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Damn You, Stupid Yoga

As many of you know, because it's rare that I shut up about it, I have a very love-hate relationship with yoga.

While I love what it does for my mind and body, I hate the entire culture attached to it. I hate the godessey, appropriation of Eastern religions aspect of it. I hate the smug, sanctimonious attitude adopted by many of its practitioners. I hate how it's become a culture of the wealthy--evident by 90 dollar yoga pants and expensive retreats. I hate how studios here charge almost 20 dollars a class and then use the revenue in order to make their studios all slick and decorated. Heck, I hate it because that Eat, Pray, Love woman likes it. That actually, should be reason enough in and of itself. Indeed, many aspects of yoga send my inner curmodgeon off into a zen-like tirade.

What I also hate however, is how flabby and blue I have been feeling recently. So back to the studio I went this week, my head and heart filled with apprehension.

It is with mixed feelings that I tell you, dear readers, that having been to class twice already this week, I feel completely amazing. I am lean and strong, limber and downright cheerful. My ability to roll with the punches has increased remarkably and I've barely noticed a whole host of things that normally irritated the hell out of me. And while my spirits are high, I feel sort of ashamed. I mean, I hate this shit, and I object to it on several levels, but why does it make me feel so good?

Not that there weren't issues with the classes. To add to this complicated miasma of overthought, I happen to be a total snob when it comes to instruction. My last boyfriend introduced me to a studio that while it isn't trendy, is populated by some extremely wonderful instructors who totally focus on the nitty-gritty of alignment and proper posture in poses. So now I am completely spoiled and when I find myself in a class where the teacher doesn't seem to care that half the students (myself included) are totally not paying attention to form, it bugs me a little. Okay, a lot. It bugs me a lot. If you're going to do yoga, do it correctly. After all, isn't that what we're paying instructors to do? Ya know, instruct?

Anyway. So one studio I probably won't return to, at least not to the same instructor. Which is fine, they can totally do without me as well. The other, however was more promising.

Not far from my apartment, yesterday's yoga experience actually fostered a pretty cool evening routine. Check this out:

I arrived at home after work with just enough time to change and prepare a light dinner that could sit and be reheated after class. After getting my yoga on, I returned a while later to a home cooked meal all nicely prepared . See, there's nothing I hate more than having to cook after 8 pm on a weeknight. Perhaps it seems insignificant to you, but to me, the whole experience was a total revelation. It was the high-point of my week thus far.

Um, so where is this going, you ask? I'm not sure. Stay tuned for a post next week in which I inevitably change my mind about the whole endeavor. Because that's how I do.

And Next, the Locusts?

I am on the red line of the Metro coming home from Dupont Circle, riding in the direction of Shady Grove to home, one stop away in Woodley Park. The  train is ungodly packed for 7:00 p.m.-ish on a Tuesday night. Around me, is a swarm of riders, tourists from what I can tell by their maps and the awkward way they clutch the handrails of the car as if they might fly down the aisle at any moment. They are giggling to one another in another language, Japanese perhaps, although it's hard to tell exactly because 1.) I am a dumb American and really only fluent in English and 2.) they are all wearing paper surgicle masks.

With their neon street clothing and masks, under the hideous flourescent lights of the train, it is suddenly a movie about the future and we all are its stars.

Enter a young man from stage left, or whatever its cinemeatic equivalent. No doubt reading the horrified look on my face he asks me if I am okay. I laugh that I have just come from yoga and am probably the most okay person in the whole car.

He scoffs something about swine flu and I giggle. Not because swine flu is at all amusing, more due to the absurdity of this isolated hysteria in a city with zero reported cases. He confides that he's tempted to start coughing, just to mess with them. I offer him five dollars to do so but he declines, which is just as well because I probably don't have that much cash on me.

Many of the tourists are too short to effectively hold on to the ceiling rails of the car, so a couple of them repeatedly slip and fall into their friends, which provokes more waves of laughter behind their surgicle masks and adds to the ever heightening sense of absurdity and pandamonium within the car.

The irony of the situation seems lost on them.

