by Buffy McCoy Kelly

HONORABLE MENTION — NYC Midnight 17th Annual Short Story Challenge 2023 (97-Sci-Fi/Blackmail/A canyoneer)

As usual, it started as a warm sickening squeeze inside Lem’s stomach, a fluttering just behind their hump. The warmth turned to burning, the burning to sizzling, the sizzling to a moment of black. As Lem dangled in the ropes high above the canyon floor, chest locked and breath ragged, they rocked rhythmically against the rock pitch and waited for the seizure to pass. It would be over in a moment, the brevity making it easier to hide from Asa. The final surge burned a hole through the toe of their Converse, the edges hot and crisp. With gritted teeth, Lem opened their eyes.

They adjusted the harness, tucking their third arm behind their back to take a deeper breath. The arm was a moist dead lump, hanging uselessly under Lem’s right armpit. With a painful crackle, the arm discharged what felt like a deep pustule of anguish, washing over Lem — a punctuation to the episode. It was impossible to know when the seizures might happen or which random stored emotions they would exhume. The anguish released this time was fresh; the arm had stored it only a few weeks ago when a girl at the camps had looked at Lem’s misshapen body, then quickly looked away in disgust. It was a tiny moment that most humans may not have noticed, but the arm felt it and kept it.

Since their mother’s death, the episodes and the radiation surges they generated had become more powerful. Lem’s short life was marked by inconvenient and unforgiving assaults, sometimes blissful, other times the darkest grief.

The purple water reflected neon on beautiful Asa’s eyes as she looked up, guiding the belay from the gorge floor. Two arms, two legs, beautiful head. Exactly as a human should be.

“I’m waiting.” The anger rose in her voice. Lem knew it would be coming. When she was dosing, the chemical emotions were unpredictable and intense.

“Sorry, sorry.” The apology bounced and echoed against the rocks, the quiver in Lem’s voice noticeable. Sorry, sorry.

“You’re fortunate I tolerate you,” Asa spat mechanically, her perfect teeth like perfect pearls.

“You don’t have to come next time; I can carry it up. I promise.” Lem dreaded what they knew the rest of the evening would hold.

“You are a wasted life-form and a burden. Go faster; I am done waiting.” The coldness of her answer settled into the arm lump, where it would remain indefinitely.

Asa was the only being Lem could remember who had not been immediately repulsed by them. She had stood at a distance, her eyes moving over their unfortunate body, examining the extra fingers and unusable gill. There was almost a softness (compassion?) at first, a response that was new and special to Lem. The arm hoarded the feeling, as well as the prickle of threat that came quickly after, like an animal when a predator is near.

Their acquaintance had begun when Asa came upon Lem carving an eye from a fresh body in the Pile.

“If I turn you in, you will hope for death quickly,” she had chirped, the shutter of her photographic retina clicking audibly, recording the crime. Raiding human meat was punishable by death. When they tried to escape, she had easily overtaken them, filching the contents of Lem’s sack for herself. Many cyborgs dosed on illegal human meat, the high it produced allowing them to “feel” emotions. The eye meats had the highest street value and would move quickly among Asa’s customers.

Asa had gazed at Lem as she pulled her hand back from their trachea, the dose she was on making her seem almost kind. She had taken a pinch of the black, runny wad she held in her jaw mechanism and pushed it into Lem’s mouth. Their trembling stopped almost instantly, quickly followed by a crushing dark veil, the days of which were unknown.

When Lem had come to in a bitter-tasting stupor, Asa stood over them lovingly (treacherously?) cooing, “Sweet child has trouble. But I will help.” There had been a pause, something most humans might have overlooked. She had stroked the small patch of hair on Lem’s head, lowing and purring, the feast of affection a balm to Lem’s broken heart.

It had been a long time since then, and Asa kept the information of Lem’s crime as a handy ax to sharpen when she saw fit.

“What do you think they would do to you if they found out about you?” she said as she ground her foot into Lem’s hump and screamed, her beautiful face turning monstrous. They had learned that if they just lay very still, soon her screaming would come to an end. It always passed, and life, such as it was, went on, Lem’s secret remaining safe. At least they were not alone in the world any longer.

