I was
blinded last week.
Well, my right contact lens popped out at work. I had been violently rubbing my face with despair and frustration from having spent over twelve hours in the office, and when I looked back at my monitor, saw only a soft blur. A dried, shriveled lens was on my dress. No one in the office had contacts solution, and after five minutes of frantic searching, dabbing with water, and rusty praying (it's been awhile), my lens cracked like plastic.
Now, the problem was not just I was half-blind (or half-seeing), it was that I had to go to a hot yoga class. In May, I bought yoga classes in bulk for a discount (#indians #gujaratis #ruchacreatesproblemsforherself). They were to expire in November, but given that I had been on a yoga binge in the spring, and went to the studio three or four times a week, I assumed this would not be an issue.
Of course, my yoga binge conceded to an ice cream binge in the summer, a pecan pie binge in the fall, and I suddenly found myself at two weeks before the expiration date with 20 classes left. I sobbed my way into an extension, and then after Hurricane Sandy hit, I was given a second extension.
So, the day I was blinded, it was imperative I go to my yoga class. It was not for my body. It was to justify my large purchase in May.
(I know, most of my problems are self-induced. If I took a second to think before I did anything, I probably wouldn't even need a blog.)
I became dizzy seeing only half the world, so I took out my left contact lens, as well. I walked to hot yoga by counting the avenues and streets, relying on math I had not studied in over five years. As soon as I reached my studio, I hesitantly inched towards a body I hoped was my instructor. I was too tired to preface the situation, so just showed her my card and said, "Hi. If I fall over in class today, it is not because I'm too hot or unwell, but it's because I cannot see anything right now." She looked back at me, though I'm not sure what her face may have been expressing, and I said, "Um, so I'll be in the front. Thank you."
Even in the front of the room, I could not see myself in the mirror. I knew the colors in front of me were of my own body, but I could determine the existence of nothing else. The room was silent, blurry, and I was completely alone. My instructor's voice was sharper than it had ever been; it seemed to cut through the solitude that engulfed me. For the first time in my life, I was fully immersed in the practice, not distracted by my own body, by my face, by my flaws. I was not comparing myself to the other yogis, or the teacher, or nervous that my short shorts were too short (they definitely were). My blindness forced me to commit my thoughts to the present. My mind did not waver, and I could feel slimy beads of sweat rolling down my temples, into my mouth, down my chest. I could hear the person next to me pant and grunt, and could feel my own hot breath hanging by my face.
I sat in the studio for several minutes after the class, trying to retain the fresh experience of being present, of being in my own body.
When I walked outside, I was immediately whipped by a cold, November wind. I parted my lips slightly as I walked, to taste the coolness in my mouth. I could still hear my heart beating by my ribs, and could feel heat emanating from within my wool coat.
And then I tripped on a homeless man lying in the middle of the street. In my defense, he should have been leaning against a building, or wearing a neon vest.
I counted the avenues and streets back to my apartment, and as soon as I came home I wore my glasses. I could finally see, and my mind was immediately clouded by my thoughts, by my vision.
Damn homeless.
