I would not, by any means, say my yoga instructor and I were ever dating, but when I left the gas on my stove lit for an entire 24 hours and thought my apartment was going to explode, he was the first person I called.
This was for multiple reasons... one of which was that, save for the time Zach made an entire box of pizza rolls and ate all of them in less than five minutes, my yoga instructor was the only person besides me who had ever cooked in my apartment. Shortly after we’d met, we spent the whole day napping in Central Park and, that night, he cooked me a full dinner while I laid on the couch and occasionally helped him cut tomatoes until he deemed my slicing skills unworthy.
Because of this, I knew he had working knowledge of my kitchen appliances -- thus, the panicked call when I walked into my apartment, smelt a horrible amount of gas and realized I’d never turned off the stove after my insatiable midnight craving for pasta had occurred the night before.
Another reason I called him instead of Zach, who was closer in proximity, or Chelsea, who is a real-life adult who would probably know how to combat the situation better, is because the yoga instructor and I had began to fall into a routine every time he came to my apartment, a routine that, as cliche as it sounds, made me feel very, very New York (although, full disclosure, I also called him because he’s really, really hot).
Anyway, we fell into this routine not long after we’d met, though the way we’d met was strange in-and-of-itself. Coincidences happen to me often in New York City -- I’ve spent the past year writing about them -- and the unlikely friendship between us was one such occasion. The oddest part about our relationship was not that he was an instructor at the studio I practice at every day. No, what was weird about our meeting is that we didn’t meet in the studio we both spend so much time in. Instead, we’d met randomly at a bar on the Upper West Side, when I’d accidentally hit him on the head with the yoga mat I was trying to unlodge from under a seat.
The fact we had the interest of yoga in common could not have been more obvious -- I quite literally hit him over the head with it -- and, because of this, we spent the rest of the night chatting and really getting along. We made plans for me to take one of his classes and, after a brief moment of anxiety in that upcoming week where I realized I was somehow talking to both him AND one of his good friends, we went on a date. And, the date went well. Besides yoga, we also had a shared love of graphic design, beer and terrible jokes, so after grabbing a few drinks at a bar, we decided to go back to my place to finish off the remaining two IPA’s in my fridge before he biked home.
Now, before I wrote this story, I was talking to Chelsea and trying to figure out a way how to delicately write this next part, but after a long discussion, we both figured there’s no good way to say it without telling the exact truth. However, for what will hopefully be some clarification, I’ll give you a little bit of a backstory:
My junior year of college, my four roommates and I decided not to turn on our heat until November 1st. This led to me sleeping while wearing a hat and gloves every night as well as not even bothering to take off my winter jacket when I walked in the door because the temperature inside our home was just as frigid as the frosty air outdoors.
This is something I have never experienced in my New York City apartment.
My apartment is so hot at all times that I keep my windows open during the winter. The combination of the heat, plus the trek up my six flights of stairs, has proven to be a lot for people who aren’t accustomed to that lifestyle. Zach, for example, lays on my couch for such a long time after walking up my stairs that I’m sometimes genuinely afraid he has stopped breathing.
The night the yoga instructor and I were going up to my apartment to split beers was not a cool night. In fact, it was one of the hottest nights of the summer. And, if you recall, I am not in possession of an air conditioner, something I’d conveniently forgotten to mention until we’d reached the sixth floor of my apartment.
And, so -- here began the routine.
Unaware my apartment was not going to offer recluse from the sweltering outside air, the yoga instructor was sweating profusely. And, because of this, he refused to drink a beer with me until he’d completed perhaps the strangest task anyone has ever asked me on a date.
He wanted to take a shower first.
Now, let me clarify before my mother has an actual heart attack… he did NOT want to take a shower with me. He just wanted to get in the cold water alone for a few minutes while I patiently waited with the beers. Though it was odd, I understand how hot my apartment is and so, I obliged.
My apartment is quite tiny and, so, it felt uncomfortably intimate for someone I’d really just met to be showering while I waited outside the door. Instead, I made my way outdoors with the beers to my fire escape, a feature of my apartment that Zach refers to as “the front porch” and also, a feature I never let him go on because I’m 87% sure that, if I do, his clumsiness will kick in and he'lll fall through the massive hole to his death.
Because I had higher hopes for the yoga instructors reflexive skills than Zach's, when he finished showering, I had him meet me out on the fire escape. He obliged, holding both a beer and a freshly-rolled cigarette.
On the night we'd met and after I'd hit the yoga instructor in the head with my mat and after we'd established he taught at my studio and even after he'd already kissed me once, he asked me a question that caught me off-guard: "Do you want to go outside for a cigarette?"
This took me by surprise for a few reasons, the first one being that it is 2015, so I can probably count the number of people I know who smoke cigarettes despite the obvious health complications on one hand. Secondly, as a yoga instructor, I was shocked that someone who was so dedicated to a health-consicious career participated in smoking.
And, finally, I was surprised because that was literally the exact same pick-up line my father used on my mother when they'd met at a party in 1982.
Because I don't smoke, I'd refused his offer on the night we'd met, but it wasn't shocking to me those few weeks later, when we were sitting on my fire escape and he lit up the cigarette he'd rolled on my table moments before. The two of us sat outside, splitting the beers and quietly talking about everything as we looked at the moon over the river, the cars on the highway, our feet dangling through the hole I'm always worried Zach will fall through, the smell of smoke rising up above us.
It was the beginning of a lovely tradition.
Without fail, every time the yoga instructor came over, we'd sit out on that ledge -- talking about where we saw ourselves in five years, what we did that day, our favorite colors. Or, sometimes, we'd just sit in silence, enjoying each other's company and our own quiet thoughts.
And, every single time, the experience felt authentically New York.
But, sometimes, things just end without ever meaning to. And, because I would never say I was dating the yoga instructor, I would never say we had a bad breakup. We both got busy, stopped talking as often and, eventually, we gently faded out of each other's lives.
A few weeks ago, I took a late class at my yoga studio. I stuck around for a little bit, showering and getting ready because I had a date (with the bartender I'd left my number for on the same night I'd met the attractive yacht captain and the night before I potentially kissed The Weeknd, who miraculously called me). Before I got onto the subway, I was filling up my water bottle and happened to look into the classroom next door, where a class was still being taught.
The yoga instructor was teaching.
We made eye contact and it wasn’t weird at all. I smiled, he smiled. He opened the door to his classroom to both offer his students a break from the 105 degree air and, also, to say hello. We chatted briefly in hushed voices, said goodbye and then he shut the door, turning his attention back to his class.
After that, we didn't see each other again.
Things weren't meant to work out between us -- I knew it from the moment we'd met, had known it when he'd come to my apartment to make sure it wouldn't explode, knew it on our first date, when we'd sat on a park bench and split a bag of grapes.
Still, I also know I'll never forget those moments on my fire escape and the smell of smoke seeping up into the air as our late-nights talks made me feel more New York than New York.