It has been a shit day. My husband and I are sitting in our Jeep Wrangler at the smog test only station, waiting for the technician to get to our car. There are two cars ahead of us; possibly three because one driver left earlier with a promise to return, which I hope they don’t. It’s like those people in the grocery line that say “Please hold my spot” and then return thirty minutes later with their five cousins who each have something to purchase and expect you to let them jump ahead of you. So, no, I don’t want this driver to return. And, yes, I want this day to get better.

Another Jeep pulls into the station. It’s a CJ. Though older than our car, the CJ looks a whole lot better. The body has a matte silver finish which I didn’t know was possible, and the owner has had the suspension or whatever lifted so that his partner has to jump to the ground. We stare at the car. So flawless. So regal. Like looking at a richer, classier version of yourself. Fuck.

I’m shivering. Why is it so damn cold today? We’re in Los Angeles, sunniest city in the world, but today it rained like a mini monsoon. We should know because prior to arriving at the smog station, we drove for seven hours, stopping only twice to get coffee, stretch our legs, and pee. It sucked. Sucked royally. This was my schnapps idea. Insanity. Foolishness. By now I should know better. But I don’t. Eternal optimist. Naive and hopeful to a fault. That’s just one side of the buffalo coin that is my personality.

Anyway, how did we wind up here? The deadline to complete our smog test is tomorrow, and of course, I assume our 1990 Jeep will finally pass. So what it failed two times last week? So what? We took it to the mechanic for a tune-up. We followed the instructions on the G2P bottle, the last bottle at our nearby Autozone, and we went through a tank of gas in nine hours; that’s including the two hours we spent driving around last night.

Now I know the definition of the word “aimless.” It is driving around Downtown LA, Hollywood, Malibu, Venice, Culver City with the goal of burning through fuel. This was my idea. And God bless my husband for letting me follow through with it despite his well-voiced misgivings.

Finally, our turn comes up. The technician lets me sit beside the space heater as he runs the test. Minutes later, we get the results. Fail. Fail. Fail.  I’m so pissed, so tired, so disgusted that I feel like a student that’s pulled an all-nighter only to get a big fat “F” as in Fuck. The irony of this day does not elude me as I rub the spot where eco-karma has so rightfully bitten me in the ass.

I’m watching “The Voice” because this is what I do. It’s work, baby. It’s work. Since the early days of “American Idol,” I do not watch music shows for pleasure. Nope. Reality TV is an addiction. Like heroin, meth, crack mixed with gummi bears and Diet Coke. I only watch the mayhem when I have to, which is Monday-to-Friday daily.

Okay, okay, okay. So like I was saying, I’m watching “The Voice,” listening to the singers do their thing, and I’m feeling a rush. It’s a tingling that runs up my arms, through my shoulders, up my neck, up, up, up– and bam– out the crown of my head. It is delicious. Yes, yes, yes. Something I’ve experienced only a few times in life. Always with music. Always with people who have heavenly-choir voices. At least, how I imagine angels would sing if I ever heard them. Damn!

What’s striking, what’s glorious is how different these singers are. They are like wild flowers in a field, wild flowers that you’ve picked with your eyes closed. And did I mention they can sing? All of them. Each voice so unique that I imagine God sitting up in heaven with His chin resting in His hands and He’s beaming, thinking, Yes, I created that.

One.

A little boy helps his parents collect cardboard boxes in a restaurant parking lot. It’s late, too late for the boy to be out on a school night. Looks like he’s around six or seven years old. First grade. Second grade.

Two.

A man shuffles along the sidewalk with his arms outstretched, showing passing drivers his handwritten sign. “Searching for Kindness.” His thick brown beard seems to weigh down his frail body. I stare at the sign. Should I open the window? Do I have change? Too late. Red to green. And I’m gone.

Three.

I walk along La Brea Avenue. Teenagers stand at the bus stop in front of the 99 Cent Store and ogle a yellow Lamborghini as it stops at the red light. The driver has freakishly long arms with Mr. Universe biceps.  I bend down, trying to see his face, but it’s hidden in shadow. Red to green. And he’s gone.

Take the high road. Ignore it. Rise above it. It’s not important. It. It. What is it? It can hide itself behind a smile. It can hide itself behind a greeting. It can hide itself behind a gesture. Let me define it. This nebulous, amorphous “It” is hatred. Such a strong and negative emotion that brings nothing but illness, poverty, strife and discord to all that it envelopes.

Good morning. Two words that can convey enthusiasm, joy, sincerity, indifference, or even resignation. On this morning a stranger stands at the entrance to a building. Though I see him every day, I do not see him. He’s one of the thousands of faceless people who pass through my life. People I have no interest in knowing. People whose lives have nothing to do with mine. Their existence is tangential to mine. Likewise, I am tangential to their existence. Until this morning, that is what I assumed.

The stranger greets me with a “good morning.” My assured gait falters.  I stop in midstride. Why? Because the tone of his greeting is loaded with a lifetime of hatred and rage. When I look at him, I see such malevolence and scorn in his eyes that I cringe. It’s as if he’s struck my cheek with the back of his hand. I feel assaulted.

His face displays a mimicry of a smile. Cold. Insincere. White shark teeth. How dare I be joyful? How dare I be at peace? How dare I love my life? These questions lay like maggots beneath the shit of his “Good morning.”

Coming Soon. Moksha Hot Yoga. For five days I have walked by this sign that’s posted across a storefront on La Brea Avenue. What is Moksha? Is it anything like that other hot yoga?  Though I’m curious, I do not investigate further. I file the information in the back of my brain under the heading “Not for Me.”