• • •

On today’s trek through the gorge, Asa moved in sweeping strides while Lem ran behind at a painful, choppy trot. Originally programmed as a canyon guide for adventure tourists, Asa moved with balletic ease over the rough terrain. Lem tried not to breathe loudly as they climbed over the debris and moved toward the Pile. The gear was heavy, and it cut into their exposed lung like a finely sharpened razor blade. By the time they reached the Pile, they were heaving for oxygen, a taste of vomit in their throat.

The Pile was fresh. Asa scanned discerningly, rolling a torso over with her boot embossment.

“Work quickly.” She threw the pack at Lem and turned away. Her back was perfectly straight, her legs long and the same length.

Lem started toward the heap of human meats when Asa called to them.

“Child.”

Lem turned, head down for what may come next.

“I lovelove you.”

It was a glitch that caused the unnatural word to be tumbled and repeated like a skip on a record. A milky warm sensation of relief and tenderness moved through Lem. They hid the quivering of their lip and absorbed the idea of being loved. Metallic scraps could be enough.

Lem kept the feeling close as they crawled through the suffocating heap to harvest the usable portions. If there were enough eyes, maybe she would not call for the heavier meats, which would be nearly impossible to carry back up through the gorge terrain. They scooped carefully, so as not to damage the roots.

Another wave began. The nauseous crackling vibrated and wept in the deepest pockets inside Lem’s gut. They laid the spoon aside and clenched their hands into fists, careful not to touch the meat until it passed. Lem’s breath came in jagged, ripping stabs as they rode the heave of the contraction until all that was left was a sick feeling and two burnt fingertips that glowed hot like cigarette cherries. A beautiful wash of feeling came next, the memory of when Asa had surprised Lem with a found baby blanket. This feeling left a sweet taste in their mouth, eliciting a soft smile before it slid away like a wave on the beach.

The confident click of an X-3mP cocked somewhere near Lem’s head burst the glittering moment.

“STEP OUT.” The patrol cyborg and his crew crept from west of the Pile almost silently, weapons aimed and ready.

“STEP OUT OR BE DEACTIVATED.”

“It belongs to me,” Asa said with wasted authority. She was on the ground, a patrol borg holding her in the dirt while another trained his weapon near her head. Her voice was watery and high; she had dosed again after she sent Lem into the Pile. She was useless against them, weak and dreamy, the way the doses always hit at the beginning of a trip. Lem felt ashamed for her, wishing she could be rescued.

“CYBORG: YOU WILL BE DISMANTLED.” The patrol captain signaled the crew borgs who immediately began unpacking their kit, drawing out rotary surgical saws and stainless catch basins.

“IT IS HUMAN.” Asa’s mouth was filled with dirt as she revealed Lem to the cyborgs. They stopped what they were doing at the sound of the word.

“Human.” The captain’s clean lines seemed to sharpen at the realization. He grabbed Lem by the leg, pulling them out onto the ground next to Asa, where he could examine the lumpy body, turning them this way and that.

“The meat is fresh.” The captain signaled to the crew.

“I’LL GIVE THAT ONE TO YOU.” Asa didn’t hesitate.

“For a share of its meat, and I will also give you others.” She kept eye contact with Lem as she betrayed them. Lem felt the world fall away, a bottomless vortex opening beneath them. Suddenly they were taken back to the moment when their mother died. Her brain had been irreversibly damaged from the dosing. They had hidden from her when she came with a knife, her eyes empty and glazed with the lack of recognition in her stupor. The seizure that came had been powerful, marking the beginning of their change.

Lem was wrecked with confusion and grief. They did everything Asa had commanded. What did they do wrong? The tears flooded in retched sobs.

The seizure that came next was a furious electrocution of pain, a ferocious clamping that would leave Lem’s tongue bitten in half. The wave traveled outward, the drawback gathering its strength for the tsunami that would hurdle through Lem.

It crashed down swift and sure, thunderously crushing everything inside Lem. And then, like falling over a cliff, the contraction began to release. Gasping for a breath with the taste of blood and dirt in their mouth, Lem used all their remaining strength to lift their arm over Asa, who lay on the ground beside them. The dead arm first, and then the good arms, wrapping Asa in an embrace. With the borgs holding her down, she couldn’t stop Lem from touching her this time. The contact was full and complete.

The burning surge exploded through Lem in one clean arc. As Asa’s circuitry fried, she felt a universe of love, the kind only a mother and child can share. Her eyes widened as an unconditional, unimaginable longing and connection coursed through her mechanisms.

