The touch doesn’t bother me. The fact that I need so much guidance and that my body is, like, completely unresponsive to everything I ask it to do—that part is annoying. I can’t even bend over all the way and touch my toes.
That was surprising. But I guess if you have no need to bend over and touch your toes all the time, you don’t check it out to make sure you still can.
For half a second it takes my mind off my current mental meltdown.
There are moments when my anxiety takes center stage in my life. There are moments when it completely consumes me. To an extent I actually agree with my dad, because why can’t I control my own head and why are my thoughts capable of destroying me?
All the worst-case scenarios for my missing portfolio are savagely attacking my brain with tiny pinpricks of panic.
For other people this might be a classic C’mon, guys, let’s retrace your steps moment, but for me it is a gigantic schism in my brain. Half of me knows that this can’t possibly be the worst thing to ever happen, and the other half is a rat fighting with a squirrel for a piece of cardboard covered in melted cheese.
Which is why I mostly attribute this and everything else that sucks in my life to bad luck.
And a curse that has plagued our family for years and was, until recently, the only distant connection I’ve had to Evey Paros.
Here’s the short version of the story:
My great-great-grandfather Stavros was a thief who made off with a lot of priceless heirlooms from the village we’re from. And he mostly got away with it.
Until he got caught. By Evey’s great-great-grandmother Evriklia, who noticed him stealing a small religious icon from their home. A tiny hand-painted portrait of Mary and Jesus in a gold frame.
Evriklia told everyone that he was a thief, but Stavros actually got the village to believe she was crazy—an old woman making things up.
So, naturally, she cursed him.
Looked him straight in the eye and said, “I hope you burn in hell. The devil can have you for the lies you’ve told.”
Then she spit on the ground at his feet. And he laughed. Laughed like a big stupid fucking idiot because he knew he’d gotten away with it, which seems insane because living with Yia Yia has made me kind of an expert on old Greek women—and when they say something, I believe them.
Anyway, the bastard died two weeks later in a fiery car crash. Not exactly hell, but there was definitely burning involved, and our family has never been the same since.
Thus, the beginning of the curse.
And it may have been more likely that Stavros died because he was not a great driver and the white mule he swerved to avoid had appeared quickly around a sharp corner, or so the story goes…but either way, our family has made a concerted effort to avoid lies and the Paros family ever since.
Unfortunately, bad luck has always found a way in, and anytime something went wrong in our house, Yia Yia would shake her fist to the ground and yell, “Ai gamisou re Stavro.”
Translation: Fuck Stavros.
If she was feeling particularly angry she’d call him “Koproskyla tou kerata.”
Shithound of the devil.
Which seems appropriate.
So, yes. Fuck Stavros. It has to be his fault that my portfolio is gone.
I continue to dwell on all the ways the missing portfolio could destroy my life, how all the photographs are out in the open for other people to see and judge and how I am nothing without them because, contrary to what my dad thinks, they are important.
Mom would have understood.
Having them out in the world without context is really terrifying.
Then yoga class ended and my exhausted body accepted fatigue.
Until Evey Paros came over to me and handed me a note that read:
I think I found something that belongs to you. Let’s talk about these photos. Grindz after class. But shower first.
Evey
So I could breathe again. Almost.
But the fear of losing my portfolio morphed into the fear that Evey had seen all my photos.
And also, what could she possibly want to talk about?
I know I have to keep writing in this thing because that’s what everyone else is doing on their mats, but I’m not sure how much of this is going to be about yoga, so I feel the need to apologize about that in advance.
Namaste,
Leo
6
Today’s Pose: ????
Some animal pose that looks like a squatting toad. I’m not paying attention, so naturally I fall a lot. But no worse than usual.
Dear Journal,
Today I am ignoring yoga. I am sorry.
It’s just that my mind is elsewhere. My focus is no longer in tune with my developing yogi spirit (okay, it was really never with my developing yogi spirit) because I’m still thinking about what it was like to have coffee with Evey Paros.
I told Dad I was going to meet up with some friends, and he didn’t question it, even though a huge bushy eyebrow was raised in my direction.
I’d never been to Grindz before, but I knew where it was. Everyone from school went there. Plus, it was two streets over from the gym.
When I got there, I realized I didn’t know what to order. I don’t drink coffee, so I opted for a juice and a cookie.
Evey came in about five minutes later, ordered a latte, and then walked over to my table as if she’d already noticed I was there. Even though I hadn’t seen her eyes flick toward me.
She held her coffee in her hand, and I set my cookie on the table with my glass of juice (some weird pear flavor) and then realized how stupid I looked by comparison.
She pulled out my portfolio, and I sighed with such deep relief that my whole body unclenched for a second.
But then she put her hand on top of it and pulled it back toward her.
I wasn’t exactly making it difficult for her to read my body language when I practically leaned forward to follow my portfolio across the table. She smirked a little as she opened it to start turning pages to the spots she’d marked with Post-it notes.
“These are good,” she said. “I could use something like this.” My chest lifted at her words. I started to form a question, but I didn’t even get the words out of my mouth before she spoke again. “I think your photography might be the perfect way to get back at my ex-boyfriend.”