Centering.

I strike the match against the worn strip. There’s a gentle spark and an acrid smell fills my nostrils, but no flame.  It’s dark but as I readjust my grip, I can feel the swirling lines on the side of the glass. I remember when I first saw a photo on Instagram. What did they call it? A match cloche. I decided that I needed it. I distinctly recall peeling away the bubble wrap and instantly placing it atop my dresser. So elegant. It looked like a translucent gift. A rounded top and cinched bottom. Or a piece of candy half opened.

I’ve always lit matches by folding the matchbook and dragging the match through the comb. Papa Fred taught me that, a cigar smoker until the end. I wasn’t abandoning my roots, this fire-starting origin story. I was just finding something that better suited who I want to be. A woman with overpriced, cleverly named, small-batch candles made in Bed-Stuy or Williamsburg that she lights with a long match pulled from the belly of a match cloche. That’s who I was and so, I needed one. And so, I got one.

The pads of my fingers press into the glass ridges, and I try again. This time with conviction. The match bursts into flame and for a moment. I feel accomplished, as if this is a feat to be commended for or a reason to celebrate. Ladies and gentlemen, she can light a match. Can I get an A-MEN?

I place the cloche back on the rough top of the dresser and lift the candle, pressing the flame to the half-charred wick. This candle is likely made by a woman and she donates a portion of her proceeds to charity and the label boasts some witty descriptor and it smells like sandalwood and maybe patchouli and also, rose. Not your grandmother’s vintage, old-fashioned rose. No. The kind of rose that celebrates individuality and uber-feminine blouses and perfectly stacked dainty gold necklaces tucked into well-moisturized décolleté.

I set the lit candle down on the dresser next to the cloche and have a moment admiring the flame reflecting off its curves.  I’m spacing out, sort of. But purposefully. I am deliberate in my desire to zone out on this scene I’ve created.

I step back, floor creaking under my bare feet and walk to the mat I’ve lain on the floor. Actually, it’s three mats. Two for my arthritic knee and one for the wretched human downstairs who claims my movement is unbearable. I find this accusation laughable but also, incredibly unfunny.

The mats are stacked on top of one of my prized possessions. A rug I purchased in East Hampton when I was 26, fifteen years ago. I bought it at Calypso. I barely had spare funds in those days, but as soon as I saw it, draped over a display ladder, I knew it would be the focal point of my apartment. Stripes of taupe and cream, with the thinnest threads woven throughout. Crimson red and the blackest navy. And then, the coup de gras, flat, silver sequins the size of dimes, sprinkled here and there. No pattern. No reason. Carelessly tossed confetti. A magic carpet. I wouldn’t socialize for three months, but I knew it belonged with me.

I had it cleaned once. I made Alfredo swear to me that my rug would be treated with kid-gloves. I made him promise it would come out on the other side of said cleaning unscathed. Perfect. Just brighter. I held my breath for six days. He delivered on his promise. I don’t know if I’ll ever do it again. Maybe one day.

I sink down in easy seat at the back of my mats, legs gently crossed, spine pin straight. I close my eyes and allow my chin to drop into my chest. I reach my hands up and unbind my hair, allow curls to fall heavy on my shoulders and down my back. R+Co shampoo and fresh air. I allow my hands to come to rest on my knees. I feel the warmth of my palms and fingers through the thin spandex of my tights.

I begin my pranayama. Focused breath. I pull a deep breath in through my nose, and release the same through my parted lips. In the quiet I give myself room to explore everything. The mucus coating my right nostril, causing a slight rattle. A hiccup of breath. My chapped lips, peeling and dry. I have pots of finger-dented lip balm scattered everywhere, but it’s no use. I run in the cold all winter and, I’m a mouth breather. My slumber is like that of a stuffy child.

I feel the tension of work stress alighting my shoulders and too little sleep gnawing at my lower back. My eyes are stinging behind closed lids and without reaching down, I’m aware of the thick callouses on my big toes and heels. More collateral damage from my need for persistent road time.

My eyes flutter as my mind drifts back to the morning. Dark, quiet streets. Barely evidence of life, living, engagement. Street lights cast nightmarish shadows through bare tree branches and onto the sidewalks. I run in the street mostly. The sidewalks are noticeably darker and treacherous, with broken bits and pieces. Cavernous holes and stray recycling.

I wear oversized American Eagle sweats pulled well above my belly button and an old thermal, a packable unrecognizably branded down jacket purchased off Amazon, and a knit hat that I was gifted at a 5K I ran a few winters ago. My wool neck warmer reeks of sweat and wet wool and my Dri-Fit gloves are arguably the most expensive running gear I own.

I only wear one ear bud for safety, but often wonder if that means I’ll lose my hearing quicker in that ear. Maybe I should rotate. Should I rotate? Would that make a difference? Hearing loss runs rife through my family, on all sides. It’s inevitable. Like becoming surly and unfiltered. If I’m honest, I do look forward to that last part. Oh, to not care. What a joy. Sorry I’m saying shit that offends you. I can’t help it. It’s age. I’ve earned the right to be a dick. I’ve paid my dues; in politeness and patience and all the other things one has to do. And now, I’ll tell you how I really feel in the most blasé and unapologetic fashion I can muster. Sorry, not sorry.

x

L.