That they are protecting themselves from a certain danger, but that it is the wrong kind. That they are way more likely to f*ck themselves up by not following proper train-riding safety precautions than they are of contracting swine flu on the Metro.

Also, note to Metro: Please design more accomodations for passengers of diminutive stature. Swine flu is bad enough. Need we also worry about bumps, bruises, scratches, sprains and social humiliation?

And So Begins My Illustrious Career in Management Consulting

When all else fails, I suppose you can always run them out of town with crusafixes, stakes and strands of garlic.

What is, how to deal with a difficult employer, Alex?

The One Where I Wax Entirely Too Poetic About a Pile of Fabric

Warning, if you're a guy, this post will probably bore you...

When I was little, people in their 30's always appeared so grownup to me--polished, sophisticated, mature, unfrazzeled. Women in their 30's in particular seemed these exotic creatures who got to wear matching lingerie sets, polish their nails, do their hair and seductively prance around in 3 inch heels. Oh, how I longed to be a woman in my 30's. Now that I am there, my reality does not quite match this fantasy.

Despite an ever expanding wardrobe of beautiful, classic clothes and killer handbags, I never quite feel as if I achieve this definition of grownup that I first conjured in my childhood (no doubt a product of early exposure to afternoon soaps like Another World and Santa Barbara). My hair has mind of its own; nail care never seems to make on to my radar screen for more than 5 minutes a week (if that); as nice as my under garments are, they seldom match; and the very thought of 3 inch heels instinctively make my feet hurt.* When it comes to mastering all the trappings of femininity, I deserve a giant FAIL.

Clothes, an essential component of this picture, are another quandary altogether. An unfortunate fact of life is that when you're 5 feet 2 inches tall and pleasingly hourglassy, clothes are a bitch to fit into. While the apparel industry is slowly growing hip to the fact that not everyone is 5 feet 7 and shaped like a tooth pick, the travails of the petite yet well endowed are clearly not a challenge they have yet aspired to tackle. After years of questionable relationships with my body image, exercise and food, it seems wholly unfair that in accepting what nature gave me, there's very little that naturally flatters it. 

So defeating do I find this state of affairs, that most of the time I find it easiest to throw on jeans and tee and be done with it.

It is only until recently that I have accepted the concept of custom tailoring as a necessary evil, one that not only adds dollars on to each of my purchases, but also adds new errands to my weekly to-do lists. And because I am lazy and a natural procrastinator, these trips always takes months to actually come to fruition. As I write this, there is a pile of clothes sitting next to me awaiting a trip to the tailors for various paycheck-consuming alterations. It has been there for longer than I care to admit.

But annoying as this is, I do feel like this epiphany has helped transform my feelings towards shopping. While I used to not even bother trying on most garments, my recent trips to department store dressing rooms are prefaced by a ritual pep talk in which I remind myself that it is possible to pay a nice person with a sewing machine to make something shorter, take it in, do something with the straps, etc.

Yet once you've enmeshed yourself in the jeans and tee mentality, it's a hard thing to divest yourself of. I'm not sure if I dress down partially because my life never takes me anywhere fancier, or if my life never takes me anywhere fancier because I dress down. Maybe because it's spring, but recently I've been trying to do it up a bit better.

As part of that, yesterday, on a mission to find a new pair of black pants, I found myself in the little black dress corner of Banana Republic, fingering a slinky black sheath dress, wondering what I would ever do with it. Said dress in all it's low-cut, bust enhancing, hip accentuating glory is not an item I ever feel I have occasion to wear. I do after all, work for a really crunchy non-profit and my social life revolves around dive bars. Yet wrapped up in this dress, I saw all of my childhood fantasies of womanhood become suddenly achievable. It seemed not unreasonable that I could slip it on with a strand of pearls and a long neglected pair of heels and possibly pass as an adult rather than a perpetual graduate student.

I will skip the part of the story involving the dressing room, bad fluorescent lights, the alterations I realized the garment would need, purchasing said dress and the buyers remorse on the trip home.  Let's just say that when I got this thing home, I came down with an intense need to validate my decision to buy it. The equivalent of several weeks of groceries/ two months of cell phone bills/countless cans of PBR, if this garment were to become a part of my life, it would need to prove its mettle. Immediately.

