I am sitting on the floor in the intersection between two hallways at Victory Woodworks. That’s Jim’s biz. They make sweet shit. Victory just moved offices, and right now Jim is fifteen feet thataway drilling into concrete. Something to do with the two five-foot-wide barn doors he installed this afternoon.
I’m wearing a long down-filled parka ‘cause winter showed up for a few hours. I’ve still got flip flops on, but at least my upper self is insulated. I’m sure I’ll ditch the coat soon though ‘cause when we came in through the warehouse space—where Jim put the ping pong table, pop-a-shot basketball hoops, arcade game, picnic tables, and dart board—Jim showed me how to hot wire the heater. It’s on now and blowing toasty well wishes. For three seconds there I felt like I could commit a crime and get away with it. Never mind that all I had to do was bend and cross a couple wires; I turned something on without using a switch.
When I get up from this floor it will hurt. My hip flexors and adductors are stiff and sore. I taught the inaugural Yoga Motion class yesterday at Juice Box and I at least worked myself plenty hard. I've discovered that there’s something pretty spectacular about telling a student to do something, seeing them look at you like you’re nuts and it’ll never happen, and then watching them do the thing you directed. It happened yesterday when I was teaching the yogis Baby Hopper. Their eyes get wide. They smile. You smile. It’s a lovely exchange.
Teaching yoga makes me happy. It also stresses me the hell out. Yesterday morning before teaching that Yoga Motion class I was basically bat shit crazy. My heart was beating in my throat. I was snippy. I couldn’t focus at all when I was taking class beforehand. I wandered around the house dropping to the floor to try postures and whispering to myself, “This is what I know. You know this stuff. This is what you know. You're prepared. You’ve studied for this.” I was right. I did know it. So far as I can tell—and was told—it went well. But it doesn’t mean that the nerves won’t start all over again for next Saturday’s class.
Victory's new digs are swingin’. They moved so that everyone could be under one roof—Engineering, Estimating, Project Managers, Management, and so on. The halls are wide. The layout is friendly. Jim’s office is dead center and welcoming. And, well, when the decor is done it’s gonna be top notch. Jim’s letting me do it. I say, “Buy this.” He does. I say, “These go here.” He hangs them. I appreciate that he trusts me, and I’m careful with that. I know I could say, “This wall must be neon yellow!” and he’d call a painter. I want the space to be fun but to also sensibly match the demeanor of the business. Therefore, among the decor we have a wire moose head, retro Vegas and Reno posters, big prints of patent designs for woodworking tools, salvaged letters, and maybe best of all—an idea Jim came up with—a window display thing of sixty-some odd old screwdrivers hung across a window.
Jim trusts my taste and will go with pretty much whatever, but it’s important to me that I’m not the only one making decisions about the decor. I want my fella to like what we put in there, for it to suit him and his people. So when one of his guys said that he should have a couch in his new office—a suggestion at which Jim initially balked; I’m not that guy! That guy is pretentious! No, sweet James, you’re the guy who wants employees to come sit in your office. It’s welcoming, not douchey—and the one that Jim fell for was a retro, sea foam green leather number, I was delighted. His taste is much better than he has been led to believe. Do get what you like, love, we’ll make it work.
And we are.
And we do.
And we will.