I really, really, don't wanna go to the studio/class tonight. There is so much to catch up on at home: dishes, laundry, blah, blah, blah.
Over the years, it has become super-obvious to me that days when my (dirty) plate is too full are the days I most need to go. No doubt it'll be a good class. :)
As the saying goes, the only classes I regret are the ones I don't go to.
Happy Thursday, y'all! As one coworker said today, Thursday is like a prequel to Friday. Let's rock it.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
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 weattempt 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.
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
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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 withourhis 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.
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
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.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Things that make you go "Ommm..."
The image above popped up in my Facebook feed today. I captured it because I love learning the origins of the yoga terminology we use so often. I think most of us have heard that yoga, the word, comes from the Sanskrit word for yoke, bound together. And hatha comes from ha, sun, and tha, moon (incredibly oversimplified).
But guru's definition was new to me. I love it because I began my yoga practice in earnest during a period of such darkness, and as I've written before (I'm pretty sure), it brought me to a place of light.
There's so much to write, so many ideas to explore, but my head has been spinning a little bit lately. It's like my mind is an overstocked refrigerator, and I'm having a hard time figuring out what to make from all of this abundance... It's been so difficult to output cohesive bits of anything over the past month or so. Instead of going on a climbing trip over Memorial Day weekend with the boyfriend and his friends, I am considering staying put, slowing down, and catching up on the things I haven't
Much love. ♥
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Interview with a champ; posture clinic (I guess?)
A former teacher of mine won the big yoga competition (yeah, yeah, save it) in February. I wasn't as close with her as I was with most of the other teachers, but I was always inspired by her "kill them with kindness" approach to teaching classes. On the occasions I was lucky enough to practice next to her in class, I'd sneak glances over and usually think one of two things:
1) How can you practice while wearing a tube top?
2) OMG OMG SHE IS AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL.
So, here's a funny, but telling, interview with Brandy Winfield (thanks to Anna for the tweet).
Interview here
"I got done with [my first] class and I called [my mom] and asked, 'Are you mad at me? Why would you make me do something as terrible as that. That was the worst thing. Do you know it smells in there?' "
(In which I use "I" more than ever, possibly:)
So, last weekend I went to a posture clinic at my studio. I'd never been to one before. It wasn't what I expected. I know, I know, no expectations, but the whole reason I went was because I was expecting to have a particular experience. It had been my understanding that in a posture clinic, experienced teachers talk through the series of postures with a group of students. People can ask questions and get individualized help. And my experience included all of that, but it also felt like something was missing.
The seminar was scheduled from 1 to 3, which didn't allow for much time. The studio owner picked about 10 postures to focus on, the most-often misunderstood ones, which seemed to make sense to me. We got as far as standing head to knee (after skipping the planned review of awkward pose because of time constraints) before things kind of went off-track, I think. At that point, all the students stood up to work on it. Each of the six teachers there helped groups of two or three students.
And then, very quickly, it was 2:45 and students for the 3 o'clock class were getting restless in the lobby. I was slightly bummed out, as I expected (there's that word again) to learn "tricks," I guess; to learn ways to go more deeply into my postures. Specifically, I wanted to learn what I can do in several postures (pranayama, eagle, floor bow, anything really) to open up my shoulders and upper back. I didn't get that... When I did ask about my misaligned hips, I was basically told, "Yep, they're off. Don't worry about it. Just keep practicing."
So. I guess I need to learn to just trust the process, as they say incessantly at teacher training? That's great and all, but I am a do-something-about-it-oriented person. If we're all just supposed to trust the process, why bother with a posture clinic? I look forward, though, to the next one. It would be nice if it were several hours longer.
So: Have you participated in posture clinics or seminars (not just Bikram-style yoga, any kind)? How were they structured? What did you hope to learn? What did you actually learn? More thoughts?
1) How can you practice while wearing a tube top?
2) OMG OMG SHE IS AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL.
So, here's a funny, but telling, interview with Brandy Winfield (thanks to Anna for the tweet).
Interview here
"I got done with [my first] class and I called [my mom] and asked, 'Are you mad at me? Why would you make me do something as terrible as that. That was the worst thing. Do you know it smells in there?' "
(In which I use "I" more than ever, possibly:)
So, last weekend I went to a posture clinic at my studio. I'd never been to one before. It wasn't what I expected. I know, I know, no expectations, but the whole reason I went was because I was expecting to have a particular experience. It had been my understanding that in a posture clinic, experienced teachers talk through the series of postures with a group of students. People can ask questions and get individualized help. And my experience included all of that, but it also felt like something was missing.
