That Little Tchotchke Is Me.

Who is this man and, more importantly, what in the world does his forlorn looking face have to do with yoga?

I discovered this pensive, sea-faring man while trapped for 18 hours at a quaint little bed and breakfast; an experience that taught me a valuable lesson. I use the word “quaint” to describe the place as that is the term the owners use to market an evening or two spent in their historic abode. I learned early on that I don’t do quaint very well, nor do I prefer a bed and breakfast experience. I certainly do not prefer a rather unromantic, outhouse-like wooden toilet seat or a bathroom so cramped that the door slammed into my bony kneecaps each time I attempted to feebly grasp at some semblance of privacy. I also do not prefer a lodging so antiquated that the electricity flickered on and off while I was showering, leaving me fearful that I might carve haphazard designs and riot slogans all over my legs trying to shave in complete darkness.

This particular lodging was owned by a lovely married couple; nothing unusual about that. The first unusual occurrence was the way the wife greeted me at the door. She hesitantly creaked the front door open to ensure (with her suspicious, probing eyes) that I was not some common vagrant off the street or, worse, some maniacal stranger with criminal intent. It was as if she was surprised to be open for business. I had to explain who I was several times before she felt comfortable enough to leave the security of her foyer and join me outside. Nevermind that it was broad daylight, there were plenty of windows to peer at me through, and I arrived at the exact predetermined hour and minute that I promised, donning the exact physical appearance that had previously been supplied to her. (Note: Great care was taken to provide this information as, when my mother called earlier in the day to inquire about the check-in time for our party, the woman told her, “My husband and I like to go out in the evenings and have dinner. We have a life you know.” Interesting attempt at customer service.)

She proceeded then to engage in frivolous banter and small-talk as I baked a bit in the hot sun before finally agreeing to show me the door code so that I could let myself in and out. She demonstrated this seemingly innocuous procedure for me two times, just in case (and her eyes told me this), I was too dumb to get it right the first time. I was then astounded to hear her say, “Okay, Suzann, now let me see you demonstrate it for me,” as she allowed the front door to close and nodded her head condescendingly.

Naturally, still feeling like a grown-up, I thought she was kidding; until I realized that she was staring me down, silently, waiting for me to do as I was told. Nimbly, I punched in the code and turned the knob. Success. Guess I’m not so dumb after all.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t done with me yet. There were a myriad of rules and guidelines to follow. I listened intently as she took me on an instructional, theme park-like tour of the entire bed and breakfast. Proudly, she informed me that I was welcome to the beer and wine in the refrigerator; however, she failed to inform me where the refrigerator was located. I could have actually used a drink. She glided past the sitting room where I was welcome to sit and relax – as if relaxation was an option at that point. I was afraid to make myself too comfortable anywhere after her overly cautious approach to the front door how-to and the unambiguously labeled wash-cloths in my room specifically warning, “Do Not Wash Face With These!” She saved the best for last – doilies draped over every table, wooden rabbits, cutesy little baskets laden with dust, a random chess game awaiting players, flowery pastel over-sized armchairs, and my room – so full of trinkets, items, and mismatched picture frames I felt like, if ebay had a physical store, I just walked into it. Only, this time, not every item had a price!

Breakfast, she instructed me, would be served promptly (her eyebrows implied the “promptly”) at 9am and the tables were certain to be fully occupied by the other guests, as all rooms were sold out. I immediately lost my future appetite. That’s when I realized what I dislike about bed and breakfasts – forced socialization.

For most people, each workday is a bombardment of questions, problems, and conversations. Each evening involves phone calls, social events, networking, and family time. Each weekend is a frantic buzz of friends, family, errand running, and socializing. When I leave town for a vacation, the last thing I want is to spend my nights feeling like I’m back living in my parents’ house with the pressure and stress of making small-talk with strangers the next morning at a time of someone else’s choosing on top of it. I don’t like forced socialization. I get enough of it each and every day.

One of the things that makes online social networking and blogging so appealing is the fact that we are in control of it. We can decide who we communicate with and when. We can establish our own rules and guidelines for interaction, without having them dictated for us.

One of the things that makes yoga so appealing is that it is a conversation we have with ourselves. Our inner voice is all we need to make a meaningful and beautiful connection to spirit; using nothing more than our own breath.

That little tchotchke was on the rather over-crowded shelf in my room at the bed and breakfast. When I saw him, sad eyes peering out from behind that hollowed out tooth-looking thing, I knew that he felt the way I did. That little tchotchke was me. Just wanting to be quiet for a while. Just wanting to be left to myself for a while. Just wanting to be freed from the shell of my physical constraints for a little while, the way I do when I’m immersed in my yoga practice. Although I’ve never been trapped inside a huge tooth before, I knew how he felt.

In the morning, when I slinked past the congested breakfast tables abuzz with the clinking of silverware and nervous fidgeting and chattering of strangers forced to engage in frivolous banter with one another, I wished I had shoved the fisherman in my duffle bag and taken him with me. I wished he could feel as free as I did as I obediently punched in the door code to the front door to release myself from the prison of forced socialization and drove my own climate-controlled, doily-free vehicle down the highway of my choosing.