Sunday, December 31, 2006

Rocky start, just the way I like it

If it was smooth and easy, and I came here burbling on and on about how awesome my practice felt and how incredible it is to be back at the shala, you could be sure that tomorrow I would either (a) sleep through my alarm, (b) come down with a brand new cold or (c) make it to practice and be sorely disappointed. A cannonball shot out on the first practice back is just asking for a letdown. It's like a really insanely amazing first date, after which you never hear from the guy again.

Instead, I had a good practice. A fine practice. A bit of trouble in Mari D, which I could have predicted since (a) I ate a banana, had 16 oz of coffee and a Diet Raspeberry Snapple before practice, (b) I was sweaty and slippery and it's been a month since I've had to contend with the slippery factor in Mari D and (c) being back at the Shala, I can't really add in my R&D poses that make Mari D flow soooo much easier. Sir didn't help me either. Which I was relieved about, actually. I really didn't care much about whether I could bind easily in Mari D today. My focus was on just doing the practice and making it to Supta K without hestitation, fear, dread or sheer exhaustion.

And so it was. Probably my best Supta K ever, even better than it has been at home. What the sweat taketh away from Mari D, the sweat giveth freely in Supta K: shoulders slipping juicily beneath knees, ankles sliding freely upward, creating a horizontal energy from tailbone to toes, rather than a pounding compression of thighs mashing down on upper arms. What was particularly lovely was that it took me about half the time today that it has been taking me at home lately to get settled into my "I'm ready for my adjust, Mr. DeMille" position. It took me so little time and effort, in fact, that I found myself hanging out for a long, long time...so long in fact that I found myself drumming my fingers on the floor after a while as I waited for my assist. I heard a chortle or two, not sure from whom. And then Sir put my hands together. Unfortunately, my left-hand ring-finger is still tender from the sprain, and I couldn't really do any aggressive grabbing. But I visualized it. And in the past, I couldn't even manage that.

Backbends were easier than at home, and I almost stood up on my own today. Probably because without all of the R&D, I had energy to spare. I didn't want to go down what might be an uncomfortable road of asking Sir to assist me in drop-backs. I want him to tell me when it's time. So, for now, I just did my backbends and then Sir smooshed me in Paschimo.

Nothing like being back at the shala to motivate me to not simply phone in my closing sequence. Thank goodness. My phone bills were getting awfully high this month. Time to keep it real again.

Came home, ate some sesame and sunflower seed crunch (I bought it at 7-11 of all places, but it gave me the idea of making my own at home), and now Adam and I are going to see a movie. Later on, the YC family will be ringing in the new year at a quintessentially New York City party just because we still can, seeing as we are still living here. I'll explain tomorrow. The Husband seems to think that if I tell people where I am going, some crazy-ass stalker type out there might go there too. And he hasn't even read the comments from Zee on Linda's and Susan's blogs! Whatev.

YC

Saturday, December 30, 2006

Reasons to Leave New York Right Now


This week's New York Magazine gives us a media slam-book of reasons to leave New York right now. At least I think that's what they're doing.

The highlights:

Reason Number Seven: Because of the Lack of Privacy (So says the magazine: "We live in the voyeurism capital of the world where we can catch our neighbors in the act practically any time we want.")

Reason Number Eight: Trump (Apparently, his vulgarity and predictability make him the most entertaining entertainer outside of entertainment, and who doesn't adore the proliferation of sterile-looking, behemoth Trump buildings along the Hudson River in the 60's?)

Reason Number 12: "Because, Well, Just Get Up Tomorrow at Dawn and Walk Around." (I did that, and I saw garbage under pink smoggy skies. On the other hand, there was AMPLE parking, just like in South Park!)

Other reasons:

Because We Love to eat PORK! (Now, that's a reason if I ever heard one, although it strikes a particularly tasteless note in the month Charlotte's Web comes out.)

Because Our Water Tastes Terrible And We Think People Believe Us When We Tell Them It's Yummy. (I really can't respond to this, not having the stomach to even think about drinking out of my building's pipes).

Because of the Socialites. (Because who doesn't love to be constantly reminded of the fact that even in a supposedly high-minded, intellectual place like NYC, you can still make it on wealth and the ability to throw it around, alone).

Maggie Gyllenhaal. (It seems that some feel that we should be happy that some people who are famous for actually doing something live here too.)

