by Angela Kempe
I should have known better than to trust a Neurologist. Especially a Neurologist who was an hour late. But the transaction had been made like a bad Mexican drug deal and so I sat there contemplating my options in the midst of the sea of strangers. Headache so bad I could potentially pass out if I were to try to take the yoga class as I was. Or reach into my purse and pull out yet another drug. An untested drug, when this one had already put me into such a wonderfully mixed state of side effects.
The teacher entered the room. My hands rushed for my purse and pulled out a blue plastic case. Already, it didn’t look quite right. People might wonder. My fingers dug into the thin crease and pressed it open. Pain shot up my neck. I closed my eyes, taking in a deep yogic breath so I wouldn’t pass out before I’d get the package open.
The plastic case revealed three thin paper wrappers holding one dissolvable tablet each. I glanced around the room. Pooey to doctors and their weird medications! But if it helped me not faint then I’d take something that looked like acid. I tore open the package and popped out the pill, placing the white round thing on my tongue.
As the pill melted in my mouth, the lights dimmed and the music turned on.
“This is not a Yoga class. This is an experience.”
“This is an experience alright.”
My face became numb from cheek to cheek, and I couldn’t feel any of my body. Realizing that I was doing downward dog effortlessly, I became almost afraid of myself in the dark. My body bounded, flopped, and contorted.
I was tripping…
The music pounded in my ears. The two medications the Neurologist had given me had mingled into a cocktail of yoga madness. I was dancing in the back of a Volkswagen van during a long rendition of a Jim Morrison jam session.
Stretching. Breathing. Flowing. Knowing. Only one thing for sure. I still had my headache and I would be sore tomorrow.