My First Time

In life, everything is a trade-off. I have learned this lesson again and again-- every upside has a down, every minus has its plus. And this morning I am reminded of that truism because apparently, every morning yoga class has its work shower.
Based on the rave reviews of a couple trusted sources in my office, I went to a bikram yoga class in the granola-smelling world of Silverlake. For the past month I have been feeling down and out, so much that I took a leave of absence from this column as well as my social life. Suddenly, the idea of doing something crazy to shake shit up was appealing. And if doing a series of 26 yoga poses twice in a 105-degree room isn’t crazy, then I don’t know what is.

This morning was my third class. It was the first time I made it through an entire one without feeling like I was going to throw up, pass out, and implode. At once. You might think this sounds terrible, but for ailing HellCat, it really wasn’t. It gave me something to work for. How dare the distant cousins Heat and Stretching think they had power over me! I would conquer them. And for each one of the three times I walked out, I left feeling wonderful. Fresh air pushing through my bloodstream, sweat pouring down the small of my back…and everywhere else…

It’s like a new lease on life.

Anyway, my trusted source at work that I will identify only as Rock Star told me that the morning class has the best teacher and the least heat. I considered it, knowing that she was right. But my vision tunneled down to a point that disturbed me. At the end of that tunnel?

Showering at work.

My office building has a workout room and a shower. The facilities are nice and private, and the bathroom is tucked away so that few employees use it. But my mother’s Victorian modesty hovers over me… and as a result, I don’t like showering where I eat. The prospect was daunting.

As I walked with a mock casualness towards the abandoned bathroom, I slowly swept my gaze from side to side, checking to see if anyone was looking or planning on following me. No one. I reached the bathroom door, and heard stirring inside.
“Oh, Christ.” I thought. “The Executive Producer of the show is probably in there, washing her hands. She’ll see my big bag and know that I am going to be removing all my clothes and allowing my vulnerable body to be washed in this office bathroom water. I will most certainly be fired.”

I opened the door, and some woman was in a stall. I had to be discreet. I slapped across the tile in my flip flops and slammed the door to the shower shut. Mission failed. I heard the woman go, “Ehhh?” in her stall. Then she flushed. I sat there, waiting in panicked silence. I tried to hide my feet so she couldn’t identify me.

Apparently this girl was examining every pore of her face in the mirror, because she was taking her time leaving. I was hunched in an uncomfortable position that I could only hold because my muscles were loose…but when she left I breathed a sigh of relief that shook the walls. I undressed rapidly, lathered, rinsed, repeated, and prayed that no one would walk into the bathroom while I was in mid-shower.

I kept picturing what was happening outside the door: a woman about 5’6”, 110 pounds, blonde haired and blue eyed, perfect California girl in every way, hearing the shower and looking at her co-workers like she had just smelled something foul.
“Who is taking a shower here?” she would say. Her co-workers would shrug and make the same face in an attempt to be more like the California girl. Being Armenian and wearing pantsuits, it wouldn’t work, but they tried nonetheless.

Cali girl would tiptoe up to the bathroom door, and all of a sudden she would bust in with a Polaroid camera and take a picture of me while I was rinsing yoga sweat out of the crack of my bottom. Overjoyed at her expose, she would flap the Polaroid wildly, not caring that flapping them makes no difference. She would take it back to whoever was listening—which would mostly be the people clearing out the offices of the Jamie Kennedy Experiment. She would proclaim “Look! This is the girl who showers here! She must be homeless, or maybe her family hates her and makes her leave the house before everyone is awake!” The Armenians would laugh, shaking the bell-bottomed cuffs of their pantsuits, and I would slink out of the shower, shamed forever.

I would immediately be fired, of course. Then, having no income, I would soon be found not at the Treehouse, but in the gutter of the Zankou chicken pointing my fingers in various directions and then grifting people for Parking Attendant Tips.
I was shocked when this didn’t happen. I toweled off, dressed, put my contacts in, and mussed my hair. A woman came in, said Good Morning, did her business, and left. She didn’t silently judge me at all. It was amazing!

Now I am considering only showering at my office. I always work out in the mornings, and it would save me both gasoline and water. In fact, maybe I'll just move in here. Get an air mattress, an electric blankie. I could use the water heater room as my personal storage, and eat the food at craft services for breakfast. Let's consider this a plan.
planned. g