Serious inspiration (updated!)

Go ahead, please watch the entire eight minutes.



What an amazing time
What a family
How did the years go by?
Now it’s only me…

Tic toc
Tic toc...

Like a cat in heat stuck in a moving car
Scary conversation, shut my eyes
Can’t find the brake
What if they say that you’re a climber?

Naturally I’m worried if I do it alone
Who really cares cause it’s your life
You never know it could be great
Take a chance, cause you might grow

Oh, oo, oh

What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting for?

Take a chance, you stupid ho

Like an echo pedal, you’re repeating yourself
You know it all by heart
Why are you standing in one place?
Born to blossom, bloom to perish

Your moment will run out
Cause of your sex chromosome
I know it’s so messed how our society all thinks (For sure)
Life is short, your capable (Uh-huh)

Oh, oo, oh
Uh, uh

Look at your watch now
You’re still a super-hot female
You’ve got your million-dollar contract
And they’re all waiting for your hot track

What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting for?

I can’t wait to go back and do Japan
Gimme lots of brand new fans
Osaka, Tokyo
You Harajuku girls
Damn, you’ve got some wicked style

Go!

Look at your watch now
You’re still a super-hot female
You’ve got your million-dollar contract
And they’re all waiting for your hot track

What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting for?

What you waiting for?
Take a chance, you stupid ho

I'd been a fan of No Doubt for years and years. I'd read all sorts of interviews with Gwen Stefani in which she talks about her struggles with weight and body image and how it's damn hard to be glamorous, and in the kind of shape she wants to be in. So when I see that she was this girl, I am blown away (go ahead and skip to 5:10 if you must). (Update: From a Fall 2005 interview with The New York Times: "What she does possess is ... a rigorously self-enforced humility. ... 'Everybody out there has a team of people behind them. That's just the way it is.' "

What are you waiting for?

What am I waiting for?

Pain in the Ass

My left hip/butt has been excruciatingly painfulbothering me for a few months now. I should get it checked out. Of course I know I should get it checked out. But seeing my primary doc, to get a referral to the higher-copay ortho doc, to get an MRI scheduled, to be prescribed physical therapy that I can't afford, seemed like a very expensive rabbit hole (which under normal circumstances would be a stretch, but I'm on the hook for $500 of a big car repair, so, yikes [fucking deer fucking running into me]). My leg isn't falling off, and I'm not even taking Advil or Aleve most days, so I've been fine with just sucking it up.

Until!

Today, the super lovely Josie posted on FB this article, "A Common Cause of Low Back and Sciatic Pain — The Piriformis." Through some web-sleuthing, I'd become pretty sure that the culprit was my insanely tight piriformis, but all the stretching in the world hadn't been helping, just making the pain worse (which is can be pretty characteristic of fibromyalgia, but that could be another post entirely).

The article discusses trigger point therapy and self-myofascial release, even backing up (in the comments section) the idea that stretching is not helpful until the trigger point is released. This is sort of groundbreaking for me to hear.

Doing the work with the foam roller and a tennis ball will be hard; it will be painful. I am notoriously bad at following through on commitments to do anything for more than a week; the writer recommends starting with two weeks of daily work. But it's the least (and least-expensive thing!) I can do for myself to try to bust up the knots that have so negatively affected my quality of life the past few months, specifically.

Perseverance has never been a strong suit of mine, but now's as good a time as any to work on that. I can't wait to get home tonight to sit on a tennis ball.

Be moderate in everything, including moderation.*

*Horace Porter, 1837-1921


Gorgeous shot via Gregg Le Blanc / flickr

Yoga for Hangovers

This New York Times Wellness blog entry is harmless, but some of the comments on it have gotten me a little steamed. Some of the same people who define (their style, natch, of) yoga as one glorious thing go on to define alcohol drinking as one awful thing, when it seems so obvious to me that people can only speak to their own experience. Yet that caveat is never included in the comment.

Maybe my hackles are residually raised from my time in Utah, and I'm still hypersensitive to all-or-nothing, us-vs.-them claims. Or maybe my perspective on this has come from being in the Bikram community and exploring its place in the larger yoga world... It's so often under attack; it's not "real yoga," according to someone(s) who've declared themselves deciders for the rest of us. That judgment, that sense of superiority that makes it OK to judge, really bothers me.

