YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #29 "REGGIE KNOWS ..."
I walked into class and bumped instantly into Reggie, who was grinning at me with a kind of impish joy. There was nobody else in the studio as I always come early. I found a mat and Reggie still stood there grinning at me, his eyes full of conspiratorial mischief. Then: “Am I Reggie?”
Well, of course his real name is not Reggie. Reggie is the fictitious name I feel suits him in my blog. Of course, I shall not divulge his real name; though, if anybody in these yoga classes of mine do read it they'll immediately know who Reggie is.
“Yeh, you're Reggie,” I admitted.
He laughed. “I liked it,” he conceded. “You're a good writer.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we exchanged a kind of hug, but then I started thinking about what would happen if Samantha and Gia and all the other instructors and yoga members of this studio found out, and I shivered. Yet, as Reggie continued to grin (as if honored by my writing about him), I felt somewhat relieved, and began to inform him of how I had started yoga after being ousted from the gym for writing about members on my blog, and he was interested in reading those pieces, and I vowed to email them to him (I haven't because he would realize just how truly demented and snarky and malicious I can be), and encouraged him to read all the other pieces in the blog, though in great relief I knew that being the father of toddlers and consumed with other interests and responsibilities he would not have time to read my mishmash, and was very possibly not a reader anyway, and if he was any kind of a reader and did have some time to read he would want to read about yoga and other such subjects, and certainly not yoga as defined by a yoga knucklehead who had it deeply ingrained in him to mock and make great fun of yoga.
I was also relieved, as Reggie went into the office for his morning tea and I unrolled my mat beside my usual partition, by my belief that ultimately Reggie was indeed so busy he would soon forget about my yoga article and fail to inform Samantha, whom I feared would possibly feel embarrassed and even piqued or perhaps enraged over my pieces, if she found out, and it would ruin what I termed so far to be an excellent relationship, with Samantha as a sort of healer and inspiration and a person who actually cared for a stumblebum yoga knucklehead like myself, because we often, so far, kidded in natural joviality and there is a prospect that she actually LIKES me, though this should come as no reassurance, for it is my belief Samantha makes it a point to like and at least TRY and like everybody out of her loyalty to yoga philosophy and her own innate kindness and nurturing instincts.
But what IF Samantha finds out? I'm sure she would deeply scrutinize most of my pieces, especially the ones titled in her fictitious name, and, like Reggie, suspect instantly that SHE is Samantha, and not her real name, and would be offended by my having the nerve to describe and characterize her, to delve into her personal business and person, like a typical writer, though I feel I have been kind to Samantha, and complimentary, and have shown great respect for and appreciation of her, both as a human being and an instructor in what to her is a passion, yes, I can indeed pat myself on the back here, but...
…but, I know I cannot, at certain times, help myself and shove the shiv into somebody's ego, or their image of themselves, and, after almost 30 articles on yoga, I am sure Samantha, if she gets wind of my scrawls, will find some snide nugget to ponder, to protest, to find hurt and pain, for women, as I've found out by my scrawls about the gym, do not react kindly to men writing about them in any way whatsoever, unless it is a fucking valentine! And I have sent no valentines, though, dammit, I have lavished praise on Samantha, and I'm sure she would appreciate this, and it would possibly over-ride whatever offends her, and, if she confronts me, I can point to these kind overtures, though I do not in the slightest want to be confronted by Samantha or any woman about my scrawls, and dammit, I'm sure some of the women in this class could, through Samantha, get wind of my scrawls and, like in the gym, feel threatened, and crucified, and, like in the gym, feel their yoga experience ruined, and cause an insurrection to have me again ousted, so that there would be nowhere to go, as these women would possibly notify other local yoga studios of my caustic intent, and have me blackballed, so that I would be restricted to my deck and have to compose my own yoga poses and have nobody to observe or talk to or mock, not to mention a total disassembling of my ongoing very rigid regimen—a nightmare!
Anyway, at the next yoga class, Reggie did not mention my piece, and on Friday, before Samantha's class, as I walked into the office in terrified trepidation that Samantha would meet me either crying or outraged at my betrayal, she smiled at me as she sat at her desk working the computer, and said, “Hi Dell, playing any tennis lately?”
“Yes!” I said, very quickly. “Played basketball yesterday, too. Looks like you're gonna have to iron me out.”
