Last July, I sat in one of my favorite restaurants in the world with one of the world’s favorite women and we had leftovers and she asked for a takeaway box, no not a to-go box, a takeaway box, and I watched her carefully, ever-so carefully place what she had not finished of her curry into the brown cardboard-like box. She said, For the man we met outside. The one who liked your nikes.

I chuckled, Why are you doing it so carefully?

She said, It should look nice. It shouldn’t look like I have eaten from it. 

She said it as if it was the least she could do for this complete stranger. She said it as if it was so obvious that it should look nice for him. As if it was so obvious that he deserved a nice-looking meal. 

This July, I moved through a yoga class, this specific 6:30am class chosen because I have a crush on the instructor, the only appropriate reason for me, someone who never works before noon on any given day, to be in that class. 

She said, Vinyasa means ‘to place in a special way.’

And my shoulders sturdied and my heart-space expanded and my hands drew up energy from the ground, through the mat, and my head felt weightless, my posture effortless.

I have referred to that thought each day since that one. 

To place in a special way. 

This was yet another instance of some guide, some teacher, giving me the language to organize ideas that have been living inside me for a long time. 

When I was 4 years-old or maybe 7 years-old, my Sethi, my grandmother, told me it was bad luck to leave my shoes upside down and to this day, I’d lose sleep if I ever left my shoes on their tops instead of their bottoms. 

When I was 13 years-old, my coach adjusted my mat on the pavement at the park under the pavilion, so that it aligned with the paint and now my mat is never not straight.

When I was 15 years-old, my dad taught me to reverse into the garage. A particularly un-American behavior, the reverse is a gift to my future self, who may be in a rush or may not be but things are just a little bit easier for her now. You’re welcome, my love.

When I was 18 years-old, my new coach allotted time at the end of each lift specifically for turning all the plates in the weight-room right-side-up, so that the words could be read, so that the tops of the letters that spelled out our university’s name were left standing up straight, reaching toward the sky.

Now, when I set tables at work, I do so rather slowly. I do it in a special way.

Now, when I wake up, I set my feet on the carpet with intention and then I choose an outfit that will make me feel comfortable doing whatever I’m about to go do and I plate my porridge, my breakfast that is just for me, nicely. And I adorn myself in jewels before I leave the house. When I remember to. And I walk tall. Most of the time. And to the best of my ability, I hang things on hangers to avoid wrinkles. Sometimes.

Because I deserve it and others deserve it, too. 

It’s about pride. And luxury. And time. And privilege. 

This is something I have found that Black and Brown and Queer and female people understand differently than white male people — this idea of one’s outward appearance being directly and inextricably connected to their value and respectability as a human. The degree to which this relationship is true seems to have manifested itself in a spectrum of self-consciousness that is directly variable with a spectrum of privilege. More simply put: How you show up in the world matters more if you show up differently than how they want you to. And there’s heaps of problems and also heaps of loveliness entangled in that observation.

To place in a special way

I recently came across a podcast titled “Yoga is Dead” or something bold like that and one of its episodes titled, “How Vinyasa Ruined Yoga” or something aggressive like that and I did not listen to it and I’m sure there’s something valuable in there HOWEVER this element of vinyasa, it’s translation by my favorite hot yoga instructor, is very much alive in me. 

Until You Know Better

Make your bed

Put a flower in your hair

Great Artists Steal

Listen to “Lucky Girl” by Carlina