Class: 12:30-1:30, "Flower Hour", Mary Dana.My yoga studio is on the third floor of a building in Manhattan, and in order to get up to the studio you have to enter the building, sign in with a security guard, and take either the elevator or the stairs to the third floor. Simple.
It used to be that the "security guards" on most days was some young disgruntled guy, who would much rather be talking on his cellphone and blasting tinny R&B from a transistor radio than talking to you, which, most of the time, he was. If you signed in, it was utterly by choice or happenstance, as no one seemed to care much about it. I also assumed that the girls heading up to the yoga studio were fairly recognizable (you get me) and so the whole "sign-in" formality was waived, since our stay was sure to be brief and devoid of mischief.
However, several months ago, someone, somewhere down the line, apparently decided to crack-down on the state of security at said building, and gone were the slouchy youths and the R&B. Replaced, seemingly overnight, by the building's new security/door man, whom I shall refer to herein as Mr. X.
Mr. X is an older man, small-statured, perhaps of East Indian descent. His blue guard uniform is ever immaculate, and he is the model of politeness. He also Drives. Me. Crazy. Crazy with irritation. I do not know if this is Mr. X's fault, exactly, as he is causing no foul other than doing his job well, something that this little lobby probably has not seen in awhile. Mr. X makes everybody sign in. Everybody. Even if you're running late for your yoga class and he sees you nearly everyday. Even then, he stands to attention when you come in the door and is gesturing at the sign-in sheet before you've crossed the threshold "How can I help you?" he shouts at you from his post. I'm here for CLASS, Mr. X, just like every other freakin' day!! And then, god forbid there are several people in the lobby, he holds the elevator for you while you are signing in, even if it's full of people. This, I know, is of much more irritation to the people standing in the elevator waiting for me to sign my name than it is to me, but still it makes me so uptight. I'll take the STAIRS, Mr. X! I'll just take the stairs! Let the doors close! His efficiency is maddening. I find myself wanting to run past him, to dash up the stairs without signing in, claiming I'm late even if I'm not, just to get him going. I wave him off, respond sharply to his pleasantries, and am adamant about how "I'm taking the stairs" as he stands there patiently holding open the elevator door.
Oh, how I miss the disgruntled R&B boys!
However, the other day, as I was heading down the block to the studio, feeling myself well-up with resentment at the very thought of Mr. X--playing out various little aggravating scenarios in my head--ready to fight or flee at the sight of his uniform blues, I suddenly felt very, very bad. Waaait a second... What am I doing? I thought. Aren't I going to my yoga class right now? It was a little startling, actually. Was this really what I wanted to walk into this building filled with? Indignation and disdain? Why was I so quickly and easily inflamed by the thought of this poor man, just trying to do his job? And then, forgive me for this, I began to think in symbolic terms:
Joseph Campbell talks often about how just beyond the snake, or dragon, or what-have-you, that you're always tangling with or running away from, is the cave that holds all your treasure...that your quest in life, your hero's quest if you will, is to stop running away from and to SLAY that dragon so you can get to your treasure. Okay, so this does not mean, obviously, that I have to slay Mr. X...but what it does mean, at least in my own mind, is that this aggravation, this aversion, is the very thing that is blocking my entrance to the cave...my sanctuary...my yoga. That it's the emotion, the indignation, the automatic thought-spiral, that I'm supposed to be looking at and working with and eventually...slaying, and not, much to my chagrin, Mr. X.
Dr. Mr. X.,
I'm working on it.
-Yogalia
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