In the meantime, my discomfort in Janice’s class during belly-down postures eventually passed. I chalked it up to getting stronger and therefore less frustrated as I attempted the postures. And I think that was true, but I also think that my body had done its work accessing and unveiling the tension for the time being and was waiting for the right time to unleash it.
The body really does possess a kind of intelligence, such as the ability to wait for the right time to unleash. Think about how you can wait until you are alone in the bathroom to bawl after a big confrontation at work. Or imagine you’re on your way home from work and sense the stirrings of a very large bowel movement. Haven’t you ever noticed that your urge grows as you get closer to home? Unless you’ve got a stomach bug, it never gets unbearable until you’re within range of the bathroom.* Now, that’s pretty intelligent, if you ask me. So my body knew that this was not the time to unload my angst. Not yet.
* Actually, to be precise, while some people did feel that way in certain business classes, as if they were in exactly the right place, no one felt that way in Productions and Operations Management class. The professor was horrible, and since attendance was mandatory, students would sign in and then literally crawl out the window when he turned around. One time a friend and I conspired to make a run for the door. When the prof turned, I sprinted. I made it through the door and watched from the hallway as Midge followed. As the prof turned back around to face the class, Midge was caught midstride. She froze, eyes wide, panicked, deer in the headlights, and then she dove, headfirst, Pete Rose–style, through the open door and into the hallway to a standing ovation from the rest of the class. Needless to say, she was a legend after that.
* On the show, Yogi Kudu would contort his body to fit into a two-foot-square Plexiglas box. Then Cathy Lee Crosby, John Davidson, and Fran Tarkenton would toss the box into a swimming pool or bury him underground for fifteen minutes.
* I once saw a car with a bumper sticker that read “I’m only speeding ’cause I really have to poop.”
I spent a year teaching in a boy’s prep school and that was a crowd that was trying to make up their minds…. I’ve seen them since, and those who followed their zeal, their bliss, they have led decent, wonderful lives; those who did what [others] said they should do because it’s safe found out it’s not safe. It’s disaster.
— JOSEPH CAMPBELL, The Hero’s Journey
Iliked teaching, and I loved the kids, but I was bored by the math. It was actually driving me mad. One day I was at the chalkboard teaching side-angle-side proofs for congruent triangles in my third geometry class of the day, and I lost it. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I had to leave the room and ask a student to take over.
While I was bored to tears by my seven hours of math every day, my colleagues could get worked into a tizzy, giggling like schoolkids, about a new fractals poster for the math building hallway.
I believe that we each have a calling and that it is our job to find it. The calling can be to teach math, practice medicine, build schools in India, raise a family, trade stocks, or whatever. Me? I wanted to eat, sleep, and breathe yoga. So at the end of that school year, I left the math job.
At the same time, my brother, Larry, got married and moved in with his wife, Pam, so with our other roommate, Minsheng, I moved across the train tracks to Hoboken, New Jersey. The town of Hoboken is one square mile and rumored to be more densely packed than Calcutta, India. And in 1995 downtown Hoboken was densely packed with recent business school grads who worked in Manhattan but lived in Hoboken for one-fourth the rent.
Downtown Hoboken is essentially the five blocks of town nearest the PATH trains, which go under the Hudson River to bring you two thousand feet to Manhattan. Minsheng commuted daily to the World Financial Center (across the street from where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center used to stand) and often commented that he could nearly hit a golf ball across the river to his office, yet his one-and-a-half-laps-around-the-track commute could take more than thirty minutes.
To make money I began tutoring math and also waiting tables at a chain restaurant. The tutoring paid pretty well, so the waiting was really just for some extra cash and to hang out with people, because at 7:30 every weekday morning, all the other residents of my newly renovated apartment building got dressed in starched suits, waited in line at Starbucks, and boarded trains to Manhattan, leaving me alone in a ghost town.
All the artists and yogis of Hoboken lived eleven blocks north near the YMCA or seven blocks west in five-story walk-up apartments rented from long-time natives of the Polish district. (The Polish district was legit and still hosted a yearly parade of parishioners hoisting bleeding-saint statues on their shoulders.)
So I needed something social, something to connect me with the other daytime denizens of Hoboken — the artists, the yogis, the out-of-work actors. The restaurant job was perfect for that, though at first I stank at the job. I was attentive and could make diners feel very at home, but waiting on five tables at once left me mixing up orders, bringing soup after main course, serving cold food, and mumbling to myself as I paced the restaurant in a cold sweat.
I might not have been so bad, but on the first day the manager accidentally scheduled me for the busiest section of tables, thinking that I was the other, far more experienced Brian who worked at the restaurant. So on my first day, I was juggling six tables and everything went wrong. Guests were going to the kitchen counter to pick up their own food, and one guy returned his coffee cup four times because I kept bringing cups that were dirty.
I enjoyed the social aspect of the job, but I never really became one of the gang. It takes time, and I was only there for a few months. Not only that, but I was different from these folks. They waited tables, auditioned for roles, and partied at night. I worked the lunch shift, then drove thirty minutes to suburban New Jersey to tutor all afternoon, and went home to upscale, downtown Hoboken to hang out with my Georgetown friends. I had no SAG card, no tattoos, and no criminal record. I was a bit square compared to everyone else at the restaurant.
Being a waiter did afford me some power to make people happy, though, and I enjoyed that. One day at one of my tables I had a bunch of twenty-somethings who were clearly very high. They were hungry the way only marathon runners and pot smokers can be, and when they all emptied out their pockets they came up with only $7.25, so they ordered the nachos appetizer. I brought the nachos and watched them devour it. At this restaurant when it was someone’s birthday we could comp them a beautiful brownie sundae, so I clicked the button on the register for a birthday sundae. When I presented it to them, it was Christmas in O’Malley’s. I bet they still tell stories of that unexpected, fully loaded sundae in 1994.
Even though this job basically fit my need to interact with human beings during the daytime hours, I was growing uneasy with it. In my personal life, I was doing a lot of yoga and beginning to study natural health. Meanwhile, at O’Malley’s, I was dishing out platter after platter of deep-fried calamari, oily French fries, and fried stuffed mushrooms. Plus, O’Malley’s was a chain, so all the food was prepared at the mother ship in Texas and delivered weekly, and who knows what additives and fillers were in those five-gallon tubs o’ processed gloop.
I grew increasingly uncomfortable and guilty, and eventually I felt that I could no longer in good conscience shop for myself at the Hoboken natural foods market and dish