In that moment, Lem was loved.

The surge was swift and strong, Asa’s transistors seized and locked, the smell of melting conduits inside her chassis filling the air. She let out a small hissing sound, akin to steam at boiling point. A single glitched word escaped her mouth hole, “Lovelove.”

Lem held tighter to the disintegrating form, the dead arm burnt, but filled with profound love. Lem closed their eyes, safe and comforted.

Behind them, the sound of the cyborgs’ saws grew louder as they approached, the oscillating whir echoing against the rock face of the gorge, a glitch repeating in an endless loop.

© 2023, Buffy McCoy Kelly, all rights reserved

Thank you to Authority Magazine for the interview! 🙏🏻

“Some people look nice and pleasant when their face is in a neutral position. I’m not one of them. Instead, I’ve got what’s known as RBF, or “resting b***h face.” I blame my family’s DNA, which includes heavy eyelids and flat-line mouths accentuated by big fat lips. We are a serious-looking bunch who appear to be pissed off a lot and are often accused of having lip injections. Neither is true.

Thanks to a silver lining of the pandemic — Zoom meetings — I have had the fascinating opportunity to see firsthand what my face looks like while I’m interacting with my team. Everybody knows that Zoom has created a weird bubble for people to talk to each other while being completely mesmerized by watching themselves. Thanks to this strange vanity/narcissism/curiosity byproduct of video conferencing, for the first time in my 24-year career I have literally come face to face with my RBF. This new development has prompted me to ask myself, “Am I projecting what I want to be projecting? Can I do better? Do I actually look that annoyed?”

I’m into self-improvement, and this Zoom thing seemed to be rife with opportunity. It provided proof that my teammates’ questions after meetings, “Are you mad?” and “What’s wrong?” had some merit. It gave me hours upon hours of video conference screen time to analyze and collect data. But most importantly, it provided me with a whole new viewpoint and a whole new way to up my game in how I interact with others.

Along with being a CEO and business owner, I’m also a dedicated yoga practitioner and teacher. This practice has given me a chance to learn about “the mirror of Dharma,” a teaching that explores the idea of looking inward to find the root cause of all suffering — and that others are mirrors, serving up reflections for the things we may need to work on for ourselves. “Your perception of me is a reflection of you. My reaction to you is an awareness of me.” I’ve read this rebus of a quote (author unknown) many times, and my RBF experiment seemed like a great time to really truly understand it.

I began with the easy stuff, the exterior variables. I reviewed Zoom environments for extracting my happiest look. Back porch? Evel Knievel artwork in the craft room? The fridge covered in pix of kids and speeding tickets? I stacked a bunch of magazines to prop up my computer, correcting the angle capturing my chin(s). I blocked and sound-checked. I researched ring lights, filters, fake backgrounds, camera mounts. There were plenty of ways to dress up and sugar-coat my Zoom appearance. But I knew this was going to be an inside job.

As I dug into the topic, I didn’t find kinship in my excitement about the growth opportunities available from staring at oneself on Zoom. Instead, I found a good bit of information online from women who had a whole different view (pun not really intended, but kind of cool). I read about the ruination of self-esteem, outbreaks of facial dysmorphic-thinking, nightmares about enlarged pores, uneven nostrils, and singular chin hairs. It was sobering to learn how this same technology that was propelling me toward an exciting transformative process was simultaneously cultivating self-doubt and anxiety for others. I wondered how my team and clients were feeling and made a mental note to offer audio-only or phone calls when possible.

The Internet told me that it takes fewer muscles to look happy than it does to look pissed off. Apparently, I’ve been wasting energy without even knowing it. This seemed like a pretty easy adjustment, and I like exercise, so I downloaded a face exercise app. I pulled out the Gua Sha tools my mother put in my Christmas stocking a few years ago. I learned about facial pressure points and lymphatic drainage. I jade-rolled. I moisturized. I found that people look at you funny when you’re doing cheek push-up exercises while stopped at red lights. I took my “happy resting face” training regime very seriously, but only when I wasn’t laughing at myself.

But most of all, I became much more aware. I took full advantage of having to stare at my own face so much. I made it a point to smile, on purpose, for no good reason at all.

