas with a neighbor friend, then trying to keep pace with her as she downs two double tall vodkas. I can't even pretend to hang. Like I said, I am not a drinker.... of alcohol anyway. And it's been candidly admitted that drinking is in her genetic makeup.
Oh, but it didn't end there. We caravanned back to my house for another few rounds-- straight shots of Esperanto. I fashioned a bowl of sea salt for her. I faintly recall cutting up a lime. She and the family left in a fog and I was standing in my driveway waving at them, my head swimming somewhere between my shoulders and the pavement. What the hell....
I woke at regular intervals to empty myself-- first, in my bathroom and then in the hallway bath. Since it was Friday, one would think I'd have the weekend to recover. No. There was an early morning yoga class to sober up for. I had to get up and motivate other people to be centered and mindful. And there I was -- I had whole-heartedly given into the downward spiral of my emotions and just lifted shot after shot to my lips like it was nothing. I was physically and mentally poisoned. I was no shining example for them. I was a wreck.
So I sat disheveled, legs propped over the top edge of my couch at 8am and even the scent of the saltine crackers made my stomach churn.
"Call someone to sub," he said.
"It's too late," I responded.
So I gathered myself, half crouching half walking towards the door. I wore my sunglasses into the gym, but I left earlier than usual to prep for class -- so that maybe I wouldn't be noticed. I could slink in and breathe for a few. I flipped on the stereo and plugged in my music. And with each pre-class breath, the weight of the night lifted.
I'm not supposed to practice yoga with the class. After all, my job is to adjust/inform/inspire/remind. I am to be the suggester of the biomechanical cues that will put yogi limbs in the right place. And yet, I practiced with the class. Selfishly, I needed it just as much as, if not more than, all 25 of them. As I moved about the class, adjusting or demonstrating, I held my breath. I knew I probably smelled like my tequila night. I turned the lights out and we all sunk back into Savasana (corpse pose). And I quoted something from Eckhart Tolle:
"Be at least as interested in what goes on inside you as what happens outside. If you get the inside right, the outside will fall into place."
And I left class feeling less like the night and more like facing the day. If I had stayed in bed that morning, I bet you anything I would've been there all day, suffering. But if forced to get out of the body and be something bigger or stronger or more aware, then maybe the day isn't shot completely. Maybe that's a metaphor for life.
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