Because Your Doorman Notices When You've Had Your Hair and Makeup Done and SAYS SO!(What woman doesn't love being surveyed and critiqued by uniformed men standing between her and her front door?)

Because the Mob is FUNNY! (Actually, ALL crime is funny.)

Because of all the Pretty But Unemployed Actresses Slinging Hash. (The magazine points out that it's really great to be served food by beautiful waiters. Because it sure never makes me think about the broken dreams of a generation of kids who came here seeking, well, not to be waiters.)

Because We Give Good Alienation. (When NOT having to say hello to your neighbor in the elevator or the deli down the street is a special treat and when avoiding eye contact with the throngs who are invading your personal space is your gift to humanity, you know that you've made it in Manhattan)

Because The Emotional Fallout From 9/11 Feels SOOO Good. (Every time I look at that big gaping hole, I think not about the loss but of our strength! Of our will to go on! And I also think about when the next attack will be, and whether this time, I will be in the wrong place at the wrong time).

Not to be a whiner, even as I whine, not to be down on a city that I am sure that plenty of you love, not to do a total about face on a city that I used to love, let me just add a dousing of my own fuel to the fire:

The other day I saw a guy walking down East 80th Street drop a razor blade out of his shirt pocket. A razor blade. My kids just walked on by like nothing strange had happened at all.

Last week, I came out of a deli and found am older woman in dirty clothing standing beside Lewis, whom I had tied up to a parking meter. In a voice gravelly with cigarette smoke and liquor, she said to me "You know, a lady walked by here and was going to steal your dog. To teach you a lesson about leaving your dog like that. But I stopped her." I felt afraid. But not so afraid that I didn't feel my rage. "Was that lady...perhaps YOU?" I asked indignantly. The older woman started yelling at me about dog thieves and leaving dogs tied up and blah blah blah.

"Mind your own business," I said, turning my back and walking away.

"Merry Christmas!" she yelled after me.

"Happy Hanukah" I yelled back.

"I don't celebrate Hanukah" she actually replied.

I shook my head and walked on.

And finally, I give you this: Recently, there have been murmurings in New York City of a privatization deal that would grant exclusive use of the prime playing fields in Randall's Island to a consortium of elite private schools. Actually, it's more than murmuring. This really could happen, and it really embarasses me to think that this could be permitted in this city or any city in this century.

I guess it really is time for me to ship out. All of that which I loved about living here in the past (first, the convenience to partying, then the convenience to work, then the convenience of popping out of the elevator with a baby buggy and walking wherever; the promise of Broadway shows, taxi rides to Lincoln Center, the exciting mix of people, the feeling of never being alone and loving it) have become either inapplicable to me in my life as it is now, or worse: reasons to leave. It's like all those cute things you adore in your new lover slowly becoming annoying and eventually despicable as time goes on until you just. can't. take. it. anymore.

My New Year's Resolution is to move to a place with lots of space to move about - both indoors and outdoors, to force myself into a situation where human interaction is a treat and not devalued by virtue of its excessive supply, to walk on streets where people don't throw their chicken bones and pizza crusts on the ground when no one's looking, or worse, shamelessly while someone IS looking. I know there are crazy people everywhere (and who knows...maybe to some, I am one of them). But do they have to be in my face all the time?

YC

The "Po" in Ohio

Last night, I checked out The Oh in Ohio, and it was not only hiLARious but clever and "gratifying" (heh), in its non-Hollywood happy ending (heh, again). I've always been a big fan of Parker Posey, and not just because I happened to have practiced alongside of her once or twice at a Bikram Yoga studio in Union Square and at Shala X. And it wasn't just the fact that Parker's character opens the movie on a yoga mat practicing Ardha Baddha Padmotanasana, Toe Stand and Garudasana that won me over either, although that was a much better start than the "alternative opening scene" shown in the DVD's extras. It's just that there's something about Parker that I really enjoy watching onscreen -an intelligence that comes through no matter whom she plays, but which comes through especially when she embodies uptight, borderline OCD, career women. There's something in the way she is able to modulate her voice from high-pitched and girlish to deeply husky that I find fascinating. Perhaps there's also an element of how highly I think of the films she chooses as vehicles. I'm pretty much on the side of Cecil B. Demented, but without all the homicide.

Happy Saturday ya'all! And don't my body know it.

