Sunday I left the apartment at 2 p.m. to attend a Bollywood Aerobics class that was being held at my yoga studio. Yoga is hard- really hard. Especially Hot Hatha, which is slow moving in a room that is roughly 100 degrees. Vinyasa Flow is faster and more temperate, but it is really intense. I pulled two muscles chattarunga-ing today. I’ve been doing this shit for six days now…when is that flexibility thing supposed to kick in? I should be going twice a day with all the free time I have, but yogis like to charge a lot of money for their practices. That is the conundrum of being unemployed. All the free time in the world, but no money to do things. “Bollywood aerobics?” Zack laughed at me. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna get all Slumdog Millionaire on yer ass.”
I got dressed, hopped on my bike, pedaled twenty feet to my left and- what? What is that? A homeless man sleeping on our side stoop? It was easily 85 degrees which feels like 100 in the humidity, and the man was fully dressed in long-sleeved clothing. A duffel bag laid comfortably under his head. A man in a tie and dress pants walked over from across the street, peered at the sleeping man as if to check for signs of life, and shook his head. He did not nudge him, budge him, or call the police. I kept riding along. Apparently the police came by and picked him up shortly after. Gotta get used to these things on Hyde Park Boulevard.
Bollywood aerobics is not something I plan on doing again…Which song did we learn a choreographed dance to? “Jai ho.” I was so, so right.
Earlier in the weekend we had a drink at Griff’s, Houston’s oldest sports bar which offers $1 Lonestars (the shittier version of Pennsylvania’s Yeungling) on Fridays. No complaints, only that I wish I had more friends to drink with. It was towards the end of the night. Zack was spacing out. I was getting sad. I was falling into my half-drunken womp-fest about not knowing anyone, about not having any friends here and missing my favorite people from school.
“Wait,” Zack said suddenly. “Was that kid wearing a Diner shirt?”
I jumped up to get a get a glance of the boy leaving the bar. Black t-shirt with maroon and white detailing.
“THE DINER!!” I yelled. The kid turned around.
“Hey,” he smiled. “Did you go to Penn State?”
“Yes,” we said. “Did you you?”
“Yes,” he said. We introduced ourselves. “I graduated last year. I live right around the corner from here. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you guys around.”
WE ARE. No, we really are.