His tie-dye T-shirt said, “Love and light in action.”
It was the first thing I noticed about him, but it definitely was not the last or even the most interesting facet of his persona. We were both waiting for a flight to New York City, delayed 45 minutes and counting. And, less than five minutes after he took a seat on the floor near gate B6, his legs were pointing straight into the air, as he supported himself on his muscled forearms.
I was not expecting a yoga demonstration. A matronly woman with a first-class ticket sitting next to me can attest to this, since we shared a tender moment of impressed disbelief, one that I will always cherish. (In case you are wondering, I knew she was flying first-class because she mentioned it several times. I felt like Leo DiCaprio hobnobbing with Kathy Bates and Co. in that banquet scene of “Titanic.”)
Eventually his body was replanted in the normal, upright position of most humans and a majority of the ape population. However, he was far from done. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he slowly brought his legs around his forearms and extended them straight out in front of him, leaving him balanced on his hands like a spinning top.
My jaw dropped, mostly out of envy. Upper body strength is not something I have ever been known for.
What happened next only made the situation more interesting. A young woman in a bright pink shirt, probably in her mid-20s, stood up across from where Muscle Man was engaging in his Spiderman-esque activities. She tried to look purposeful as she strode across the room and sat down in a chair opposite the boarding station, but her motive was clear.
Somehow, without saying a word and without invading her personal space in any tangible way, the man in the tie-dye shirt had scared her away.
As I mentioned earlier, I was a bit uncomfortable when his exercise began. But for the woman in the pink top to make such a deliberate decision to vacate the premises on his account — this activated my inner caregiver, and before I could second-guess myself, I knelt down beside him and extended my hand.
“Hey there. I’m Josh.”
For a brief second, I wondered if I had interrupted a zen-like ritual; and if so, what were the repercussions of such an unwelcome intrusion?
He shook my hand and smiled. “Matthew.”
The boarding station despot announced another 15 minutes of air-traffic delay. I shifted to a more comfortable position.
“So what’s your story, Matthew?”
Over the course of the next six or seven minutes, Matthew told me about his life. He told me how he had gotten involved in yoga over 10 years earlier when he was 25. I never would have guessed that he was in his late 30s, and I told him so.
“I was a computer geek and a chef,” he said. I watched him smile and shake his head as he thought back on these memories. “I never got outside. I was either bent over a computer or bent over a stove day and night. I looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame.”
Now, 10 years later, Matthew flies up and down the East Coast, helping associates teach yoga seminars from New York to Atlanta. His figure is impeccable. His hair is bleached from the sun. Nothing about him warranted discomfort, and I was embarrassed that I had let his airport athletics nearly shape my permanent impression of him, as it seemed to have done with the woman in the pink top.
I spent the weekend in New York City. It was a wonderful experience, full of education and authentic Ramen noodles. But my favorite part of the trip was this simple exchange at the airport. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; in fact, all things considered, Matthew’s story was quite common.
However, there is a lot of beauty to be found in ordinary things, as Pam Beesly reminded us all in the series finale of “The Office.”
Isn’t that kind of the point?
So, what’s your story?
