The Na’vi teens swarmed into the pint-sized locker room, overwhelming it and me with their tall, lithe, muculent bodies. OK, maybe they weren’t blue, and not truly alien, but to me - my 63-year-old body wrapped in gym-issued white terry cloth - they may as well have been.
This gaggle of girls, all legs and gangly arms, scantily clad in the shortest of lycra shorts and the flimsiest of neon yellow and orange tank tops, rushed in from the river. How appropriate, then, that the origin of Na’vi is from the Latin for ship. They brought with them waves of humidity that still clung to them like efficient Saran Wrap.
One stood out from the homogenous group of shell crew oarswomen because she was sobbing. The crier plopped down on one of the intentionally uncomfortable benches - one wasn’t meant to linger in this worn changing room. She held her head, hair plastered to it with adhesive sweat, in her clammy palms.
“Are you ok?” I intrusively but inevitably asked. I’m a mom, after all.
She nodded and emitted a guttural “Uh huh.” Unconvinced and persistent, I ventured one more foray.
“Are you sure? Can I get you some water?”
She nodded. She shook her head.
The coven of others hovered close by. They - lanky and athletic and as yet unfamiliar with the scourges of cellulite, excess body fat, or wrinkles - might easily have come straight outta central casting for Mean Girls. Readymade to sit in the cafeteria at the cool table and eviscerate anyone who hadn’t received the uncirculated memo about the unspoken dress code du jour.
I feared for her. Would they shun her for having missed the mark? Banish her to the Land of Pickleball? Or perhaps worse, icily ignore her? I caught the gaze of one who stood close by and shrugged my shoulders, palms facing ceilingward as I tilted my head toward her. The universal gesture of “What’s up with that?” I mouthed, “Is she ok?” (Remember, a seasoned mother here. And Jewish. I cannot help myself.).
She tapped an imaginary watch on her wrist and wordlessly said: “She didn’t make the time cut off.”
I could hear the crier now, in between choked whimpers, ululating about how hard she trained, how hard she’d pushed, and how hard it’d be to regain a place in the…
But then the group that I’d mistaken for a potential pack of wolves turned out to in fact be a flock of friends. They circled her like pioneer wagons, embracing her and patting her head and shoulders:
“It happened. It’s over; it’s ok.”
“It was impossible out there. The heat. The humidity.”
“You did your best.”
“Don’t spend time worrying about it. Focus on the next time.”
All advice I’d have wisely espoused to my children or my yoga students… or a friend. They showed compassion and sagacity that, I’m embarrassed to say, surprised me. And still, they persisted. They could have chosen to disperse. No doubt they had places to go; showers to take. But they hovered around her - not vultures to carrion, but guardian angels to one fallen - to comfort their friend in distress until she calmed down and regained some composure.
I put on my clothes and a cursory layer of mascara. My work there, which need never have begun, was done. I emerged from the humid miasma to the cool lobby air, buoyed not only by the afterglow of my workout, but by my momentarily renewed faith in humanity.