Na-Mother-F'N-Naste

Still a bit emotionally spent from my weekend away, and my body hating me for subjecting it to three nights of dorm bed sleeping, I decided it was time to return to yoga class. Many of you will recall my love-hate relationship with the practice. When we're jiving, I love getting swept away in the flow of the poses, the pleasant sensation of deep breathing combined with stretching, and marveling at the things my body is capable of. When we're not jiving, I find yoga sweaty and tedious, and I begin to resent whatever hippy-dippy shirtless dude on the mat next to me who is leaning just a tad too far into my personal space.

Letting go is not something that I am good at. Sometimes yoga is great for helping me release whatever petty melodrama my head insists on replaying to itself a million times a day. Other times, yoga finds me trapped with nothing to think about *but* those issues. Add to that my chronic ankle problems, and the prospect of enjoying a class is spotty at best.

But yesterday it was time. If only so I could do something about the persistent pain that had been sitting in my lower neck all week. I arrived at the studio dressed in my ratty workout gear (I have never been one to gussy up just to sweat--unless of course, it's from that *other* activity--zing!) prepared to embrace whatever obstacles came my way. I was signed in by a lovely young woman, who displayed none of the superiority or snottiness I normally encounter from the studio assistants. Pleasant surprise, that was. I waited in the hall with the other yogis, also a pleasant seeming bunch.

When it was time, we entered the studio and placed our mats in our preferred locations. There was a lot of extra space due to low attendance, so I was confident I'd have much space to practice in. Wrong. A hippy-dippy dude (yet thankfully not shirtless) plopped his mat down next to mine despite the abundance of space elsewhere in the studio. I experienced a moment of annoyance before reasoning with myself.

"Self," I said. "You have your preferred place in the studio where you always put your mat. Chances are others do too. It's not this guy's fault that his preferred location is two inches from yours. You'll have to learn to peacefully coexist and deal." So shocked was I by the intervention of a non-snarky inner voice, all I could really do was shut up and do some warm up stretches. "Who is that woman," I thought, "and why is she so reasonable?"

Class commenced and it was good. Yes, my decrepit ankles took issue with the fact that they were sometimes required to turn at a 45 degree angle, something they just weren't down with, and my bony old knees were *not* happy about whatever pose that is where you lean on them from a lunge. But poses that I used to loath were suddenly much easier, due most likely to the awesome amounts time I've devoted to cardio over the past several months. Plus, the combination of stretching, breathing, and moving was just extremely cathartic and relaxing.

Class ended, and walking to the metro I took stock of the experience and how I felt.

Did my neck still hurt? No.
How did the rest of me feel? Energized, limber, strong.
Did my heart still feel all raw and beaten? Actually, no. No, it did not.

At the beginning of class the instructor told us to set our intentions for our practice, perhaps even to dedicate the practice to somebody in need of a little positive karma. My intension was to release myself from all the drama and indefiniteness that I feel has weighed me down for months, and to send nothing but good thoughts to those that the drama involved. Douchebags, many of 'em, but they need all the good karma they can get.

And this is how a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders last night, the one no doubt responsible for causing all my neck pain. Because that's what it's been--a giant pain in the neck.

Then I got to thinking about all those people who are all totally into yoga and how they walk around all the time talking about "intentions" and "toxicity" and all that other quasi-spiritual new-ageiness, and how I normally roll my eyes because they sound ridiculous. But they're supposedly all enlighted and stuff, whereas I am a cynic's cynic. Yes, I believe in many of those things but I normally keep them to myself. But now I'm wondering if it's possible to become a full-on yoga devotee and still retain a little of my oh-so-endearing sarcasm and wit. Can I be calm, balanced, stable and at peace with the world and still be funny? Or is doing yoga going to turn me into some sort of irritatingly upbeat, drum-beating freak? These are the questions that vex me today. When one worry subsides another replaces it. Albeit, not a particularly dark one. Somehow, I think I'll deal.


And in other news, I am wearing quite the hot little number today. (But in magenta).

No, Really. My Lips Are Sealed (I Mean It This Time)

Sometimes one gets the feeling that blogging about something could really potentially screw it up. I'm just feeling all sorts of unsettled about everything today. I have this big presentation at work about that thing that now has a billing code. If the presentation goes well, I'm officially the manager of my own project. If it doesn't, I'm stuck in my current position with no interesting opportunities in sight, and my next several months of blog entries will be all about my search for a new job.

I hate not knowing what's next.

On another note, I'm attending a college reunion Memorial Day weekend. Part of me wants to pull out the stops to do all I can to look as uber fabulous as humanly possible. Really, anything other than how I looked when I graduated would be an improvement. The details are too awful to divulge. Let's just say I was significantly fatter and I had been cutting my own hair. So even at my utter worst these days, I am significantly improved.

But why stop there?

Isn't the possibility of seeing people you haven't seen in 8 years a great motivator for buying new clothes? I think so. Plus, I have been steadily exercising and sort of dieting since January, and am actually seeing significant improvements. Last night like a complete dork, I measured myself and I am proud to report that I am almost a size 6. I know for many of you that doesn't seem terribly small. But being naturally curvy, it's an accomplishment for yours truly. I don't know if others really notice the difference, but I do. And because of that, I deserve new sundresses, dammit!

I wish I were one of those people who can afford to shop at CUSP and Barney's Coop (seriously, who are you people? would you mind telling me where you get all that money?) so instead I will have to settle for Banana Republic. I just sent my mom links to the dresses I'm considering. Again, because I am a dork and still seek my mother's approval.

My hair was already cut last month and since I'm not wild about it, I intend to leave it alone for a few months. I've been wearing it clipped up and back, which I will continue to do reunion weekend. I was considering an investment in a facial, but never having had one, I am nervous. My skin is incredibly sensitive and I don't think it would be wise to expose it to new procedures the same week I need it to look glowy and ten years younger. Instead, I'm investing in a good mud mask and some new tinted moisturizer. But if any of you have any suggestions for skin products that make you look glowy, dewy and youthy, do let me know.

Beyond that, there will be the requisite mani/pedi; an attempt to get a little color on my skin so I can look less white (on Friday, a friend pointed to the my chest and the veins that you can see through my skin and asked me if I'm sick. I had to explain to her that no, you can see my veins because I am simply "that white."); and probably more fruitless fretting.

So that's where I'm at today--a big old jumble of nerves. In the comment section, tell me what you're feeling anxious about; your favorite skin care product; or where I can buy some killer new dresses. But if you answer H&M, Gap, or Zara, I am deleting your comment. Consider yourself warned.