I really wish I weren't so critical. I really do. I just can't help it. I find myself wondering about people all the time, wishing they were more self-aware. I keep my criticisms to myself as I've learned that they are funnier in my head than they are out loud.
Last year we were watching Born of the Fourth of July on, oddly enough, July 4th. As it is, I can't stand looking at Tom Cruise for more than three minutes since he lost his mind a couple years ago. We had company and they chose the movie, so I acquiesced. I just decided to make my eyes go fuzzy when he came on the screen so I didn't have to watch him and his big teeth overact. I think that is the issue. He over-acts. Even in real life. I mean, my husband loves me, but he has not jumped on a couch since he was six. I'm quite sure of it. I don't even think I've seen him jump in place. Aside from over-acting, Tom jumped on the, "I'm smarter than everyone else" bandwagon several years ago and it really chapped my hide. Goodness knows we have enough Know-It-Alls in this world. Yes, yes, I may be one of them, but at least I'm self-deprecating and have OCD. That cancels out my annoyance factor. At least in my head.
So, Tom is busy being a Vietnam veteran in the movie and what he went through is simply deplorable, it really is. But, then he goes to the house of a soldier that he killed because he got confused during combat and told the soldier's parents that he accidentally killed the guy. The room was silent. My husband and his family were watching this gripping scene and I wanted to throw a flip-flop at the TV. Instead, I became passive-aggressive and simply took my frustration out on the dead soldier's mother, muttering "That is the ugliest woman I've ever seen.” I realized that this was a comment that should have stayed in my head. My husband was furious, "After all that? This emotional scene and everything that just went down and that's what you say?" I was a little embarrassed, since I realized how shallow I sounded, "No, I'm mad. He's a selfish jerk for telling the family that he did it, to resolve his own guilt, as opposed to allowing them to think their son died a hero, serving his country. He should have just lived with his secret shame. That would be his punishment.” I wanted to finish off by saying, "And, why the hell would they cast that lady with no lips and that hamburger on her chin to act in such an emotional scene? Obviously you are only going to stare at the hamburger mole and the scene loses its effect. I did, didn't I?" Hubby went on about how Tom had such character and I think I said something along the lines of, "Phhhbbbllltttt," which is the same as blowing a raspberry and got up from the couch, "I think I drank too much today.”
I did, in fact, drink too much on the 4th. My friend Mags made her toxic margaritas and I'd like to say she forces them down my throat and I put up a fight, but to my chagrin, am overpowered. I'd like to say that. It would be a lie. The truth is - I have a little tequila and I run around, "I am so funny. I should be a comedian. I'm hysterical.” Mags tells me that yes, yes I am funny on tequila, but if I tell one more person that she had sex in the bathroom at our favorite restaurant she'll end me, "But, it is so funny - 'Ack, beware the middle stall!'" She assures me that all of my husband's co-workers do not need to know about her sexcapades and I'm reduced to reminding her that she forced the margaritas down my throat.
I cursed Mags as I threw up my 4th of July and wondered if it is possible that vomiting until you pee yourself means that you don't have to count the calories for that day. I called her on the 5th, "So, if I threw up at 9 - how many calories do you think actually got absorbed?" I think she said something like, "Oh my God. Nice.” I was persistent, "No, seriously. I don't want to go to yoga.”
I did go to yoga on the 5th and it is where I met my yoga arch nemesis - the Sweaty Mackeral. He was a large-ish Asian man named William. He was behind me in class and I didn't pay much attention during the clearing of the throat and what not. I even remained focused on my own eyes in the mirror, trying to work on being still, when he sneezed snot into his own hand and wiped it on his shorts. His shorts actually made noise because they were so drenched in sweat that they crunched. No, I didn't even allow my mind to wander until the slapping noises started.
William was a bit rotund. He had dark purple nipples, Fa's, our Fat Arms, as Mags calls them and scars all over his legs and arms. He looked as though he fought cats in his spare time and I imagined that these cats wore headbands and carried numchuks. William refused to use his towel to wipe his face or arms. He would use the palm of his hand, rub it across his face, nose and hair and literally squeegee his sweat out into the ether. It made a popping noise that yogini's relate to sweat popping out of your ears or nose. We've all popped a bit of sweat that has pooled in our ear at times, but I've never seen someone so blithely throw their sweat in a twenty foot radius. I was disgusted.
Our Yogi took us through our floor exercises and William started squeegeeing his belly and arms. I can only explain it as a slapping noise. He sounded like a floundering mackeral, possibly even what a fish sounds like on a deck or as it is being caught in paper at Pike's Place. I don't know. I even pondered how I would describe the symphony of noises coming from William as I laid there with my feet above my head. He would have to be stopped.
I looked up at William with a sneer and looked at our Yogi. Nothing. I wanted to yell, "Use your towel, man! What are you thinking?," but we were trying to be blissful, Silence in Breath and such. Then he belched. I looked to Yogi. He looked at William. He looked away. Nothing. I spent the next 15 minutes trying to become deaf. Each pop and slap made me jump and I became angrier and angrier. I wondered if I was the Angry Girl in class. What if I lost it one day and yelled at another practitioner? At William? Would I be in the wrong? Is it possible that no one else notices these things because they know how to focus and I spend the class wondering who could possibly be a call girl and what the statistical possibilities are that someone in our class has herpes? Could I be kicked out of yoga?
The class came to an end as I lolled about in my thoughts. I stayed still, feet askew, hands to the sky, taking my final meditation. The noises had stopped and I'd calmed to find that focusing on the Sweaty Mackeral couldn't be what yoga is about. And besides, what is the likelihood that we'd have another class together? I stretched up, smiling, closing my eyes, ready to sit up and take on my day. I felt a drip of foreign sweat land on my arm and opened my eyes with alarm to find the Sweaty Mackeral walking by, leaving his fishy trail. He had sweat on me. The Sweaty Mackeral had the last word.
I jumped up and angrily rolled my mat and towel as if the sheer action would let him know how mad he'd made me even though he was no longer in the room. I knew I wasn't going to run after him and yell, "You sweat on me!" Communal sweat is a possibility in a 110 degree room. I calmed my breath and decided to forgive him. You never know - he could be a really nice guy. I just hope he gets his arms around the slapping and burping issues for the sake of his next class and the girl with the critical mind.
She may not have a filter.
