Last Tuesday I arrived to morning pilates class incredibly out of sorts. I’d spent the prior weekend drinking too much and sleeping too little while celebrating a three-day wedding bonanza in Palm Springs. My remaining brain cells were doing their best to keep me going, yet I arrived to class without my water bottle, my smart watch, or a hair tie. No matter, I told myself. These are non-essential to exercise.
I drifted to my second favorite reformer near the window and plopped myself down. Then I realized I had to pee. If I were to leave the reformer unattended, someone else might claim it. I didn’t have any personal belongings (see: Hydroflask, Fitbit, or even a damn scrunchie) to mark my territory before I left for the restroom. I looked down and the only possible solution presented itself: my grip socks. Some background info for those who have avoided pilates brainwashing - the exercise is done sans shoes, plus special socks. So without thinking, I peeled my socks off and carefully laid them on top of the reformer. As I walked towards the lavatory I realized that I’m that girl. The girl who just took her socks off to walk into a public bathroom.
Suddenly my brain, which had been dormant since my departure from the desert, arose with a jolt. Life hack: when you’re in need of a wake-up punch to the dome, simply place yourself into an anxiety inducing situation. The fight or flight hits quickly. Questions flooded my mind all at once. Is anyone looking at me? Is this revolting? Will people think I have a fetish? This bathroom is usually spotless... Realistically though, when was it last mopped? If someone tries to claim my reformer, will my socks deter them? Disgust them? One final thought of solace as I entered the bathroom was that, fortunately, my pedicure was still intact from the weekend.
I made it back to my sock covered reformer. Class started. I self-soothed, reminding myself that people are usually zoned out prior to 8 AM. “Don’t worry” I said to me, myself, and I. “No one even noticed.” My self-consciousness persisted. I reverted to the morally cheap, but inarguably effective strategy that never fails to makes me feel better: thinking of other people in worst scenarios. My brain flashed back to a humiliating anecdote my partner once told me. Back in the day, some clients invited him to the Owner’s Box at a Red Sox game. Bro-ey networking ensued. Beers were consumed, jokes were made, hot dogs were ordered. When he leaned in, slightly tipsy, to take his first bite of that delicious dog, tragedy struck. The hot dog suddenly slipped out of the bun and plopped onto the ground. In a moment of panic he picked the weiner up, tucked it back into its rightful, carby home, and took a big ol’ bite. Did anyone see? No. He believes his sausage faux pas went unnoticed. I asked if he was ever invited back to the box. He was not. Scientific conclusion: it’s within the realm of possibility that someone witnessed the sausage slip.
Bare feet in bathrooms. Eating off the floor. These were grimy, gross, and avoidable mistakes. But at the end of the day, who cares? As my partner likes to remind me when I’m stressed, “In one hundred years we will all be ashes.” So live your best life! Walk barefoot if you need to! Pretend the three-second rule exists! People are so wrapped up in their own lives that they’re unlikely to notice your missteps. And if they do? Worst case scenario: you become a gross/funny anecdote. Best case scenario: you become a gross/funny anecdote.
Been there. I felt this one deep in my soul.