The seminar was scheduled from 1 to 3, which didn't allow for much time. The studio owner picked about 10 postures to focus on, the most-often misunderstood ones, which seemed to make sense to me. We got as far as standing head to knee (after skipping the planned review of awkward pose because of time constraints) before things kind of went off-track, I think. At that point, all the students stood up to work on it. Each of the six teachers there helped groups of two or three students.
And then, very quickly, it was 2:45 and students for the 3 o'clock class were getting restless in the lobby. I was slightly bummed out, as I expected (there's that word again) to learn "tricks," I guess; to learn ways to go more deeply into my postures. Specifically, I wanted to learn what I can do in several postures (pranayama, eagle, floor bow, anything really) to open up my shoulders and upper back. I didn't get that... When I did ask about my misaligned hips, I was basically told, "Yep, they're off. Don't worry about it. Just keep practicing."
So. I guess I need to learn to just trust the process, as they say incessantly at teacher training? That's great and all, but I am a do-something-about-it-oriented person. If we're all just supposed to trust the process, why bother with a posture clinic? I look forward, though, to the next one. It would be nice if it were several hours longer.
So: Have you participated in posture clinics or seminars (not just Bikram-style yoga, any kind)? How were they structured? What did you hope to learn? What did you actually learn? More thoughts?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Forehead to the knee
I did it. I actually touched my exactly forehead to my exactly knee during the second (shorter) set of Standing Head to Knee pose during the 10:30 a.m. class on Saturday, April 17. Both sides. Coming out of the second side, I was a little weebly-wobbly, but I did not fall down...
This post is the anti-insight, but I wanted to record this achievement somewhere, in case 1) it never happens again, and 2) I forget that it is possible. Both of which are pretty likely. :)
Inothernews — I spent much of my Sunday out in the yard, hoeing and raking and weeding. Classic rock blared from a neighbor's place. Between hourslong rounds of throwing the ball to the dog, I got some pea seeds (did you know that they are just, well, ummm, dried peas?) in the ground. In the afternoon, I went to Target and Lowe's. Today, I am whining about being sore from the yardwork. When did I become a caricature of a suburban 45-year-old yuppie?
(But seriously, I am amazed at what a good core workout I got.)
Hope that everyone had a swell weekend. How's the weather in your neck of the woods?
This post is the anti-insight, but I wanted to record this achievement somewhere, in case 1) it never happens again, and 2) I forget that it is possible. Both of which are pretty likely. :)
Inothernews — I spent much of my Sunday out in the yard, hoeing and raking and weeding. Classic rock blared from a neighbor's place. Between hourslong rounds of throwing the ball to the dog, I got some pea seeds (did you know that they are just, well, ummm, dried peas?) in the ground. In the afternoon, I went to Target and Lowe's. Today, I am whining about being sore from the yardwork. When did I become a caricature of a suburban 45-year-old yuppie?
(But seriously, I am amazed at what a good core workout I got.)
Hope that everyone had a swell weekend. How's the weather in your neck of the woods?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Well, helloooo there!
Hi all. It's been a while, eh?
Since I last posted something other than a quote or a picture, I have:
Started a work-study yoga program (March 18). I was so nervous while I drove to the studio after work; my stomach was in some crazy knots and my heart was racing. "What if they hate me?" They didn't. They are cool.
Bought a house (March 19). Just like I said in that last post from 3/18, things were turning around—no, really. They did. Life has become really good, especially in the past week. It's nice to check off boxes on to-do lists. It's even nicer to unpack boxes, but I'm working on that.
Went back to yoga (March 21, 25, 28; April 6, 8). Despite scrubbing mirrors and vacuuming studios and cleaning showers and stocking fridges and spraying/hanging/rolling mats and emptying trashes and washing loads of towels, which is like an entire workout unto itself after I've already done the yoga, I love being around the studio. My goal is to be there at least four days a week, but I have to be there at least two to do my work-study. And that's two more days than I was practicing in a studio before. So I'll take it. :) It has been an interesting ride already. Didn't take long to have a breakdown (the 25th?), but the teacher was so compassionate about it... Felt like home.
Had a regular checkup with a fabulous doctor (March 30). Got an unfortunate wake-up call, however, with the reading on the scale—a full 25 pounds more than the weight at which I feel really, really good. It threw me for a loop. I knew my clothes weren't fitting, but daaaayyyyummmm. Ouch. I can make excuses all day about stress and eating and moving and whatever, but really. Really. For me, it has always come down to just doing the yoga. Which I haven't done on a regular basis since moving to NY. I feel good about getting this on track, if only in a less-in-depth-than-I'd-like way, for now. (On a good note, my blood pressure was fine and my cholesterol was fabulous! Go me!)
