I’ve been home now for a month, and been that person in the yoga studio 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 (the Red Sox). A few of us arrived at the same time and Victoria commented on the weather being warm and nice.
“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, and was surprised to realize I’d been home for exactly one month. (Whey do I hold March to a higher standard? February gives me a a bright, sunny 35 degree day and I’m thrilled. When March dishes up that kind of day, weather is disappointing. Needs improvement. 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.