I decided to attend this year’s San Francisco Yoga Journal Conference mostly because Jason Scholder asked if I would help out at his Yoga Market Booth. Jason is the inventor of the Three Minute Egg – my favorite yoga prop. And I say that it’s my favorite prop not because Jason is a nice guy – although he is – but because it’s a versatile little piece of mandorla shaped foam.
But I digress.
I decided to attend the Yoga Journal Conference because Jason asked me to help. In exchange I’d be given a free pass to one or two of the classes being offered over the weekend.
Since classes were going to be free, then it just made sense to splurge on the conference rate rooms at the Hyatt. And so I did.
One big problem.
I have a deep dislike for the business of yoga that only intensifies when I’m in an environment dedicated to the business of yoga.
Still, I could set that aside for ninety minutes of Yin with Sarah Powers and a morning of Yoga Nidra with Richard Miller! I could drop my attitude and enjoy the gift. Except both classes were sold out with no hope of my sneaking in. But what about the other classes? Yeah. What about them? I had my heart set on Sarah and Richard. Everything else had a sort of “been there, done that, why bother?” ring to it.
So what’s a girl to do with a paid for hotel room and twenty-four hours to kill?
I floundered. I checked emails. Opened the mini-bar and quickly closed it again. I turned on the television and took off my shoes. The sun slowly settled as the buzz of a Friday night in San Francisco began to build.
In a reckless moment I considered ordering room service – something I’ve always wanted to do (I’m easily thrilled) but I came to my senses. I left my room and rode the elevator down to the restaurant on the atrium floor.
Which is where I am now, enjoying a beautiful grilled shrimp and scallop salad with avocado, mango and shaved ginger. Oh yeah. And a glass of chardonnay as velvety as amaretto.
Today has changed from being the beginning of an exciting yoga weekend to being the start of a disappointing weekend. But I can’t let that happen. So I’m turning it into a writer’s weekend.
When I return to Room 408 I’ll crack the window in order to freshen the stale air that has a fetid base note of sour milk and pull on my jim-jams and wooly socks. I’ll crawl under the stiff sheets of my king sized bed and do what I never really had a chance to do over the holidays. Regroup.
Things happen for a reason. The Universe tricked me into this downtime. Thanks, Universe.