YC

Friday, December 29, 2006

Fingertips in Supta K, Take 3

I just thought I would mention it, in case things go horribly awry in my practice once I am back at Shala X. This way I can look back and know that I did it and I will do it again.

YC

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Yes, yes, everything and uh, speak for yourself

Through a variety of circuitous routes, I came across this entry from Jason's Leaping Lanka blog, and found myself not sure whether to laugh or to laugh again and even harder.

I do not know Jason, but sometimes it seems to me as if I do, having tussled with him on the EZBoard and having heard his praises sung by Encinitas ashtangis and others. Apparently Jason is every bit as clever and knowledgeable as his writing would indicate, plus he is a well-respected teacher and a practitioner whose strength, flexibility and focus inspire awe amongst those who would admit to watching.

From time to time, I check out the Leaping Lanka blog to see what is on Jason's mind. Recently, there was the oft-cited entry about ashtanga blogging and what Jason wishes we would blog about (farts, vaginal farts, sex, sex amongst shala mates, breakups amongst shala mates who used to be having sex, and I'm sorry but that is all I can remember at the moment). I wanted to comment. I wanted to say, "What about your blog? Why not start there?" But each time I typed it out, or something like it, I couldn't bring myself to hit "publish" because I knew that if I did, the joke would be on me. Or maybe it wouldn't. I couldn't tell.

See, I couldn't figure out if Jason was seriously envisioning himself as standing on the outside looking in on ashtanga blogging. To my mind, he seems to be too intelligent for that. He would have to know that he can't blog about blogging and not become his own subject matter. Wouldn't he?

And so, I left it alone. Until today, when I found myself reading the following questions, posed by Jason on December 2, 2006:


"Can ashtanga vinyasa yogis cop to looking at pictures of Britney Spears' vagina?"

"Can ashtanga vinyasa yogis admit to being more intrigued by Britney Spears' C-section scar than her vagina?"

What does Britney Spears' vagina have to do with yoga?

My eyes widened. Was this a direct hit...on me? On my own blog? On my decision to publicize my interest in Britney Spears's failure to wear panties? On my decision to veer so far off the topic at hand: yoga?

Who knew? But then I laughed. A big hearty laugh that made my older son, playing with his XBox, turn to me and demand to know "WHAT". What? What, indeed. An entire blog entry about blogging about Britney. You can't write about blogging about Britney without writing about Britney. You can't write about Britney without some interest in the topic. Some. I said "some". Not an all-encompassing obsession. But an awareness of popular culture. An awareness that even a focused yoga practice will not fully eliminate.

"Oh, if only we could live in a cave in the jungle, wear a loincloth, grow our hair and beards, practice the asanas, the pranayama, the meditation, chant the Gita and the Sutras, and know nothing of Britney Spears' vagina," Jason goes on to say.

If only?! Uh, not. I like my plush digs, I like to drape my body in flattering cuts of luxurious fabrics, I believe in good grooming, and I like to know which celebrities are engaging in which crass acts in order to get attention. I respect the desire to not be entirely of this world. But it is my particular desire to be of this world. And to practice yoga. To blend them as seamlessly as possible, like a finely emulsified balsamic vinaigrette.

But that's just me. And this is where I tell the tale.

Oh, and to answer the initial three questions posed above: yes, yes and if it is in my experience, then it goes into my yoga.

YC

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

The Body and the Mind: A Chicken-Egg Thing

Most of us are familiar with the concept that blockages in the flow of emotional energy are associated with problems found within the body. We learn the notion in yoga (hips don't lie), at the chiropracter or on the massage table ("you seem tense"), in rolfing sessions (never had one, but I've heard....). Sometimes we hear anecdotes from friends that suggest the connection - a story about a woman who hated her legs and then got bone cancer in one of them, a story about how learning forgiveness led to improved backbends.

But as I was thinking about this just now, it occurred to me: which comes first, the body or the mind? Does having tight hips reveal that we are angry about something...OR...does having tight hips make us feel angry? If we have trouble opening up the front body - the heart center - does it mean we are closed off emotionally? OR does having tight pecs make us close off emotionally?

This is not a joke.

Back in college, I remember reading in Social Psychology textbook that forcing a smile can alter the mood favorably. Does cracking open the ribcage (so to speak) alter our ability to love favorably? Does it allow us to forgive more fully? Does releasing the tension in the hips make us feel less angry?