So I slid it on, along with a strand of pearls and a pair of shoes so high I have never quite been able to stumble more than several feet in them, and behold--a grown woman stared back at me from the other side of the mirror. Despite it's need for significant hemming, I could tell the garment was a rather brilliant Herve Leger knock-off, and oddly enough, 100% made for a figure such as mine. In it, I felt for once, that I could convincingly pass as somebody worldly, sophisticated, polished, grown-up. All those things I sometimes manage to acheive internally yet often don't muster the energy to project.

Not long ago, I found myself in a social situation composed of two other women and a guy. The hour was late and we were all a little loopy. Somehow, the conversation was eventually hijacked by our girly insecurities, confessions of various neurosis and such. The guy just sat back and listened until finally he had enough, delivering the obligatory you're all beautiful speech, only not really. What he said was that he wished that we could see ourselves as he saw us, although he refused to elaborate beyond that.

Well, in that moment regarding my reflection in the mirror, I actually saw myself as he might have seen us. Finally, for once.

*Yes, I am sure that the fashionistas among you cringe at the site of the air-dried ringlets that tumble down my back most days of the week, my ugly Dansko clogs and my un-manicured nails. Well, get a hobby. And by hobby, I mean something other than a fashion blog.

The Semiotics of Paradigmatic Relationship-Speak

Earlier today a friend and I were G-Chatting about certain divisions between the haves (as in single people who possess the freedom to not be tied down in a relationship) and the have-nots (all you people who are attached/married). One is the tendency among the have-nots to describe single people as "still single."

This really annoys me.

Let's examine this mini-phenomenon, shall we?

The term "still" when used as an adjective is defined to mean "remaining in place or at rest; motionless; stationary" as in to stand still. It can also mean "without waves or perceptible current; not flowing, as water."

A certain lack of progress is inherent in both of these definitions, as it also is when used to describe the state of never have been married. As if when you are single you are failing to make progress in your romantic and personal life.

What this fails to capture is are the subtle nuances of single life. Such as the fact that being alone is far more progressive than being in a relationship with the wrong person. Or that marriage, which was once something that just about everyone was expected to enter into at some point in their lives, is losing its legs as a dominant societal paradigm.

"Still single" implies a certain retardation on the part of the subject. Like, "Yup, Sally can't get it together to find a man. She's still single." Well, in my obscure little opinion, "still single" is still inane and judgemental.

I therefore propose that it's time to reclaim the term "still" and consider adopting a less popular yet completely relevant definition of the word still: free from turbulence or commotion; peaceful; tranquil; calm: the still air.

The One Where I Delete My Online Dating Profile

I am not having what you would call a great day. I greeted the morning by pressing snooze half a dozen times on my alarm, could barely muster the enthusiasm to dress for work, and have spent the majority of the day feeling mopey and unengaged. I wasn't sure if it was going to get any worse and then it did.

Nerve.com sent me an email informing me of communication from a potential new suitor. Despite the fact that I have basically written off all online dating as a haven for freaks, misanthropes, the deformed and the maladjusted (this is just my experience, I know that some of you feel differently), my morbid curiosity got the better of me and I moseyed on over to read my mail.

Oh, how I wish I hadn't.

Did my inbox contain a well thought-out message from an attractive, interesting man politely introducing himself in a manner that would compel an attractive, interesting woman such as myself to strike up an online flirtation?

Did the message ooze chivalry, charm and a certain je ne sais quoi?

No. No on both counts.

If the message were a greeting to a person in real time, it would be a Neanderthalic grunt followed by a tug of my metaphorical pony tail and a kick to my teeth.

It said something to the effect of me man, you woman, in town for business, lets get it on.

That in itself wasn't so terrible. That in itself would have warranted a roll of the eyes and a shrug of the shoulders.

It was what accompanied said message: the photos he had included of himself, naked, proudly displaying his manhood in all its tumescent glory.

