Pad Up
Following a quaint New Year’s celebration at a friend’s apartment, 1 a.m. solo walk back to my own abode, and a few hours of sleep, January 1, 2020’s early and optimistic moments included peeling on my favorite teal leggings up my lower half in preparation for a yoga workshop. The day, as with all “Day Ones,” held the naive promise of a new start. What better way to mark bright hope than with an hour of movement and introspection amongst the company of approximately twenty neighbors and mostly strangers.
Environments able to support my introverted qualities, while simultaneously allowing me to feign extroversion, have always been preferred over direct participation in overtly loud and large group gatherings. Examples of ideal milieus include: solo visits to coffeeshops, walks along busy streets, and parties where one-on-one conversations in quiet corners can be had. Yoga studios are no exception. There, I can be in my own bubble, on my own mat, but amongst other bubbles on their own mats, with intermittent interactions.
An old acting teacher once told me I needed to get out of my own head. On the rare occasion which produced a successful translation of an inner imagination of characters and scenes into actual external action readable to audiences, I received recognition suggesting I had some level or potential of talent. Most of the time however, internal creation, inspired by close observation of the surrounding environment, without anyone else’s knowledge, superseded. Acting, as it turned out, seemed to demand an outward-directed energy that my naturally mild disposition lacked. Much easier, albeit lazier, to keep any creativity contained to me, myself, and I.
As I imagined the safe bubble that awaited me a few blocks away, I happened to mistakenly look down at my ankles left uncovered. There before my eyes, were the black hairs that readily inhabited my winter legs if gone unchecked, but usually did not see the light of day. Self-conscious at the thought of other nearby bubbles at the studio potentially noticing, should they choose to gaze in my direction whilst in Trikonasana (Triangle), I grabbed my razor from the shower, wet it hastily in the sink, and leaned down to give a quick swipe to the front, sides, and back of the lower portion of both legs exposed to the elements.
No match for a hurried approach, my dry legs erupted violently with droplets of blood on the bathroom tile. A glance down elicited my usual fight-or-flight reaction to any sudden onset of red gush, and I found myself abruptly in need of yogic breaths right then and there. Where were my band-aids? I hobbled to the kitchen a few feet away, reached up to the cabinet most likely to contain any semblance of a first-aid kit, and was met with disappointment at the sparsity of its contents. Only an assortment of vitamins, obtained in spurts of health-conscious kicks, but never consistently taken, stared back at me. No matter. In a burst of ingenuity, or perhaps just desperation, I had a solution. After a shuffle back to the bathroom and rummage of the cabinet there, pads typically designated for a different monthly use, had new purpose. Wrapped around my legs like giant diapers were my blood-blocking saviors, just on a different area of my body than usual.
Class, a ten minute walk away, started in ten minutes. Could I make the journey with my inventive bandages? Not a question of whether I could mentally handle a few blocks of curious eyes. I could; simply more of a logistical query. The pads didn’t seem to stick well and taking them off wasn’t an option as the cuts were palpably deep. Instead of my gorilla hairs, onlookers would now have the unghastly opportunity to view blood dripping down onto the sidewalk, vividly underscoring my failed attempts to pat the bandages back onto my now hairless, and in some places, skinless, legs, not to mention spectators’ hypothetical curiosity as to the cause.
A brief contemplation of the scene ultimately led to the realization of its embarrassing potential. The real heart of the matter, however, was that I simply wouldn’t make it to the studio in time for class if I had to stop at every sidewalk crack to bend down and slap to fix. At best, I’d arrive fifteen minutes late.
If I made it within that timeframe, how would I gracefully go through my sun salutations? I suppose at every Uttanasana (Standing Forward Bend), I could strike my hands over the pads, forcing them to stick back onto me before a jump back to Phalakasana (Plank) followed by Urdhva Mukha Svanasana (Upward-Facing Dog). Adho Mukha Svanasana (Downward-Facing Dog) would be no problem, as the three or so breaths here, would allow me ample time to readjust the bandages. Inhale, reach right hand back to left leg, slap pad, place palm down to the ground in front of my face on the exhale. Inhale, left hand to right leg, slap to the right pad, exhale, left hand down. Inhale, hope both pads continue to stick, exhale, what do you know, success.
Doable, but like acting, did I have the energy today? The inconvenience seemed exhausting, and as I plopped down on my teal couch, melting my matching leggings and pad-bandaged legs into it like water (or blood) filling its pourer’s chosen (or given) vessel, I wondered if the morning’s events were a premonition of the year to come, and if I had the right supplies, or at least resourcefulness, to stop the bleeding.