And maybe oddly, the same goes for comments like this one:
The purpose of drinking is to numb oneself to life’s challenges, forget your troubles, lower ones [sic] inhibitions, and enable oneself to have a good time, It requires no work or effort. It has the potential for bringing short term bliss and longer term misery, unpleasant recuperation, and long term physical harm.

It's simply not true across the board. No doubt there are people for whom numbing and forgetting is the purpose of imbibing (in fact, I dated one of those people; it was terrible). But there are many, many more people for whom some alcohol is healthily integrated into daily life. As far as the commenter's claim about alcohol consumption bringing "long[-]term physical harm," well, he or she must not have heard any of the science linking red wine with heart health. And that's just the tip of the iceberg...

It may seem like someone who gets so amped up about this must be on the defensive, must have some deep personal attachment to drinking (or insert any vice here). But I'm not, and I don't. Yes, I work at a wine magazine and on some level, surely have a vested interest in people continuing to consume alcohol. Yes, I really like the taste of beer (IPAs, mostly). I'd guess that I drink four times a week, including a glass of wine with dinner some nights. But if for some reason I had to stop ingesting any alcohol right now, I'd be fine. It's the principle here, people.

I just looked up quotes about moderation, looking to cite this post's title, and it was funny how many of them, across cultures, related to "the drink." I particularly liked this one:
It is better to rise from life as from a banquet - neither thirsty nor drunken. ~Aristotle

So go and take part in that banquet, and enjoy its bounty, and rise from life knowing, reveling, in that fine place of balance we've worked so hard to create.

And for Pete's sake, can we stop the obsession with defining what's correct for everyone??

(Grrrr. There are so many things I've wanted to blog about in the past month; it feels a shame to start with this one. And so ineloquently, too. Harrumph.)

I'm visiting San Diego this weekend. Besides my immediate family, only a yoga blog–buddy or two knows.

Here's hoping that the warm sand underfoot, and a steamy class at teacher training, and awesome Gramma Betsy, balance me out in ways that I feel I need, but can't quite put into words.

My solar-powered batteries are due for some recharging.

Day 13: Getting frustrated

First things first: No yoga last night. I'm now two classes down, again. My goal wasn't just to do 30 classes in 30 days (which I'm fairly optimistic I can still do). I'd wanted to do at least one class every day for at least 30 days. So: Grrrrrr.

The midback pain that I initially went to the chiropractor for seems to be resolving quite well. My spine feels straighter, and now that the initial insane muscle soreness has passed (despite Dr. E's continued efforts to leave me black and blue), my back-back is feeling pretty good. My lower back, on the other hand...

Dr. E has been working on moving my left hip around, trying to get it to want to become unstuck. Not forcing anything, but gradually opening things up in there.

My, how they are opening.

The shooting, stabbing pains in my sciatic area started a few hours after yesterday's appointment. The long-compacted SI joint seems like a creaky door that has been shut tightly for years, and is going to need some coaxing to stay open. That groan the door makes when you open it? I think my joint is making that noise. I took ibuprofen (Advil), then naproxen (Aleve) later on. Left a heating pad on it while sitting at my desk. Seemed to help.

Then I stood up and tried to walk, and the joint screamed at me. Two hours later, sitting at home, after more ibuprofen, I had an ice pack on the joint. The pain was so bad that I felt like I was going to vomit. So, no yoga last night either, causing me to be pretty frustrated.

Last night, I went upstairs to find feathers everywhere and two holes in my not-new-but-until-now-awesome down comforter. Lucy, the 7-month-old puppy, had a guilty look on her face.

She is cute, but she is sneaky.

It was the last straw for me. She had already chewed through the only decent pairs of shoes I had. (I'm not a shoe whore, but now I think I should be. It would have been nice to have backup shoes.) My car is falling apart. My computer is falling apart. Because of my weight gain since moving to NY, a lot of my clothes don't fit. I am flat broke, and I can't seem to catch up on basic things in life outside of utilities, train passes, and credit card payments (and believe me, I am incredibly grateful that I mostly have those under control, but this is my freakout). I'd wanted to visit San D in November, visit my friends and some family and my old beaches and Bikram teacher training, but I have no idea where money for airfare is going to come from. I'm not a materialistic person by any means, but is it so much to just ask for one thing, just one, to be in reasonably good shape? Normally, in the face of such destruction/dilapidation, I can say, "Well, at least I've got my health." Not this time.

