35

Today has been a shitty day.

I spent most of this Tuesday staring at a computer screen desperately trying to appear busy at work, because I had absolutely nothing to do.

Eventually, the slowest, most boring day draws to a close and I start packing my things up excitedly.

Most people love that feeling of getting off the clock, but I was exceptionally eager because I was going to one of my favorite past-times–yoga.

I love yoga.

I love how it makes me feel, I love how it’s so good for the body, mind, and soul. I love that people of all shapes and abilities come to class and no one cares and there’s no competition. I love how exercise keeps my acne to a minimum. I love how after a class I can eat my dinner with no reservations, because hey, I earned it! I worked hard, and a good meal is my reward. I especially love how yoga helps me sleep and keeps me energized for the next day.

Fully knowing that traffic in my town is rough right at 5pm and that my yoga studio is about 30ish minutes away, I made sure to leave work five minutes early. I was so excited. This class was going to be challenging, the instructor was going to be great, and I was going to leave completely drenched in sweat.

However.

At about 5:20, after I had to crawl past a car accident, stopped at nearly every red light, was bumper to bumper the whole way, and still had fifteen minutes to go (on a good day)–I started to fear I might not make it on time.

You see class starts at 5:45, but the doors lock five minutes prior so “late people” don’t throw off the meditative ambiance.

Even so, I hope for the best and figure it’s worth sticking out till the very last minute.

Then the last minute passes.

I’m trapped at another red light, the last stoplight before I reach the studio, when the clock turns 5:40. Knowing that I haven’t even parked yet, knowing that the parking lot will be pretty full and I’ll have to hunt for a spot anyway, knowing that I still have to change, and knowing that the doors will be locked before I can get to them–I give up and start heading home.

You would think I would simply resolve to go tomorrow, but because of my crazy schedule I know I won’t be able to get to another class till Thursday–and I didn’t go to class on Monday. So now this’ll be three days in a row of no yoga, no contentment, no semblance of sanity.

I am pissed.

I’m so angry, I can’t even listen to my music anymore. Instead, I drive in stony silence, seething from the inside.

I did everything right.

I left early, I brought clothes to change into, I didn’t break any traffic laws.

But I still didn’t make it on time!?

Meanwhile, I had to watch as people tail-gated, whipped in and out of lanes, swerved into my lane, didn’t use their blinkers, didn’t notice the light changed because they were on their phones, etc.

I started to feel that infamous road rage.

I began rants and considered writing a letter to the department of transportation. These fools spend all of our tax money trying to add additional lanes to our one high-way, but no one considers expanding major roads into new highways? Plus, the roads we have currently aren’t exactly something to write home about. They are often laden with pot-holes and the ones who’ve been patched, are patched in a shoddy half-hazard kind of way that makes your car leap from the ground like you’re going off a jump in Fast & Furious 6.

Eventually, I make it back to my apartment–still completly pissed and disappointed. The thing I had been looking forward to all day, did not come to pass.

I chuck my shoes across the room, toss my coat to land where-ever (very uncharacteristic of me, might I add) and dramatically fling myself across the bed like a Disney princess.

Did I mention that I was annoyed with my boyfriend during all this? Not for anything important, just a general annoyance you sometimes get after being in long-term relationship.

I lay there in the dark, waiting for my anger to subside.

That’s when I heard music.

You should know that I don’t live in a traditional apartment building. It’s actually an old Victorian house, over 100 years old that’s been divided into five separate flats/apartments. Being in a location like this is mostly pretty cool, but one downside (besides not having AC) is that the walls are rather thin. I mean they’re not terrible, but they’re not that great either. I often can hear my upstairs neighbor as he walks across his floor. In which case, I sometimes can hear his music too.

Imagine my pleasant surprise when I realized the music he was playing was some sort of chill lo-fi. No lyrics, just a repetitive beat and a few notes on a piano. Exactly what I needed.

As I focused on his music, I started to calm down. A few minutes later, I got up and started making dinner–feeling a lot less upset than before.

How remarkable that my neighbor chose to play that song at that very moment. How remarkable that I chose to plop on my bed, and not my couch, and hear that music at that moment.

So thank you upstairs neightbor I have yet to meet. Thanks for playing lo-fi and not death metal–you have no idea how much you helped me during my shitty day.

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