Some days it takes more than a shirt

This is my official 2026 locker room shirt. It's identical to the one my guys wore as they sprayed champagne on one another after clinching a wildcard berth. It arrived from Wrigleyville Sports on Monday afternoon. I tracked the shipment and as soon as it arrived, I tore open the package and ran downstairs to do laundry. I had to have it for Tuesday, when the playoffs began. I was so happy.

 Then Tuesday dawned. I went to yoga and it was awful. My regular teacher, Rachel, has had to change her schedule for a few months and the instructor who has replaced her is ... not Rachel. I'm used to Rachel. I want Rachel. Rachel explains the poses as she does them and offers ways that students like me to adapt and still execute them. That's not what I got yesterday. "Let's do pigeon pose." 

There are more than a dozen steps to executing pigeon pose.  Our instructor walked us through each one as she did it, but all of this was new to me and I couldn't keep up. Then I saw I didn't want to keep up. I'm fat, I'm old, I have two bad knees (meniscus tear on one side, arthritis on the other). I plopped down on my butt and surveyed the room: just about everyone was following the script. Some with greater dexterity with others, but my classmates were on board. My new instructor saw me in the mirror and said, "Listen to your own body. Let your body determine your practice." She was giving me permission to do my own thing, and I appreciated it, but it's not how Rachel would have handled it. Rachel would have demonstrated the pose first herself, then she would have done it with us a second time, talking us through. She always gave us an either/or – "try this instead," not just "don't do it if it doesn't feel right."

Oh well, next week when I go, I'll know what to expect from this instructor. I'll come to class with stretches in mind that I'll go into when I can't/won't do what she recommends. BTW, this instructor is trying hard, has a lovely smile, and is probably good at her job. She's just not Rachel.

Then I tripped on the elevator. Yes, you read that right. It's hard to hurt yourself while getting into an elevator, but I managed. The floor of the car didn't line up perfectly with the floor of the lobby. It doesn't happen often, but Tuesday was one of those days. I was flipping through my mail, not paying attention, and stumbled into the elevator. The door closed behind me and I was sitting there, on my ass, my grocery bag on one side and my purse on the other. It took me a moment to raise myself up. I wasn't hurt, thank goodness. I'm grateful no one saw it. But I was annoyed with myself. FOCUS, GAL! Look down once in a while!

Then this happened.

 Now I never expected a World Series this year. I am a Cub fan. Statistically speaking, we grab the brass ring once every 108 years. 

But this year's team has played with such heart! We have a genuine unicorn in Pete Crow-Armstrong. Alex Bregman came back from a broken face! (I'm not kidding. The man is playing with eight fractured bones in his face.) Our catcher, Carson Kelly, has a legitimate gift for successfully challenging umpires. And so I was hopeful. And they were humiliated. I didn't even watch until the end, it was making me so sad.

Me, sitting there in my official "Clinched" shirt. I just couldn't bear it.

So I changed into my Cubbie-themed pjs and tried to put this terrible Tuesday behind me. Hopefully my heroes in Pantone 294 come back and redeem themselves tonight. I can't decide if I'll wear the shirt again. It doesn't seem to be have been stitched with luck, does it?