“We certainly will, Dell,” she said, and went back to her computer, a happy person still.
So far so good. Reggie's no snitch. And he understands my predicament, I think.
Well, of course his real name is not Reggie. Reggie is the fictitious name I feel suits him in my blog. Of course, I shall not divulge his real name; though, if anybody in these yoga classes of mine do read it they'll immediately know who Reggie is.
“Yeh, you're Reggie,” I admitted.
He laughed. “I liked it,” he conceded. “You're a good writer.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we exchanged a kind of hug, but then I started thinking about what would happen if Samantha and Gia and all the other instructors and yoga members of this studio found out, and I shivered. Yet, as Reggie continued to grin (as if honored by my writing about him), I felt somewhat relieved, and began to inform him of how I had started yoga after being ousted from the gym for writing about members on my blog, and he was interested in reading those pieces, and I vowed to email them to him (I haven't because he would realize just how truly demented and snarky and malicious I can be), and encouraged him to read all the other pieces in the blog, though in great relief I knew that being the father of toddlers and consumed with other interests and responsibilities he would not have time to read my mishmash, and was very possibly not a reader anyway, and if he was any kind of a reader and did have some time to read he would want to read about yoga and other such subjects, and certainly not yoga as defined by a yoga knucklehead who had it deeply ingrained in him to mock and make great fun of yoga.
I was also relieved, as Reggie went into the office for his morning tea and I unrolled my mat beside my usual partition, by my belief that ultimately Reggie was indeed so busy he would soon forget about my yoga article and fail to inform Samantha, whom I feared would possibly feel embarrassed and even piqued or perhaps enraged over my pieces, if she found out, and it would ruin what I termed so far to be an excellent relationship, with Samantha as a sort of healer and inspiration and a person who actually cared for a stumblebum yoga knucklehead like myself, because we often, so far, kidded in natural joviality and there is a prospect that she actually LIKES me, though this should come as no reassurance, for it is my belief Samantha makes it a point to like and at least TRY and like everybody out of her loyalty to yoga philosophy and her own innate kindness and nurturing instincts.
But what IF Samantha finds out? I'm sure she would deeply scrutinize most of my pieces, especially the ones titled in her fictitious name, and, like Reggie, suspect instantly that SHE is Samantha, and not her real name, and would be offended by my having the nerve to describe and characterize her, to delve into her personal business and person, like a typical writer, though I feel I have been kind to Samantha, and complimentary, and have shown great respect for and appreciation of her, both as a human being and an instructor in what to her is a passion, yes, I can indeed pat myself on the back here, but...
…but, I know I cannot, at certain times, help myself and shove the shiv into somebody's ego, or their image of themselves, and, after almost 30 articles on yoga, I am sure Samantha, if she gets wind of my scrawls, will find some snide nugget to ponder, to protest, to find hurt and pain, for women, as I've found out by my scrawls about the gym, do not react kindly to men writing about them in any way whatsoever, unless it is a fucking valentine! And I have sent no valentines, though, dammit, I have lavished praise on Samantha, and I'm sure she would appreciate this, and it would possibly over-ride whatever offends her, and, if she confronts me, I can point to these kind overtures, though I do not in the slightest want to be confronted by Samantha or any woman about my scrawls, and dammit, I'm sure some of the women in this class could, through Samantha, get wind of my scrawls and, like in the gym, feel threatened, and crucified, and, like in the gym, feel their yoga experience ruined, and cause an insurrection to have me again ousted, so that there would be nowhere to go, as these women would possibly notify other local yoga studios of my caustic intent, and have me blackballed, so that I would be restricted to my deck and have to compose my own yoga poses and have nobody to observe or talk to or mock, not to mention a total disassembling of my ongoing very rigid regimen—a nightmare!
Anyway, at the next yoga class, Reggie did not mention my piece, and on Friday, before Samantha's class, as I walked into the office in terrified trepidation that Samantha would meet me either crying or outraged at my betrayal, she smiled at me as she sat at her desk working the computer, and said, “Hi Dell, playing any tennis lately?”
“Yes!” I said, very quickly. “Played basketball yesterday, too. Looks like you're gonna have to iron me out.”
“We certainly will, Dell,” she said, and went back to her computer, a happy person still.
So far so good. Reggie's no snitch. And he understands my predicament, I think.