That's right. I went from superkilling back pain to total freakout just like that. I spent the next 20 minutes or so wailing in the bathroom — didn't want to wake the BF — torturing myself with questions like, Is it (this nebulous "it") karma? Is it fibro, which I recently thought I'd been so good at appeasing, rearing its ugly head? Do I deserve this pain and this instability (inside and out, I guess) because of something I've done (or didn't do)? On and on and on it went, verging on self-pity but (I hope) not totally giving in. It's more frustration, I promise.

And then I remembered all the times that people have told me we store emotions in our bodies. So hopefully that is all this is. I'm a control freak about very few things, but I think maybe some of those tendencies are coming out, as maybe all of the bodywork I've been having has accelerated the process.

But it'd sure be nice to not be frustrated. And it'd be nice to be able to walk/sit/breathe without my nerves screaming at me.

Gahhh, this is quite the unfocused rant, but that's what blogs are for, right? If you've read this far, well, I apologize. At least you got to see my cute dogs. :)

On the outside, looking ... around.

Every Second Saturday of the month, all the art galleries and many businesses on Main Street stay open late, serving wine and cheese (and tiramisu!) and celebrate new openings. One of me and B's favorite storefronts, School of Jellyfish, was hosting a multimedia presentation/installation/poetry reading/dance performance. I'd met the artist a while back, just hanging out one night outside the shop, and didn't get a very good vibe from her; she seemed like another city person marveling shallowly at the "cuteness" of our town.

So cut to this past Saturday night. When I got to the shop around 7, it was packed with people dressed quite fashionably and air-kissing one another's cheeks. (Those things are, of course, fine, but they rub me the wrong way in certain settings when innumerable other, nameless things are rubbing me the wrong way, too.) I said hi to B (who was volunteering) and got my plastic cup of Prosecco, then wandered toward the back to look over the crowd.

Out of the blue, tears welled in my eyes. Not from the magic of the performance (which was more engaging than I'd expected). No, it was from thoughts of how I don't fit in here, and I don't fit in anywhere, and why, oh why, is it bothering me? I so often feel like I'm just too frumpy, too boring, too vanilla, too soccer mom-style, for anywhere I go. I *so* long to be this fashionable, elegant, interesting, avant-garde-y woman. But I'm just me — which is really ok, most of the time.

The crowd shape-shifted as the artiste introduced her dancer and explained her concepts (check out ekphrasis and kinetochore). Taller-than-me people pushed back to make room, spilling into the space where I'd been standing. I went outside, where I could see the dancer better through the wall of windows on two sides of the building. She was ravishing. Though neither the poetry nor the eventual music were audible outside, I wouldn't have noticed either even if I had been inside. She was that great (and I usually have a hard time watching modern dance). So many people walking by had been headed for the next gallery, only to surprise themselves by stopping in the drizzle, taking in a bit of the performance. Those huge windows really are spectacular. As the rain intensified, I headed back in.

Last week, while writing a long-overdue email (Hi, E!), I spent too many words trying to explain my feelings about where I've lived, how the various places have affected me, and how I am sometimes frustrated by some things about some residents of my little city (some have never left, and hate NYC, and think it has no redeeming qualities, while others have moved up from NYC to the town, and have patronizing attitudes about it, e.g. having a backyard garden is somehow both quaint and exotic). When I lived in the Bay Area, I was so different because of this. When I moved to Utah, I was so outsider because of that.

So it shouldn't have been such a surprise to me, when a little later on Saturday night, after two more cups of wine, it occurred to me that I apparently reinforce this "I don't fit in" feeling. It got me asking: Why am I so invested in identifying as an outsider? So far, I think the answer is that I'm not "invested," really; I just don't know what my niche is (yet).

Except, except, except — at the yoga studio. There, I'm just me. I fold the laundry, sign people in, try to reassure new students that they won't die in the hot room, breathe. Right after class on Saturday, I was goofing around in the studio, trying some arm balances (note to self: bring a dry towel next time; they are much harder when you are sweaty). The teacher, W, was walking past the door to the hot room and saw me, then ran in and did a couple of postures with me! It was fun, a kind of playful challenging...

