It's a raining day in Brooklyn, and after waking up a little too late and moving slowly around the house, I finally got myself out the door and on my way to the ceramics studio. I've been taking a wheel class at the Painted Pot since January. Hidden in the basement, under a store-front filled with screaming children making ceramics ashtrays, is my secret zone of zen. On the weekend when I usually go, I have to walk through a gauntlet of birthday balloons, traumatized children and crazed looking parents. Today I walked in and it was deserted. Oh, peace.
When I got downstairs to the basement studio there were a couple other middle-aged ladies (like me) busy at work on their wheels. There's a sort of unsaid understanding down there that this is everyone's special time... that this shit is better than yoga. I set myself up at my usual spot, and started to wedge my clay.
And then it started. The woman across from me, who I now notice is wearing a blue-tooth in her ear, takes a call. And she starts talking. And talking. She's giving some seriously personal, loud advice. So personal that it crossed my mind that she might be a part of the psychic network. Nobody says a word or even exchanges a glance, but I know this has to be disturbing everyone. This is our special place, god damn it!
Our friend talks for over 45 minutes, at one point actually taking a second call.
And then I realize that I'm letting this lady ruin my special happy place. In a city like New York, it's so easy to spend your entire time being annoyed by other people. Riding the subway, getting honked at, someone actually shoved me the other day on 5th Ave. But you can't let it get to you because if you do, you'll go crazy.
After she had left, I spent an amazing 3 hours throwing tiny little clay marbles while the German woman across from me played some hilarious polka music. It was awesome.