That was last year. Fast forward to now. I’m hours away from completing the seventh day of a thirty-day challenge at Moksha Yoga LA. I now know that the word “moksha” means freedom or release. Whoever chose the name knew that every name carries inherent power like a totem. This place is magic.

As soon as I unroll my mat, a wave of calm ripples through my body.  This has become a daily ritual. Unroll. Lie down. Close eyes. Turn thoughts inward. Expand thoughts outward. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. With each breath, I’m drawn into this sacred space where I feel the energy of  everything around me. It’s electric. I hear soft footsteps as my fellow yogis arrive. I am a yogi. Hmm. I never thought I would describe myself as such. But that is what I am now. A yogi. That among many other things. I have found my practice. I have found my mantra. Get ready. Get set. Sweat.

Some days are more difficult than others. There are the off days. Concentration is off. Balance is off. Digestion is off. Then there are the off-off days where I feel like I’m a step away from the grave. Yesterday was one of those days. I gazed at the skylights and thought of my acupuncturist who’s started to ask me with increasing frequency whether I drink. Drink as in drink drink. As in “You’ve had enough now, Miss.” The first time he asked me, I laughed. The second time I was offended. The third time, alarmed.

I am not an alcoholic. Why does this sound like a lie? Well, anytime someone says, “I am not — fill in the blank–a misogynist, a racist,  a doll collector,” the listener picks up a contradictory message. Yes, I hate women. Yes, I collect Beanie Babies. Yes, I hate– fill in appropriate ethnic slur.

“So do you drink, Ngozi?” I tell the acupuncturist that I’m a teetotaler. He tells me he’s never heard of this word. At first, I think he’s kidding. Soon I believe him. English is not his first language. It’s not really mine either and it was only a few years ago that I bothered to look up the word teetotaler in a dictionary and discovered it is not spelled tea-totaler.

“Are you sure you don’t drink a lot?” I tell him my husband and I regift wine and even have a cupboard full of liquor bottles that have gathered five years’ worth of dust.  Finally, I ask him, “Do I look like I drink?” His reply: “You have the tongue of an alcoholic.”

Heh? Huh? What? I take a moment to process this. Ancient memories of Organic Chemistry float to the surface like champagne bubbles. The answer hits me like a Monday hangover. I am a sugar freak. Given a choice between filet mignon and Pop Tarts, I would pick the latter. I call it the Bronx Warrior diet. So without the pleasure of drinking, I have cultivated the skin and appearance of an alcoholic. Bloated features. Open pores. Not pretty. Pass the deep-pore cleanser and ice pack.

Can sun salutations erase a lifetime of Twinkies and Mountain Dew? I’ll tell you in twenty-three days.

“I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.”   On it goes.  A man’s recorded voice delivers the lyrics in a monotone. Three words sung over a thudding bass. Sung? What am I saying? The man is talking, speaking the words. It’s not even rapping. Rap is an artform. Spoken poetry. This? This is nothing.

“I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” It’s too early for this shit. I am not Miley Cyrus. She would not be standing on a bus with a stranger’s elbow poking into her back. As the bus crawls forward in morning traffic, the song continues.  ”I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” I look around the bus to figure out the source of this plague. It’s a cell phone. What kind of fool chooses that as their ringtone?

Then I see him. A man with a gold ring through his nose. With one hand he adjusts his leather baseball cap and with the other he raises the volume on his iPhone. WTF?! It’s not a ringtone. He’s actually using the phone as if it were a ghetto blaster and playing this song on the loudspeaker.  What kind of person does that in a public space? What kind of person does that?

I stare at him. Everything about him says “Y’all can kiss my black—” “I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” He drums his fingers on a large leather duffel bag that ‘s festooned with the initials LV. I cannot believe that’s a real Louis Vuitton. Miley Cyrus would have a real Louis Vuitton. Not this guy.

I’m pissed and about to say something but I think better of it. The last time I said something I wound up in a shouting match with a nutcase. That was also on a bus. Actually, these scenarios have happened many more times than I wish to remember. On buses. In public places.

There was time I tried to exit the bus and some guy refused to let me pass by. When he  told me to take my meds, I went off on him. Bless the sane elderly woman who interrupted my shouting match and said, “Honey, he’s not worth it.” Her words pulled me back to sanity. Just in time.

Then there was the time when a homeless man entered Starbucks and asked patrons for money. Everyone declined.  He stopped at my table, and as soon as I said No, he began hurling expletives at me. My response? “Oh, I’m cheap? Sorry you feel that way, sir.” The other patrons continued typing on their laptops; the barristers continued mixing lattes. On it went. “You are a bitch.”  True. Very true. Doesn’t bother me.

Then the insults turned personal. The man would not go away. He seemed to be more fixated on me than my last boyfriend. Why was I such a magnet for crazy people? The more personal his insults became, the more indignant I grew. Finally, I shouted back.

And then a part of me saw myself reflected in the man’s deranged eyes. Why had I lowered myself to this? Why had I let myself get sucked into someone else’s lunacy? I blessed him for showing me myself, but I didn’t give him a dime.

“I’m Miley Cyrus, I’m Miley Cyrus.” The brother with the golden nose ring turns his back to me, and I’m certain he’s running late like everyone else on the bus. Is the song his way of releasing anxiety? I should feel compassion, show understanding. After all, we’re all in this together. Right? After all, I am trying to become a better person. Still, a voice shouts in my head: “Get off the goddamn bus!”