Meanwhile, today, my practice consisted of 5 A's and 5 B's. I just felt spent and didn't want to continue. This is a rare occurrence. Usually, once I get started, I am happy to continue. I think I still need to build up my stamina after my seven-week lay-off. Tomorrow, I will come back to it refreshed, hopefully, and then practice straight through to the moonday (next Wed).

Shit.

I'm struggling right now. The cooped up-ness of the past month's non-stop sickness in this house, the cooped up-ness of having the kids home for vacation this week (they are loving staying pajamas all day, and in this day and age of go-go-go schedules for kids, who can blame them? And who would want to force activity on them when they would rather sack out?), the bad cold I just got over, the disappointment of realizing that my breasts will always be kind of dented and maybe even a bit lumpy at the corner where they meet my armpits and that my nose is not the perfect ski-slope that I feared ending up with but must have fantasized having. I'm tired. It's winter but it's not snowy. It's just dark and chilly. My dog has some serious behavior problems, which I am just now attending to (dominating behavior towards other dogs when he is on the leash) thanks to The Dog Whisperer, but it takes energy. Found out today that Brian needs braces, and Adam has yet another cavity (Brian inherited my big, healthy teeth that are too big for the mouth of their owner; Adam inherited the Husband's weak enamel but at least they are sized perfectly for his mouth). I feel irritable. I feel raw.

I want to do something with my life.

And I don't mean law. And I don't think that I really have the energy to teach yoga all day long.

I think they call this mid-life crisis.

YC

Ask a stupid question....

...well, you know the rest.

And yet, I can't help myself. Perhaps I might stress that this next one is rhetorical: Is it really true that if I want the next pose, then my teacher will withhold it from me to teach me a lesson about ego, attachment, what yoga about, whatever?

And by rhetorical, I mean, I don't care what the answer is.

You see, it really doesn't matter what the answer is because if any teacher of mine ever tried to pull that crap on me, I would be out of there as fast as you can say "self-respect" or, faster still, "ego".

I'm not a big fan of the tough love approach to learning. Perhaps it has its place sometimes. But I have never in my life, as a lawyer training junior lawyers, as a mother teaching her younguns, as a yoga teacher teaching her students, or otherwise, found that the ego-busting, humble-pie-eating model of teaching does much of anything besides turn the student off.

Nor do I believe that my own teacher withholds poses for the purpose of breaking the ego or teaching about patience. Whenever I have mastered a pose, I have promptly been moved on to the next. My failure to move through the Primary Series faster is purely a function of my lack of joint mobility. It is not due to a failure to practice, or an excess of practice. It is not due to an overblown ego, nor is it due to a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure. It is a function of where my body is at due to where my body has been. No one is holding me back. And no one is pushing me. I am simply learning the poses, one at a time until I master them, and then, I will receive the next. Or so my experience shows.

My own experience is my only evidence, but heck, that's good enough for me. Frankly, it doesn't much matter to me if Sir withheld a pose from you or kept you from practicing Second or Third. And by you, I mean, not me.

I am a human in the year 2006 in a country where "I want" is often followed by "so I will get", in a city where "I want" seems to know no bounds. I am an adult who was raised by parents who taught me that I could do just about anything I wanted to do as long as I worked at it. And I learned to be proud of my accomplishments and to long for accomplishment. If anyone tried to impede my progress in yoga just to teach me to feel less attached to accomplishment, just to stomp on my ego, just to teach me some kind of a yoga lesson, that would be tantamount to a betrayal. My assumption is that I am in the shala to learn yoga, not to be beaten to an emotional pulp.

I signed up for Ashtanga, not E.S.T.

I look forward to experiencing some hardwon pride over my physical improvements in yoga and to putting them in perspective in my own head through my study of yoga, not through the sadistic countertransference of some yoga teacher, who I imagine doesn't really exist except in the transference of some angry, paranoid, disgruntled former student.

YC

Ask a stupid question....

...well, you know the rest.

And yet, I can't help myself. Perhaps I might stress that this next one is rhetorical: Is it really true that if I want the next pose, then my teacher will withhold it from me to teach me a lesson about ego, attachment, what yoga about, whatever?

And by rhetorical, I mean, I don't care what the answer is.

You see, it really doesn't matter what the answer is because if any teacher of mine ever tried to pull that crap on me, I would be out of there as fast as you can say "self-respect" or, faster still, "ego".