In a culture where we celebrate authenticity in all its forms, some say, “Why the heck do you care? If you feel happy, that’s what matters. If people don’t like it, F-em!” I’m all about being true to myself, but I’m also all about owning and taking responsibility for the energy I create and the effect it has on others. I am very inspired by the profound power we have to affect each other, just by the look on our faces. With so much anxiety all around in the midst of this pandemic, looking for happiness to share and making the effort to smile are easy ways to spread positivity and to let others know, “Hey, we’ve got this!”

I’m delighted to say that what began as a pandemic experiment has turned into a habit. I now find myself smiling more often than before, and being conscious of at least trying to not look pissed off. We are mirrors to one another, and when we put out positive energy, or make an effort to show happiness and contentment on our faces, we’ll see more of that reflected back to us from others. Positivity behaves like a virus, which seems pretty fitting for a pandemic. Thank you, Zoom, for making me look at myself. And readers — you can’t see me, but I’m smiling at you right now.”

Buffy McCoy Kelly

She hadn’t invited Them, didn’t want Them there, yet They showed up anyway. That’s the way it was with People like that, thinking that “family” means you’ve got a free pass to come around.

The half hour stretched long, counted down in loud ticks by the living room grandfather clock. Now, here she was, having to bleach the dishes and the toilets. With staccato steps, she carried the tub of scalding water across the floor, waxed to treacherously slick conditions.

She placed the tub carefully on the 30-yr-old Formica countertop, the gold diamond and swirl pattern long ago scrubbed away in faded round patches the size of dough rolled out for biscuit-cutting. One by one, she placed the plates and mugs into the water, followed by the paper-thin forks and spoons, pitted from decades of neighbors, church members, and God-knows-how-many family members dragging their teeth on the tines.

A wave of relief spread over her once all the items were completely submerged. A little more bleach, just to be sure. Leaning her head over the steaming plastic tub, she took a deep inhale. The fumes immediately wrenched tears from her eyes and charred her nostrils. She closed her eyes and imagined crawling, slithering, rancid, rotten filth and sin being eaten away by the bleach. She felt better already.

The clock ticked importantly, measuring off the afternoon in exact pieces. Its sounds hung in the still air around the perfectly dressed table, the shining doorknobs leading to uninhabited rooms, the crackling plastic trussed tightly around the sofa. The house — her immaculate domain — sat quietly in submission around her.

She adjusted her hair net , wiped her eyes, and decided to take some air on the porch while the dishes soaked. She padded through the house with authority, and stopped momentarily, irritated by the indentations left on the couch cushions by Those People. The couch would now have to be taken apart and washed, she thought with disgust.

She moved the two tightly rolled rugs away from the bottom of the door and peeled back one side of the plastic taped in place, and made her way to the porch. Head high and arms crossed, she perched on the metal glider.

Crickets ratcheted from somewhere over the creek bank, and one of Steward’s hound dogs bellowed far off up the hill. She quietly crackled with irritation at all the work she would now have to do because of Them. Back and forth, back and forth, she rocked the glider in quick, confident jerks. She scanned her property, an expanse of green, met on all sides by angry hills. The trees gnarled the hillside, grown twisted from fighting for what sun they could get.

The driveway would have to be swept and hosed down now, that was a given. It was no telling what They tracked in.

She stared off down the tiny one-lane road filled with bumps and holes, spirally down the hill in corkscrew turns. A stray cat slithered by the tree line, where the dark woods met the last sun on the yard. She brought the glider to an abrupt halt and pinched her mouth into a tight knot, drawing a bead on the cat as it disappeared into the dark. She sucked a wheat germ hull out of her dentures and reconnoitered the woods. Yes, there was a lot that was going to need to get done.

all rights reserved, Buffy McCoy Kelly, 2016

Originally published by Talentzoo.com, and republished by Charlotteagenda.com

The process of shopping your book and interviewing for your first job is exciting. It’s exhilarating. It’s like navigating your way through a booby-trapped mine field with one leg tied behind your back.

Having a decent book is not enough.

You’ve got to have mojo, good manners, and curb appeal. If you want to increase your chances for leaving a great impression and getting the job, here are few points to consider.

