Take a Little Trip

Next to me on the nightstand is a collection of sorts. A half eaten Milky Way, a partial cup of old coffee from breakfast, a plastic water bottle with a quarter remainder of water, an apple, and a pile of books with one of my favorite magazines. It is 11 AM and I have not showered. I rolled out of bed at 8:15 to throw on some clothes and get a bite to eat before they started putting away the continental breakfast. This is not really a typical representation of the way I conduct myself.

I am computer-less and therefore journaling in a traditional way, pen to paper. Thinking it might be nice to peel myself away from the cable TV, I turned to the back pages of my planner and here I am. This feels like a total day of indulgence without an agenda, and a television full of programs that we no longer have at home. I am even considering going back to sleep after I write this.

My location is Marietta, GA, and I came here for a variety of reasons, all which involve an element of fun. Wednesday I woke up, taught my 5:10 AM yoga class, showered, packed, went to work, purchased a house warming gift, and drove to Acworth, GA for a brief stay with my good friend Anna, from nursing school, and her husband. I had not visited her house before this and it was surreal. Last time we hung out we were both in Missouri with very different lives. We spent weekends in her college apartment with our friend and her roommate Nikki. We were unmarried and overstressed with the burden of a nursing school schedule. But here I was now, in the south, in her house, with her husband, and all of the time has passed so quickly.

Thursday morning I woke up again to see what I refer to as "ridiculous hours of the day", to battle five lanes of congested Atlanta city highway traffic. I could envision the ends of my nerves unfraying as I was mushed between semis and trapped at a standstill with cars with blinker signals cutting in front of me, just barely enough room to avoid rubbing metal to metal. I was trying to make it on time to a place I had never been for a yoga conference. Knowing that a time or two the GPS had led me astray, I was praying for accuracy that morning.

As if the early morning hours were not a large enough source of irritation, I arrived at the conference location to discover that the parking for the day would be $15. I begrudgingly pressed the button for my ticket, imagining my true rebel wish where I just ram through the mechanical arm with my car, coming into fruition. With a very conservative exterior, I instead took my ticket and politely drove through, maintaining the safe and courteous speed limit.

I love yoga, learning about it, sharing it, meeting others who love it, so the fact that I enjoyed the conference really is unnecessary to say. It was in a beautiful Hilton Hotel with spacious conference rooms for the different workshops. The master trainer was a true inspiration with her smorgasbord of a resume including hula dancer, Licensed Massage Therapist, ballroom dancer, and degree in kinesiology (it makes my own multi-interest life seem less irrational). Anyway, I learned many new ways of using props and modifications to be able to bring yoga to a greater range of age groups.

My favorite part really came at the end of the day when I left the parking lot. A line of cars began accumulating at the toll booth. After a few moments it became evident that one thing or another was malfunctioning. The woman at the front of the line stepped out of her car and started pressing buttons. With one hand on her hip and the other on her forehead, she scanned the lot looking for solutions. The arm was not moving, it would not let her car pass. In a few minutes, an employee arrived to provide assistance. After pushing and prodding the system, he could find no other solution to, wait for it...REMOVE THE METAL ARM FROM ITS BASE! In shock I smiled, eternally grateful that my $20 remained in my lap as I passed him, smiling and waving like a fool in a parade. Ha, I said to that rail. Ha, I thought to that hotel and their crazy expensive parking rates.

Driving to my hotel that night, I encountered more traffic. Exhausted and hungry, I had little reserve left for kindness. The person at the check in desk refused to let me have the room we had reserved under my friend's name, as she and two other friends would join me the next night. After arranging that bunch of junk, she handed me a key, room 120, and gave me verbal directions. Following these directions, I pulled around to the breezeway and parked, all odd numbers on the doorways. Ick. I looped around the building, cursing my own inability to solve the mystery of the missing even numbered rooms. Back up to the counter, I tell her I can't figure it out. She shows me a map. Ah, yes, the bit about how the even rooms are on the interior side of the building would have been nice, thanks.

The saving grace of the night was a Cracker Barrel, right next door to the hotel. Eating at a home style chain away from home always does something good for me. I had never eaten at a restaurant by myself, but at this point had almost lost sight of caring. They sat me at a corner table, next to a window, with my own kerosene lamp lit, shedding a soft glow of light onto the nighttime view. The gift shop entrance had been warm and welcoming, decorated with fall and Christmas items. I ordered the usual, hot chocolate and eggs-in-the-basket, over hard with turkey sausage (always a treat with a pork allergy) and that oh-so-comforting cheesy hash brown casserole. Feeling full and more composed, I shopped around the Cracker Barrel store, smelling the candles, playing with the toys, enjoying the company and presence of strangers.