I'm not a big fan of the tough love approach to learning. Perhaps it has its place sometimes. But I have never in my life, as a lawyer training junior lawyers, as a mother teaching her younguns, as a yoga teacher teaching her students, or otherwise, found that the ego-busting, humble-pie-eating model of teaching does much of anything besides turn the student off.

Nor do I believe that my own teacher withholds poses for the purpose of breaking the ego or teaching about patience. Whenever I have mastered a pose, I have promptly been moved on to the next. My failure to move through the Primary Series faster is purely a function of my lack of joint mobility. It is not due to a failure to practice, or an excess of practice. It is not due to an overblown ego, nor is it due to a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure. It is a function of where my body is at due to where my body has been. No one is holding me back. And no one is pushing me. I am simply learning the poses, one at a time until I master them, and then, I will receive the next. Or so my experience shows.

My own experience is my only evidence, but heck, that's good enough for me. Frankly, it doesn't much matter to me if Sir withheld a pose from you or kept you from practicing Second or Third. And by you, I mean, not me.

I am a human in the year 2006 in a country where "I want" is often followed by "so I will get", in a city where "I want" seems to know no bounds. I am an adult who was raised by parents who taught me that I could do just about anything I wanted to do as long as I worked at it. And I learned to be proud of my accomplishments and to long for accomplishment. If anyone tried to impede my progress in yoga just to teach me to feel less attached to accomplishment, just to stomp on my ego, just to teach me some kind of a yoga lesson, that would be tantamount to a betrayal. My assumption is that I am in the shala to learn yoga, not to be beaten to an emotional pulp.

I signed up for Ashtanga, not E.S.T.

I look forward to experiencing some hardwon pride over my physical improvements in yoga and to putting them in perspective in my own head through my study of yoga, not through the sadistic countertransference of some yoga teacher, who I imagine doesn't really exist except in the transference of some angry, paranoid, disgruntled former student.

YC

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

It's been almost a year in Supta K

I got it last year in the spring. That makes it like 3/4 of a year. In the beginning I used to count the practices at which I got adjusted in it, thinking I might come up with some grand total someday of "this many practices until I bound in Supta K". I abandoned that when it got too depressing. Either that or I just can't count that high.

But here I am, finally making progress. And by progress, I mean that my arms are finally being freed up on their own (without an adjustment) from the squeezing pounding pressure that had heretofore been exerted by my legs. And this, to me, is the light that I am finally seeing at the end of the tunnel. Used to be that I had no concept of how this pose could possibly happen for me. It just didn't feel possible. I remember feeling like that about Mari C several years ago, and then instantly seeing the "how" of it once I came to discover the Mysore style of practice. The way Mark put me into Mari C helped it make sense to me - the centrifugal pull of the bent knee to make space for the torso to turn, the reaching of the "grabbing" arm. But for the life of me, I couldn't see how the pieces of Supta K fit together.

There was that crazy "double-Mari A" bind, first of all. But there had to be a "trick" to that. And I imagined that the "trick" had something to do with the legs being made "compact" by spiraling inward. And I knew that it was important for the hips to be open enough so that the legs could lift away from the upper arms as well as track straight over the shoulders, rather than out on the diagonal. But it all seemed so disjointed. Kind commentators here would suggest wiggling my shoulders deeper under my knees. But I might as well have attempted to wiggle my left nostril: it just didn't translate.

Suddenly it does.

Yesterday, the Husband got my fingertips to touch again. Today, I had no one there to help me since I am practicing at home (kids are on vacation), but I felt that "wiggle room" that seems to be the holy grail for me.

I can't help but wonder (excitedly) what might happen when I get back to the shala again.

But what if nothing happens? What if this is just a big mirage, and I'm actually no closer to Supta K than I was 8 months ago?

YC

The Rare Puritanical Rant You'll See Here on YC

I'm really bothered by the Miss Nevada USA thing that happened recently. I'm not upset that Katie Rees was "stripped" (ha) of her crown fairly or unfairly, rightly or wrongfully. I'm not upset that Donald Trump seems to have made a morality choice between substance abuse and substance-fueled antics, choosing the latter, rather than the former (or rather than both) as the forgivable sin (by keeping Tara Connor instated as Miss Universe after reports of her using came to light).