Your shoes are saying nasty things about you.
What you wear says a mouthful about you. Malcolm Gladwell noted that a potential employer can learn more in a 15-minute visit to a candidate’s home than through a series of interviews. Since CD’s usually don’t snoop through your apartment, they’re more likely to judge who you are by your presentation. I like to ask candidates to wear something to the interview that communicates about them, creatively. Think of it this way: You are your own brand. And you have the opportunity to sit across the table from your target audience. Everything communicates. How are you going to package yourself? Take pride in your shoes. Get a manicure. Clean your teeth. And ladies, what you wear to the interview is the same as creating an effective communication piece — too much information is not a good idea.

Do some reconnaissance.
Know absolutely everything you can about the place you’re interviewing, and about the person interviewing you. Start by Googling. Carefully review the agency’s website. While I think this seems ridiculously obvious, it’s interesting how many candidates don’t actually do this. If case studies are posted, read them. Fully digest the work, and remember who the clients are. The news section of any agency website is a gold mine. You can find out what accomplishments the agency may currently be proud of. Being well versed shows your true interest in the agency, and person, you’re interviewing with. It shows that you do your homework. You’re about to enter an extraordinarily information- and ego-driven world. Opportunity favors the prepared.

Have a life.
I ask candidates to bring something that demonstrates their creativity outside of the ad world. Short stories, screenplays, paintings, stand-up comedy — whatever you do, there is a place for it in your creative representation. Interesting people always have higher currency. If you’re not interesting — I would suggest fixing it. I interviewed a copywriter just a few days ago, and 20 minutes of the interview was spent with me on drums, the CCO on bass, and the candidate on guitar. It didn’t say a lot about his writing ability and the music certainly wasn’t good. But someone who is spontaneous, interesting, fun, and adaptable, as well as having a nice book, was exactly what we were looking for. Yes, he got the job.

Write thank you notes.
According to Emily Post, proper business etiquette calls for a thank you note sent on the day of the interview — for every interview, not just the ones you liked the most. I received my first set of engraved note cards and sealing wax when I was seven years old. I also learned how to curtsy correctly. While I haven’t found much use for curtsies in the advertising world, I have certainly applied the value of a personal, handwritten note. Simply stated, a note is a gift. It is the embodiment of thoughtfulness and respect, captured with a pen. On paper. (You’ll notice I didn’t say anything about typing and hitting the send button.) Like most CD’s, I’ve given a good bit of time to portfolio reviews, phone interviews, and meetings with potential candidates. Sadly, over the past year I’ve received a proper thank you note from only one person. I did get a typewritten half-paragraph from another candidate, but since it was addressed to the entire agency, I dismissed it.

Everyone has genitalia. Everyone also has a brain. Why not show work that focuses on the latter?
When I was in ad school, one instructor devoted an hour of class to, as she put it, “(not a very nice word for male body part) jokes.” “Do them now,” she advised. “Get them out of your system. Trust me, the sooner you can get beyond it, the better.” When I review portfolios today, I file a mental X on the ones containing work that stopped at waist-level. The ad industry seems to be at capacity for butt crack, boobs, and poo-poo references. Smart is the new cool, in my opinion. If you must fill your book with allusions and innuendo, please– make it toward something cerebral.

It’s tough to make a good impression when your breath smells like a dead groundhog.
A slice of lemon squeezed into a glass of water is fabulous for killing bacteria that cause halitosis. A Listerine strip works well, too, and fits in your pocket.

I once interviewed an unfortunate young man who told me I was a “peach.” I did not hire him.
On your quest for a job, you’re likely to encounter many wonderful Creative Directors. Some could be so great that they make you feel comfortable enough to put your feet up on the desk. Do yourself a favor, and don’t. No matter what, your interviewer is not a sugar, baby, honey, muchacho, or your brother from another mother. Be friendly, but it’s a good rule of thumb to remember that your interviewer is not your peer or your new buddy. (And if you’re smart, you’ll keep it that way after you get the job.)

You’ve invested blood, sweat, and tears into your book. You’ve agonized over which pieces to include, and how best to package it. To be certain, it’s what will ultimately be the key to your success. But it’s equally important to make sure the indelible impression you leave on your interviewer is purely about your work and your charisma. And not because you had a hair sticking out of your nose, you didn’t know their clients, or because of that chunk of spinach in your teeth.

Good luck!

