I’ve been home now for a month and in that time have become THAT person in the yoga studio - the one who starts every other sentence with, “I just got back from India…” or “When I was in Mysore…”
Yesterday morning, Sunday, I made my way to yoga for practice. (I should be making my way there now, as I write this, but there’s about 8 inches of snow on the ground and nobody is going anywhere in Boston this morning.)
At the top of the stairs was the usual early March scene at a Boston yoga studio: dozens of sturdy, warm boots, nearly identical parkas (mostly black, and if not, definitely some sort of practical neutral color) and a lot of hats showing pride (New England Patriots) or hope (Red Sox). A few of us arrived at the same time and Victoria commented on the weather being warm and nice for early March.
“It feels warm out, right?”
“Well, I guess it’s not warm compared to India.”
Small talk fail, on my part. I hadn’t thought I was annoyed about the weather, but I sure sounded like a grump. I ended up thinking about this exchange for a while. I felt like a bit of a jerk for being so contrary early on a Sunday morning. Why do I hold March to a higher weather standard? February gives me a a bright, sunny 35 degree day and I’m thrilled. But when March dishes up that kind of day, I’m disappointed. I’ve lived in New England my entire life, and yet when I act like I’ve never heard the expression, “March come in like a lion, goes out like a lamb.”)
It’s cold. It’s snowy. It’s Monday. And, no, it’s nothing at all like India. And while I loved my time there (I still have more to say about it here), I’m really, really glad to be home.