Cleaned out an apartment and moved into the house (March 30). Thank Sweet Baby Jesus we are done with the apartment!!! Now, if only I could be home for more than 10 minutes, it'd be awful nice to start to unpack and find places for things. And maybe cook those root vegetables I bought (three+ weeks ago) and start those lettuce seeds.
Took a fabulous, long, road trip (March 31-April 5). Went to boyfriend's mother's family reunion in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We took the dog and drove the "long" way (12 hours compared to 14 hours), but it was nice because we kept the interstate/freeway driving to a minimum and enjoyed the coast. I wore a bikini in front of not-strangers, despite the weight insecurity. The South (the little that I saw) is a strange place, but with pockets of stunning beauty, such as the massive, unrelenting groves of wisteria. Pollen killed me. I love camping. Theirs is a huge family. I got to swim in the ocean... Felt like home (right down to the 58-degree water).
Returned home with a new appreciation for my little town (April 5). Beacon is truly amazing, combining everything I love about small, Main Street-y towns with convenience to nature and BIG CITY. It's all about the balance.
Had another yoga-studio breakdown (April 8). This time, the (same) instructor had a strange reaction. But I think that experience will be its own post.
Planned a manicure (April 9). One of my 30-day challenges for March worked out, anyway! I'm in a good habit of not biting my nails now. So it's kind of cool to have a little bit of a reward.
Back to the editing...
Since I last posted something other than a quote or a picture, I have:
Started a work-study yoga program (March 18). I was so nervous while I drove to the studio after work; my stomach was in some crazy knots and my heart was racing. "What if they hate me?" They didn't. They are cool.
Bought a house (March 19). Just like I said in that last post from 3/18, things were turning around—no, really. They did. Life has become really good, especially in the past week. It's nice to check off boxes on to-do lists. It's even nicer to unpack boxes, but I'm working on that.
Went back to yoga (March 21, 25, 28; April 6, 8). Despite scrubbing mirrors and vacuuming studios and cleaning showers and stocking fridges and spraying/hanging/rolling mats and emptying trashes and washing loads of towels, which is like an entire workout unto itself after I've already done the yoga, I love being around the studio. My goal is to be there at least four days a week, but I have to be there at least two to do my work-study. And that's two more days than I was practicing in a studio before. So I'll take it. :) It has been an interesting ride already. Didn't take long to have a breakdown (the 25th?), but the teacher was so compassionate about it... Felt like home.
Had a regular checkup with a fabulous doctor (March 30). Got an unfortunate wake-up call, however, with the reading on the scale—a full 25 pounds more than the weight at which I feel really, really good. It threw me for a loop. I knew my clothes weren't fitting, but daaaayyyyummmm. Ouch. I can make excuses all day about stress and eating and moving and whatever, but really. Really. For me, it has always come down to just doing the yoga. Which I haven't done on a regular basis since moving to NY. I feel good about getting this on track, if only in a less-in-depth-than-I'd-like way, for now. (On a good note, my blood pressure was fine and my cholesterol was fabulous! Go me!)
Cleaned out an apartment and moved into the house (March 30). Thank Sweet Baby Jesus we are done with the apartment!!! Now, if only I could be home for more than 10 minutes, it'd be awful nice to start to unpack and find places for things. And maybe cook those root vegetables I bought (three+ weeks ago) and start those lettuce seeds.
Took a fabulous, long, road trip (March 31-April 5). Went to boyfriend's mother's family reunion in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We took the dog and drove the "long" way (12 hours compared to 14 hours), but it was nice because we kept the interstate/freeway driving to a minimum and enjoyed the coast. I wore a bikini in front of not-strangers, despite the weight insecurity. The South (the little that I saw) is a strange place, but with pockets of stunning beauty, such as the massive, unrelenting groves of wisteria. Pollen killed me. I love camping. Theirs is a huge family. I got to swim in the ocean... Felt like home (right down to the 58-degree water).
Returned home with a new appreciation for my little town (April 5). Beacon is truly amazing, combining everything I love about small, Main Street-y towns with convenience to nature and BIG CITY. It's all about the balance.
Had another yoga-studio breakdown (April 8). This time, the (same) instructor had a strange reaction. But I think that experience will be its own post.
Planned a manicure (April 9). One of my 30-day challenges for March worked out, anyway! I'm in a good habit of not biting my nails now. So it's kind of cool to have a little bit of a reward.
Back to the editing...
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