Buffy McCoy Kelly, President of Charlotte ad agency Tattoo Projects (winner of Advertising Age’s Small Ad Agencies of the Year)

all rights reserved, Buffy McCoy Kelly, 2015

originally published by Yoganonymous.com, July 2016)

You did it: you’ve started a yoga practice. You’ve heard everybody and their brother talking about it — friends’ friends, the babysitter, and even your 76-year-old aunt have gotten into yoga. So you said, “What the Heck? I’ll give it a shot.” And here you are, embarking on a really cool new adventure. Being new to anything is both exhilarating and a little crazy, and there’s a lot you don’t know yet. To help you navigate the practice and etiquette of yoga, here are some of my top tips for yoga newbs (and not-so-newbs).

You will not be kicked out of a yoga class for wearing socks, a Hanes t-shirt, and 1970’s sweat bands.

Newsflash: Americans are a nation of consumers — materialistic achievers who really like to have their “stuff.” Yoga has not been immune to this mindset; hence, the giant success of brands like LuLu Lemon. Nothing made me sadder than the time I overheard some moms talking while waiting to pick up their kids, when one of them said, “I’d really like to try a yoga class, but I don’t have the clothes. And if I did, everybody would run the other way if they saw me in yoga pants!!” People — I’m going to write this in all capital letters because it is so important: IT DOES NOT MATTER WHAT YOU WEAR TO YOGA! Yes, you will see people decked out in matching ensembles, with the latest water bottle, mat, headband, and a monogrammed sweat rag. If that’s what it takes to get them off the couch and into a down dog, then great! But what you wear and how you wear it is a personal choice. The only thing that matters is that you’re rolling out your mat (or towel, or just using the floor), and practicing yoga. There are no fashion police in yoga. In fact, the traditional garb worn by the Indian men practicing yoga very closely resembles a giant white diaper. Even today, those studying Iyengar yoga often wear traditional Pune bloomers, which look a lot like a huge diaper cover. Hey, if they can wear that stuff, you can wear whatever the heck you want to yoga. I am known to practice in mismatched random get-ups in the studio, and my husband’s boxer shorts at home when the mood strikes, god help us. And guess what: nobody cares. Throughout my years of practice, I’ve developed a well-rounded squad of makeup-less, sweaty, ponytailed friends who know and love me for what’s on the inside — not for what brand of yoga pants I’m rocking. Yoga simply doesn’t care what you wear or look like, and neither do true yogis. So throw on some socks, if that’s what floats your boat, and get yourself to class.

Make like Darth Vadar and breathe.

The room is packed and steamy, music fills the air, the teacher is very nonchalantly telling you to lift your leg over your head, look at your butt, and wrap one arm behind your back — and to breathe. Breathe-?! You’re thinking, WHAT?! You’re just trying to make it through the twisting, turning, and balancing without falling on your face. Breathing is about the last thing on your mind. No matter how many times the teacher cues inhaling and exhaling, many newer yoga students simply don’t think this is for them. In fact, many view breathwork as the gravy on top of the yoga practice. They get so caught up with executing poses that they nearly skip the breathing altogether, deteriorating into panting and puffing wherever it conveniently fits in.

I’m sure you’ve heard your teachers tell you that breathing is the most fundamental component of your yoga practice. They’re not lying. Here’s the deal: when you focus on cultivating and controlling your breath, your breathing shifts from the medulla oblongata to the cerebral cortex (the evolved part of the brain). This controlled, steady breath allows thoughts and emotions to be bypassed — so you can experience focus and calm awareness. If you do NOTHING else in your yoga classes, take your teacher’s advice and breathe. There’s nothing more powerful than audible breath in a yoga class, the sound of a sea of focus and calm inhaling and exhaling like the rolling of the ocean, even through the most challenging poses. If you think, “that breathing thing is kind of stupid, I’m just here to sculpt on my yoga butt”, I beg you to give it a shot. You’ll feel fantastic, and start tapping into the energetic superhighway available to you through your yoga practice.

A random stranger’s sweat is flying all over you. Do not panic.