Call me a prude, but that form of wooing doesn't fly with me. Maybe it does with some women. If it does, I care not to know. Despite some very ill-advised one night stands in my twenties, I am generally the sort of woman who believes that nudity is the sort of thing you should work up to in a relationship. I don't have a firm rule on this like some women--my rule of thumb is to keep an open mind but that it's generally not something I feel comfortable with right off the bat. Indeed, I have grown extremely guarded in recent years when it comes to sharing myself with other people.

And how am I rewarded for this new-found maturity? I get flashed by some idiot f*cktard oblivious to the rules of common decency. In recent weeks I have found myself caring less and less about dating.  While I haven't given up looking per say, the whole concept has slid extremely far down the priority list now occupying the space slightly below dusting my bookcases and organizing my sock drawer.

And this new development? It's not really helping.

Now where did I put my whimple?

And Soon, the Other Shoe?

I think my boss might be interviewing for a new job. She's worked here for three months. Perhaps two and half. While I have no firm evidence to support this theory, there are clues. Since few things thrill me a much as piecing together the solution to a mystery, "Operation What Is Up With My Boss?" is occupying a chunk of my spare thoughts. I blame the dozens of Nancy Drew books I devoured as a small child, the stars for sealing my fate as a Scorpio (we tend towards inquisitivness and creative problem-solving, not to mention that we intuit like it's nobody's business--usually when it's none of our business) and my girl-crush on Veronica Mars.

Below I present you with various pieces evidence to suggest that my boss is interviewing for a new job. Please feel free to review them and play along.

1.) Last week she engaged one of our team members in a screaming match that resulted in an intervention from upper-management. Our soundtrack for the rest of the week consisted the sounds of her stomping around, sighing loudly and slamming doors.

2.) Until last week, she constantly complained about our organizational culture. Like uh, several times a day. Not so much this week however, which I can only assume suggests a sense of exhaustion by and regarding said subject matter.

3.) A sexually harassing narrow-minded douchebag was asked to resign last week. She might see this as a sign that people who oppose our processes and policies (or blissful lackthereof) don't tend to stick around very long.

4.) She's taking large portions of the day off for what she says are "appointments out of the office" and when she returns is wearing a very nice suit and carrying a briefcase. While she could be two-timing us as a lobbyist on K Street, I rather doubt it.

5.) In attending one of said appointments yesterday, she missed what seemed to me like a rather important management meeting. I went in her place.

So...that's five clues. I wish I had more evidence to provide dear readers, but sometimes you just have to let the few clues you possess speak for themselves.

The Sound Of One Shoe Dropping...

..Is something like a soft thud.

As predicted, something big did happen on Friday--a change that will hopefully improve the quality of life for everyone here at work. My hunches are rarely inaccurate in these situations--I seem to have some sort of hyper-developed sense of intuition. Yet things still feel amiss and I can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop. In the meantime, I will continue to feel...unsettled.

Tick, Tick, Tick...

Last night I had a dream involving some of my colleagues at work. Actually, it was this morning after I finally fell asleep after being awake for two hours in the middle of the night. In my dream, several of my colleagues were over at an apartment that apparently belonged to me, even though it did not resemble the one I currently live in. While I had been inhabiting it as a studio, apparently it was a one-bedroom whose bedroom was cluttered with boxes of junk--mostly old books.

My colleagues and I were assembled in the other room when several really huge bumble bees started buzzing around the ceiling fan. My boss, who was also there, freaked out and told me I had to get rid of the bees somehow because she was allergic. In my dream I too was allergic and told her that, but she didn't care. Somehow somebody else took care of the matter or the dream switched channels because all of a sudden I was consumed with the logistical challenge of flying to and from Los Angeles for dinner without anyone knowing I was gone.

I suppose two things could be derived from this dream: The first is that I could probably use a good emotional or psychic  decluttering. The second is that my boss is clearly out for her interests and not mine. Or that is what I perceive.

Regardless, there's been a really weird vibe here this week: more meetings behind closed doors, conversations with raised voices, people organizing against a perceived enemy. Something has got to give, and I rather wish whatever it is would just happen already.

Ew

My creepy male co-worker just informed me that he overheard me talking about the pilates studio I sometimes go to and now he wants to check it out.

Note to self: find new pilates studio.