Today, in the building my yoga studio is in, a man got into the elevator whom I'd always considered to be one of those odd, semi-homeless dudes I see on a daily basis in and around Union Square.
He wears an outfit that is a cross between Japanese ninja and tiki garden. Seashells dangle from his hat.
As it turns out, he works at the Strand.
It was a surreal experience, a sort of crossing over of the third wall. Like when actors turn and speak to the audience or like when I run into my students in public.
Or like today at lunch when I surreptitiously slipped earplugs in to drown out the noise of an extremely loud fellow teacher.
It's Friday. I wanted to get everything done so I could leave on time.
Of course my plan was duly foiled when another teacher started talking to me, I had to remove the earplugs to hear, and the loud teacher completely went ballistic.
"I'M NOT HURT, I'M NOT HURT."
"It's not you, it's me," I said.
The classic bailout line if ever there was one.
"Just can't work if there's a lot of noise," I mumbled on.
But it was useless. I now have an enemy.
Whom I'll see in the elevator every day.
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