What I am upset about is the fact that Katie Rees felt compelled at some point in her life to put on the "I'm kissing girls, aren't I sexy" show. I've seen this show in recent years, the first time at Tao, the cavernous midtown restaurant made famous by Sex and The City for having a big, giant Buddha sitting at its center (even as they served Kobe Beef by the ounce). I was having dinner with the Husband and another couple, and I gradually became aware of some interesting antics going on at a table nearby. There were two young men, around 30 years old, both kind of your average, college grad, urban professional type. Sitting with these guys were three girls in their early twenties, dressed provocatively in tight, low-rise jeans, thong underwear rising above the low rise (it was in the days of THAT), with lots of hair and lots of sparkly makeup. I would never have noticed these people, except that the girls seemed really antsy. They kept getting up and sitting on each others' laps. Someimes they would sit on the laps of the men. But usually they would sit on top of each other. Eventually, I noticed that the girls were kissing each other at the table. Big, open-mouthed kisses, tongues appearing and disappearing.

I was horrified. No, outraged.

I turned to my table and said, "Thank God I'm not single anymore. Seems like all the girls have to pretend to be bi in order to get attention from guys."

We talked about this for a while, sharing stories about sixteen-year old nieces who complain about being pressured into kissing other girls and doing God knows what else to get attention from the boys. I thought about the Sex and The City episode where Carrie has to deal with her bisexual boyfriend of the week, and feels uncomfortable at a spin-the-bottle party where she gets kissed by a girl.

I have nothing against honest bisexuality. I have nothing against anyone's honest sexual choices. But when girls kissing girls becomes a requirement for receiving boy-approval, something seems to have gone terribly wrong.

I guess it just seems so fake. And I hate inauthenticity. And I am so grateful that I never had to pretend I was something I wasn't in order to get male attention. I don't understand what has happened in the past decade or so that has dragged our culture into the mud this way.

So, getting back to Katie Rees. I don't think she is gay; rather, I think she wanted "that" kind of attention. And I think it is sad that she thought she needed it, a beautiful girl like her who probably had plenty of attention with or without doing the faux-bi thing.

But I am not sad that she's losing her crown over it, if it sends the message that this sort of behavior is not cute, not attractive and should stop being the "thing to do".

YC

Sunday, December 24, 2006

The Husband Got My Fingertips Together In Supta Kurmasana!!

Fingertips in Supta K! At home! With the completely unskilled assistance of the Husband! As well as a busted ring finger on my left hand which kept me from going deep in all the Marichyasanas (other than, for some weird reason, one side of B and one side of C)! Not to mention the last vestiges (I hope) of the nasty cold from hell that kept me cabin-bound for nearly a month. As well as with the iPod tuned to an odd mixture of Gwen Stefani, Fergie, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Alanis and U2.

Imagine what might happen at Shala X, with the quiet vibe, the finger healed (soon, hopefully), the cold virus banished (again, soon, hopefully) and my teacher's primo Supta K adjusting skills!

I am on the edge of my seat!

Such pressure!

I think this is the place where passion and detachment must find a way to coexist peacefully in the cosmic dance of yoga.

YC

Kewl! Yoga 4 Everyone!!

So, it turns out that yoga really IS for everyone....even Satan Worshippers!

It's kind of funny because there are already those who believe that yoga is a form of devil worship (at its worst, and blasphemous to the fundamentals of Christianity at best). Talk about self-fulfilling prophecies.

Now, drop and give me 666 Sun Salutations.

YC

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Yoga-not-ees

Last night, I taught a Yogi-lates class at Boom Fitness, where I sometimes teach plain old yoga. I am not sure what made me say yes to teaching a class that is neither yoga nor pilates (since pilates, as designed by Joseph Pilates, was intended to be done on contraptions called "The Reformer" and "The Cadillac")but merely a way to suck in people who don't want to commit to either yoga or pilates.

I am essentially a yoga snob, a purist at heart. I never would have stopped practicing law to become a gym teacher or personal trainer, as noble as those professions may be. My conception of life after law was my giving the gift of yoga to others. Not just the physical gift (e.g., the yoga abs, the yoga butt), but the mental and emotional gifts that yoga unlocks (e.g., the tools to help one to be in the moment, whether the moment is good or bad, recognizing that the moment, like every moment, passes inevitably). And as rewarding as teaching pure fitness may be, it simply does not fit within my concept of what I want to be doing with my life.