I guess that around the yoga studio (this one as well as my last one in UT), just about everyone is stripped of the outward affectations that I see as separating us. To be sure, there are women with the swankiest lululemon tops and perfect hair — this is Westchester, after all. But there, I don't feel less-than, or not something enough. It's enough to just show up for a common purpose, a common 90-minute moving meditation, where we attempt to drop our baggage, our drama, at the door, and just sweat out the issues in our tissues (as my old teacher Alex says).

As with so many things I've learned and practiced at the studio, I need to figure out how to internalize this feeling and carry it with me into the real world. It's enough to just show up somewhere, be me, and have a good time. Even if I'm standing in the back, in just a T-shirt and jeans.

He'll be fine, right?

Silence.

Then:

The crunch of gravel under his tires.

The clinking-gurgling-car-winding-down noises once he kills the ignition.

The heel-toe, heel-toe, of exhausted steps — just one set — up to the house.

The jingling of keys while he fumbles in the dark for the door.

The usually-barely-audible-but-suddenly-deafening whirr of microscopic fans in household electronics.

Then:

Silence.

* * *
Bryan stayed home sick Tuesday while I was here at work. We were talking on the phone, when suddenly the dogs (ohbtw, we got another one) started barking like crazy and I heard sirens. He said, "I have to go."

The two of us are, by 20 years or so, the youngest residents on the eastern end of our long block. Most others are in various stages of retirement, or have crazy 12-hour/3-day schedules. And Bry was home, battling a cold.

So I was the only one not around when the fire trucks and ambulances came for Bonnie, our next-door neighbor who, days after we moved in, brought over a tray of brownies. Then a little while after that, Girl Scout cookies (she's been a troop leader for almost 30 years, you know). Then just last week she and I spent an hour talking through the fence about camping, baseball and my hated (HATED) maple seedlings.

Don't worry: Bonnie's fine, or will be soon. Apparently, she had some kind of scary episode related to her diabetes (and probably not helped by the heat, now that I think about it), and was taken to a hospital. According to Bry, the crazily-scheduled-chemical-plant-worker-neighbors along our other fence drove Bonnie's husband, Jim, to the hospital.

I got home around 7, and Jim's car was gone. When I walked the dogs sometime well after midnight, it was back in its spot in front of their house. A desk lamp was on in the living room, but the house was otherwise dark.

With startling immediacy and emotion, that scene brought me back to October 2004. My husband of five weeks was in a coma after a car accident that killed his three friends. I knew he was in great hands at the hospital — not that there's a whole lot you can do for someone in a coma, most of the time, other than wait. His sister, whom I adore to this day, had flown in from Connecticut. His mom and aunt, too. After the first day or two, time spent at the hospital was actually not so painful — tons of friends brought food, the nurses and doctors were exceptionally brilliant and kind, and his corner ICU room had a killer view of the Salt Lake Valley and southern Wasatch Front. And a former coworker was running the 24-hour Starbucks in the hospital lobby — there were substantial discounts. Honestly, time at the hospital was OK.

Then I'd go home.

I only lost it one time, around 2 a.m. while waiting for the light at Foothill Drive and Sunnyside. That was the only time I wondered why... And the tough-girl side of me is inclined to chalk up that instance to sleep deprivation, nothing more.

But going home night after late night — alone — was truly awful. I hadn't reflected on it much over the years, not until I saw the little lamp glowing next door. The silence was the worst. The incidental noises and rustlings that I'd not noticed through two years of daily life with M — they were gone. It was like stepping into a place where time had stopped. M wasn't at work. He wasn't traveling. There would be no greeting, welcoming, door-opening. Not for a while, anyway.

Like Bonnie, M is pretty much fine these days. We talk a couple of times a month; he just got a full-time job (essentially, one identical to the one he had planned to start a week after the accident). He's dated a few people, but mostly hangs out with ourhis dog.

But walking in the door to silence... I think that fundamentally altered me, on some microcellular-subconscious-something level.

So I couldn't help but feel for my neighbor, Jim, knowing that he came home — alone — Tuesday night. I guess I'm a little worried about the guy: She has always seemed to be the sturdy one, the one who deals with people well. Oh, he and Bonnie aren't frail or anything, and they have lots of family and friends that will help with anything they need. But I couldn't ignore my visceral reaction to the scene. And it has stuck with me for days.

So I ask those reading this to keep Jim (and Bonnie too, I suppose, though I'm less worried about her) in their thoughts or prayers or good vibes sent into the ether as teeth are brushed in the morning. Because I really want him to be fine.