I’d only been practicing yoga for about a month, when I took a really popular class. I was all set up in my little corner, with a nice 5-ft swath of open space around me, when the room began filling up at an alarming rate. I was surrounded. I looked around incredulously as yogis coolly set up their mats less than 5 inches from mine. Worse yet, one was a 6’2” Navy Seal-looking guy wearing some form of yoga boxer briefs. WHAT?! I decided I was definitely going to complain to the management. This was crazy. How could I be expected to practice with nearly naked complete strangers so close? It wasn’t until two years later and 200 hours of Registered Yoga Teacher Training that I realized that close proximity isn’t something to be skeezed out over: yoga is an internal practice. And besides, pretty much all asana takes place within a 72” x 24” yoga mat — so it honestly doesn’t matter how close you are to someone. So when (not if, but when) you find a stranger lift into three-point down dog and fling their foot sweat onto your mat, and when you bend into a wide legged forward fold and find your head dangerously near someone’s ass, don’t freak out. Come back to your breath, close your eyes, and be grateful for a sense of community. Then go ahead and flip your dog right onto your neighbor’s mat.

The teacher touched you four times during class. Surely, they’re hitting on you, right?

So, you’re a new yogi, and you look up during paschimottanasana to see the yoga teacher draped over the person in front of you like a cheap suit. Say WHAT?!! Don’t freak out — you haven’t just witnessed a private inappropriate moment, it’s just a yoga teacher assist. One of the greatest things about yoga classes at a good studio with good teachers is the practice of assists. Teaching proper form can give you profound benefits in your yoga practice, take you into poses you otherwise may not be able to fully access on your own, and it also protects you from injury. It just happens that assists can sometimes look, well, weird. It’s important for all new yogis to know that your teacher has gone through many hours of assistance practicum, and is trained to not use their fingertips, a lingering touch, or to ever touch you inappropriately. When an assist is done well, all you’ll feel is WOW, and not OMG. If you have concerns about being touched in assists, let the teacher know before class that you’d prefer not to partake — they will not be offended, I promise.

True or False: If you lift your leg higher than the person next to you, you win.

As a life-long Type A personality and former competitive athlete, nobody can understand the lure of physical competition better than I can. If you’re one of those people who secretly races the person on the treadmill next to you at the gym, yoga is going to be a paradigm-shifter for you. For me, it was like the moving of the Earth’s tectonic plates to get to a mindset where I finally “got it” that yoga is NOT a competitive sport. Every yogi is on a different leg of their yoga journey, and every practice looks different. It’s totally cool to be inspired by those who can do poses (with calm, steady breath) that you can’t do yet. But I remind my students, in nearly every class, to avoid the dirty, dark trap of comparing yourself to others in class. Ego can crap up your practice really fast. I encourage my students to close their eyes as they practice, take their drishti inward, and strive to feel the poses from the inside out. I particularly love that my studio doesn’t have any mirrors. This really drives home the integrity of the message I’m sending my students, and encourages them to get away from competing with others around them, and worse yet, focusing primarily on what they look like while they’re in a pose. This isn’t Instagram, my friends — this is real life, and yoga is an inside job.

Someone farted. And it was you.

With all the conscious breathing, inward focus, OMing and everything else, yoga can start to take on a serious modulation. I mean, you’re on your mat to achieve ultimate enlightenment and transform yourself into a unicorn, right? The truth of it is that yoga can ABSOLUTELY be a life-changing pursuit. But the tone it takes is entirely up to you. If you step onto your mat with a sense of openness and adventure, you will be delighted by what the practice can bring. If you step onto your mat with intimidation, seriousness, and dramatic expectations, you’re going to not feel too great at all. And besides, when you start getting all caught up and taking yourself too seriously, the universe has a way of putting things back in check. Case in point: while on a business trip, I took a class at a “fancy” studio in Los Angeles. These people were SERIOUS about their yoga. You could cut the enlightenment in the room with a knife, it seemed. I admit, I was intimidated. And then somewhere in the midst of a prayer twist, somebody farted. (No, it wasn’t me, but it sure could’ve been after the huge lunch I had earlier that day.) The class kept right on going, but since there was no music in the studio, it was a pretty sure bet that everybody in the room heard it. After that, it was kind of impossible to be intimidated the practice, and by what I had considered to be “superior” yogis. Nope, these were just people, and this is just life. That’s all. It was a great class that I’ll never forget, because I couldn’t stop smiling the entire 1.25 hours.

When closing class, I love to cue my students to “turn the corners of your mouth up”. And, as we sit in anjali mudra (hands at prayer, heart center), I love to ask my students to touch just their fingertips together. It’s a gentle, yet powerful reminder to be light. Ain’t nothin’ THAT serious, my friends. It’s just yoga.

all rights reserved, Buffy McCoy Kelly, 2016

buffy@tattooprojects.com