I’m getting my money’s worth from these free Yoga classes.

At a friend’s suggestion, I started going to yoga classes on St. Mark’s Place. The studio is “donation based”, which for someone on a budget like mine means “pretty much free”. I enjoy it. It smells like the checkout counter at Whole Foods, and the soothing sounds of ”Pure Moods” (which I tried to order from an infomercial when I was in the seventh grade) waft through the dimly lit studio.  I will never be flexible enough to do half the poses, but I take comfort in knowing that at least I will never look like that strange, fat girl in the sparkly-green American Apparel thong leotard. Jesus.

The problem with exercising is that I sweat, in un-ladylike amounts, and the problem with sweating is that it dirties my clothes ever so much faster. Typically, the number of days I wait between doing loads of laundry is more or less equal to the number of pairs of underwear I own, since that’s the only article of clothing that can’t really be Febreezed and recycled.  That has changed now. In this building, doing laundry is an event. Say what you will about the theatre programs here, but I think the best actors at NYU are the washing machines. They appear perfectly functional and innocent until you’ve dumped in your clothes and detergent, at which point they fill with murky water, gurgle, and give up entirely. (Assuming the machines dowork on some rare, celestial occasion, they only take “Campus Cash”. For months, I was convinced that the underlying purpose of campus cash was to provide a way for parents to give their children money that they knew wouldn’t be spent on weed or alcohol. Then I discovered a liquor store that accepts campus cash without question.  Clearly the employees are not concerned with the graduation year printed in giant, yellow numbers on the side of every card. Had I not been broke from the laundry room, I could have bought myself a nice box of wine.)

As I clumsily pulled wads of prissy, lacy underwear and a Nelly Furtado t-shirt out of the washer, I discovered the unique shame that comes from unloading one’s clothes in front of other people. You can assume a lot about someone by their clothes, and we often do. For example, when people leave their laundry in the dryers, they usually find their clothes in a heinously wrinkled pile several feet away, removed so someone else could use the same machine.  ”Wow, girl, you have a lot of fugly cardigans and conservative-looking American Eagle underwear.” I thought, as I did exactly that. “ I’m guessing we won’t be friends.” Another load in the dryer next to me was about 60% American Apparel glittery tights. “Shit, that girl from yoga lives in my building.” But no, a tall boy of questionable sexual orientation quickly and daintily collected his spandex, then left. The worst part of this entire process, though, is cleaning out the dryer filter. My hatred for lint is… pervasive, nay, ubiquitous. My towels are a hideously bright, honking yellow (purchased before I knew I had my own bathroom, in the hopes that no one would steal them), so whenever I dry them, I inevitably pull out multiple gobs of hairy, yellow fuzz.  It looks like I murdered Big Bird.

And after doing laundry here, there are only two things that can take the edge off: boxed wine and killing muppets. Maybe yoga, too. That’s one I haven’t tried.