My Inner Worlds
The Xenomorph needs to stay where she belongs, in horror movies. I felt excitement to finally receive the package containing the yoga tank I wrote about last month. As I do with all new clothes, I washed it before wearing because the manufacturing chemicals trigger my allergies. I almost made an exception because I wanted to wear my new shirt to class that evening, but Matt encouraged me to have patience and consider what two hours in the hot room would feel like as the icky scent released in the heat.
So I followed protocol and thought the shirt was inside out after it had air-dried overnight. The ink washed off before I even got to wear it. Compare the promotional picture on the left to the post-washed t-shirt on the right. Incredibly disappointing, yet I decided to pretend this was an old college shirt that had seen a lot of wear—because that’s what it looks like now.
During yoga class last Monday I learned you can’t even read the words from five feet away, so I needlessly worried over offending a gentle-minded yogi. What I didn’t expect was my own reaction to seeing the Alien on my chest each time I looked in the mirror. During Bikram, when I needed to focus on my postures, I kept remembering gross scenes from the movies and felt distracted by trying to control my thoughts. Thankfully in Yin the lights are turned down, so I had more success in forgetting about my shirt. (I do back-to-back hot classes.)
The lesson I’m taking from this experience is two-fold. I need to stop buying cheap manufactured shirts because I totally miss that $30 now that I feel I got ripped off. I also want to respect the sanctity of what my yoga practice means to me—gentleness in spirit, kindness in thought, forgiveness of the past, and strength for tomorrow’s good work. The Alien just doesn’t fit with that energetic template.
Goodbye, my Xenomorph. I guess I won’t see you again until the next movie is released.