Looking for a Yoga Mat

*Originally written Sept. 24, 2009*

**Some adult content**

She walks down the street, passing people shuffling by, taking in everything, but memorizing nothing. Faces, shop fronts, cars and motorcycles parked next to the curb or passing by; it’s all a mindless blur. There is a smell in the air, like clean, fresh soap. Not the strong kind you can buy at the dollar store, but a more subtle scent like when one walks into a bathroom where someone else has showered maybe ten minutes before, where the mist from the steam is still lightly hanging between the walls, carrying the smell of fragrant soap. Like that. She can smell the light from the sun, not quite hot, but warm because it had been foggy in this area about an hour before (San Francisco weather---get used to it). No fog is visible, but she can smell the integration of just-passed-just-melted fog with the sunlight. It is this sunlight and the faint but recognizable smell of fresh soap that makes her think of him.

Him. With him she is not in love. But there is a draw for her. It isn’t helping that she’s only a few blocks away from his house, unintentionally. She is here because she needs a yoga mat for her class. There are mats at the yoga studio, but her hands always slip from excessive sweating, of which she has no control over. So she had hoped to find one suitable for her needs down here, but so far, no such luck. He had gone with her to yoga a few weeks ago, she remembered. Last week, in a message concerning other things about their confusing, brief, quasi-relationship, he suggested that he come with her again. She didn’t see how that was going to be possible if he kept hiding behind his busy schedule, adamantly insisting that he had not enough time to keep in touch with her on a regular basis. Bastard. This smell wasn’t helping, either.

The soap smell makes her think of how her nose was pressed into the base of his neck when they made out on his love-seat for a couch. She had asked him what kind of cologne he used, but he replied that it was only his soap and shave products. Burt’s Bees brand. A perfect procurement of product for him, a non-militant vegan. The smell makes her mouth water, because the sense of smell is so closely related to the sense of taste. People born without olfactory receptors, or people who have lost the ability to smell, have often commented on the different experience of sex. You can still taste things without being able to smell, but what you taste is limited to the following five categories: spicy, sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. They are tastes, but not flavors. She had been able to taste him, smell him, touch him and feel him with all different parts of her body: her obvious hand, subtly with her lips and cheeks, her nose either subtly smelling the area between his nose and mouth as they kissed, or grazing it against his neck in a sweet nuzzle; her arms wrapped around his thicker body below his arms, her legs too. Her mouth salivates in some uncontrollable Pavlovian response, as well as the space between her legs.

Is that appropriate to say? Not on the point of introducing sexual anatomy into the text, but in describing what is occurring to said anatomy. Salivating is not possible without saliva glands, which are only present inside the mouth. Salivating refers to the ability to create saliva, the mouth’s lubrication to aid in digestion and in the pleasure of eating. The vagina holds glands which secrete fluid to aid in supposed reproduction (as the hetero-centric biology books would have you believe) and in sexual pleasure. In all literal sense of the word, it does not “salivate”, but performs its own version of it; though ironically, in the case of cunnilingus, the “salivation” of vaginal juices can make a sexual partner’s mouth salivate in anticipation and preparation for what it will be eating. Suffice to say, the use of the word “salivate” in relation to vaginal lubrication may not be entirely appropriate, but the author begs pardon of the audience, and asks that she may be allowed discretion in use of her literary license.

Her mouth, along with the previously discussed anatomy, eventually stops its excessive secretion. It’s like a wave of pain or hunger, a momentary craving that soon passes with the introduction of…something else. Now it is real hunger that has turned her mind. But in this neighborhood, there’s only taquerias on every corner, and she’s in no mood for Mexican or Central American food. Before her budget was crunched so tight, she used to think that she wouldn’t be able to bear the ten minute ride home without stopping to buy something to eat. Now she knows better.

A few blocks up is the train station, and she opts to slowly descend on the escalator instead of mustering up minimal energy to walk down the steps. She condescends to step down for the last few which quickly disappear underground after she disembarks, taking with it any momentary trace of her. The automatic turnstile accepts her monthly pass and spits it out for retrieval, allowing her to move to the lower level platform. She rushes down the steps to the just-arrived train, rushing through its opened doors, relieved to have such luck, as well as the multiple options for seating. Early weekday afternoons often afford this luxury. The trip passes almost mindlessly, only having to count one stop before her own. Subconsciously, she counts down before they emerge from the underground tunnel for a space of twenty seconds, and she uses the chance to take in the appearance of the sky. Here, it is clouded over with perpetual gray, unchanged since the morning. This is how days pass by so quickly: a lack of change in light or weather can make you believe that you’re not getting a late start on your day even when you’re getting dressed at noon.

The train moves back into another tunnel, a short interval before her stop. A man with a green backpack, white shirt, tight blue jeans, white cowboy hat, and carrying a leather jacket stands up as well on the other side of the aisle. They both make their way to the door before the train stops. She stands on the left, he on the right. In the windows, she notices him looking to his left, looking at her. (Perhaps, or maybe he’s just reading one of the signs on the train car’s interior, just past her left shoulder, advertising for this or that product or service, or even thanking the train’s riders for deciding on public transit that day instead of choosing to drive during rush hour. Anything to encourage the masses.) But she ultimately perceives him to be looking at her, though she is unsure why. There is really nothing special about what she looks like today. Her hair is down, somewhat tucked behind her ears, but its thickness defeats this style by still falling over and around her shoulders. It falls over the shoulders of her green army jacket, newly acquired from a thrift store over the weekend for a modest price. She loves wearing it, especially in this weather. Underneath, nothing but blue jeans and black high tops with orange and red flames not entirely visible under the jeans’ cuffs. But he’s looking down at her, at her face, her profile. It creeps her out. She turns away slightly, pretending to stare at the public transit map. Please God, not now, she thinks to herself. Her energy is still directed elsewhere. She feels the man move his attention in another direction, thankfully, yet all the same wondering if he really was checking her out, or just noticing as she had been doing during her outing.

After making her way off the train and up to the street, she whips out her phone to call the transit hotline to see when her bus would be arriving. Unknown waiting times are one of her pet peeves. Before she can even input the information, however, she spots the bus on its way up the foggy street, bouncing its way over, almost like an overly excited dog spotting a crowd of people to meet. She muses how this was one of the good days for her on public transit, at least for the trip back. She thinks that she still has to find a way to figure out how to time her future trips so that she won’t have to wait in such long intervals as she has in the past. Then again, some things you can’t always plan, like finding a good yoga mat that won’t mind how much your hands sweat, you’ll still be able to hold that downward facing dog pose. Or having the phone ring when you want it to. Or meeting the right person at the right time, instead of the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time (whatever that means).

During the waiting time between getting on the bus and getting off at her stop a few minutes later, she reminds herself of what to write for her new status update on the ridiculously addictive, needless time consuming social networking site--Mission to procure yoga mat: fail.