Heat: Part 2

Don't sweat the small stuff. (And it's all small stuff).

Yesterday I called my dad to ask if I could come to their place for supper tonight.

"I'm going to hot yoga with Amara and I'm picking her up at six forty-five," I said.

"So you'll be here at five-thirty?" he asked.

I agreed and went about the rest of my evening.

Today I came home from work feeling about 80 per cent burned out. The candle inside of me close to the base of the wick, the light dim. I had seventy-five minutes to myself before I would have to leave for my parents'. I stepped into the shower to wash the day away. I tried to squeeze more heat out of the water, completely closing the cold water tap, but there was no more to be had. I stepped out and drew the big citrus orange towel around me for a dry hug. I was clean again.

On my way out I checked my phone and saw that my parents had called, twice, and left a voicemail. I only had one bar of power left and didn't want to spend it on retrieving the message when I was going to be seeing them momentarily. I tossed the phone in my bag and headed out.

The roads are like curling rinks this week. This is my least favourite road condition because Truck performs so very poorly. LOW TRACTION flashed above the odometer as I spun my wheels. Brake lights flashed intermittently in front of me. Spin, go, stop. Spin, go, stop. It took me twice as long as usual to get to Charleswood.

"Who called and what did you want?" I asked my mom when I got inside.

"It was me, I wanted to know what time you were coming," she said.

I hung up my jacket in the closet, dropped my keys and mitts on the table. "Dad told me five-thirty," I said and headed to check my email.

I was getting caught up in checking my mail, Facebook, the news, when Dad came in and asked me if I wanted garlic butter on my toast. I imagined first the resulting stink of garlicky sweat and then the blah-taste of plain buttered toast. I chose garlic and hoped Amara could forgive me.

I emerged from the computer room and saw that it was six twenty-four. My eyes bulged because I was supposed to pick Amara up at six forty-five. The lasagna was just coming out of the oven, steaming.

I cut through the cheese and took a small bite. Hot. I was hungry though. Beggars, choosers. Lord I love them, but don't put retired folks on a schedule, lesson learned. The whole day boiled up under my skin again. I put a forkful of hot cheese, noodle and beef in my mouth and it blistered the roof of my mouth, numbed my tongue. My parents tried to inject cheer into the situation but I was having none of it.

At six thirty-five I left for Amara's. When I pulled up to her house Little boy B was dancing and laughing in the window. My heart lifted and everything else melted away. Thank goodness for little boys.

The yoga class began with lying down. I could feel the hot, heavy air pressing on my face, enveloping my limbs. With my eyes closed I imagined I was in India.

It didn't take long for the sweat to start dripping. Depending on the pose the water rolled down to my lips or up my nose or into my ears. I was swimming within myself.

A few times I felt dizzy so I took a pause. I struggled a bit with the tree pose, especially on my weak ankle. I just kept thinking, don't sweat the small stuff. Just enjoy the glorious heat.

Life does not seek to punish us, only to give us opportunities to learn and grow. Don't let the small stuff burn you out; enjoy the heat.