So I cut out of Alexander Technique class early so I can arrive on time to my 12:30 pm Torah class.
I curse at other drivers on the road, particularly one guy ahed of mewho’s stopped and waiting for the opportunity to turn left over double yellow lines to enter a gas station.
As I charge down the I-10 East, I hear a pebble strike my windshield and I scream an expletive even though no damage has been done.
I rush into class and with one exception it’s all old people.
One man says about a woman in the class, "Her three kids are doctors!"
Such nachas.
A woman says one of her kids is a doctor.
Cell phones keep going off during the class and they get answered within earshot.
I long for the day that Torah Jews treat Torah with the same reverence that secular Jews treat yoga.
I wait around after class for the free lunch.
When I get back from the bathroom, I’m last in line. There are no plates.
"Do you want falafel, Luke?" asks a friend.
"Yes," I say.
He cuts the one remaining ball in half.
"Oh, that’s ok," I say and head out.
Once I’m out the door, I regret that I didn’t stay around to dig into the bountiful Israeli salad.
I feel sad but I have 20 minutes to get to therapy and eat my substitute lunch of chocolate chip granola bars and peanut butter. I’m scraping the bottom of the 40 oz Skippy Super Chunk peanut butter jar that’s been a two-day-a-week mainstay of my lunches on the run for the past six weeks.