As I taught "Neither Yoga Nor Pilates" last night, I felt like a fraud. I didn't believe in what I was doing, and I didn't enjoy it. I had a cheat-sheet with me because I knew that the sequence of actions I had planned out wouldn't really adhere to my brain. But as I taught, I realized that the class was loving it. I'm not going to attribute it to skillful teaching or powerful personality on my part. I'll just say that I was giving them the class that they wanted.

And it made me think about New York Yoga, the Upper East Side yoga factory at which I taught for a while, where the stated goal is a sterilized version of yoga that won't scare off the bourgeois masses that live on the far east side of the Upper East Side. I am pretty sure that NYY is doing a fabulous business. Yet many studios with a much higher quality of teaching go out of business in their first year or two, or never turn much of a profit even if they do stay in business.

For me, this begged the question: If I could become "rich" doing something that I didn't really believe in, would I?

People become rich manufacturing plastic urine sample cups. People earn handsome livings owning companies that turn trees into paper. But would I? If I could make a bunch of money selling some sort of bastardized amalgamation of yoga with calisthenics with gymnastics with stomach crunches, would I?

I tend to think "no", but it's really impossible to answer from where I stand right now, with no motivation to do so and no one telling me that if I did, I would.

So for now, I will go with no. But I do wonder.

YC

Friday, December 22, 2006

I heart I Heart Huckabees

But I sympathize with those who throw up their hands at the screen and say, "Excusemwhat??"

I finally got around to renting the DVD of IHH a couple of days ago, and I will admit it right up front: I fell asleep in the middle each time I tried to watch it. But I won't blame it on the movie so much as on the fact that I was sick as a dog this week. That does not absolve the movie entirely: IHH made me tired - it made my mind tired. However, tiring or not, I wanted to get through it. Like running the marathon, or getting through a slightly-too-long yoga practice - I knew it would be worth it if I could just break through the wall. Incidentally, this was true for me of The Big Lebowski, as well, which I still count among my favorite all-time movies (along with Magnolia, the Piano and now IHH).

Listening to the Director's commentary later on (I liked it so much, I actually rewatched it, in carefully measured pieces, with David O. Russell's commentary in the background), I realized that this movie was not necessarily intended to be seen once or to be seen all at once. Perhaps that is why it was not a commercial success. Still, it was damn good. Lots of food for thought for those who miss the intellectual banter of a college philosophy or literature class. Lots of food for thought for those who think that Rubert Thurman is all that because guess what? David O. Russell thinks that Bob Thurman is all that too, and I am fairly sure that the character played by Dustin Hoffman in IHH is based on Bob Thurman (who was a college professor of Russell's at Amherst College, before Thurman moved on to teaching at Columbia University).

I have to run off now to teach a .... Yogilates class....oy.... but when I come back, I will try to pick up where I leave off here (see? even writing about it is something I can't do in one sitting). I will leave you (anyone who is not bored to tears or at least into a deep sleep by now) with this thought:

The main protagonist in I Heart Huckabees is named ALBERT.

As in Albert......Camus!

As in "No Exit" (oh, wait, sorry that's Sartre)....

But, yes, as in "L'Etranger"! The Stranger!

Life sucks and then you die, Albert Camus. That one! The original existentialist (despite desiring to be known as an "absurdist", Camus continues to be known as a leading existentialist, in a sort of existentialist irony).

It's a movie about existentialism and surmounting it with....yoga (although they don't call it yoga, but rather "interconnectedness").

YC

Thursday, December 21, 2006

And then there were none

The Husband is down with the cold now too, as is my dog! Lewis has the canine version of whatever we have, lethargic plus stomach wonkiness (I won't go into the disgusting details). B, who brought it into the house and was home for eight out of 10 school days in a two week period, is happily out and about, while the Husband, Lewis, a and I are wallowing in our misery at home.

It is particularly disturbing in light of the fact that I had started re-reading Stephen King's The Stand right before B came down with fever. If you haven't read The Stand, it's about what happens when a flu epidemic kills 90 percent of the world's population in a two-week period during the summer of 1990. It's actually the inspiration for that television series that you know that I love so dearly: Lost, the island being the equivalent of the post-apocolyptic world depicted in King's book. Like The Stand, Lost brings together disparate people who might never have spoken to one another in real life (Lost demonstrates this by showing their paths cross without notice), gives them a chance to choose to trust or not to trust, to exist in their new society or to choose to act outside the bounds of society, to try on new identities, to escape their pasts (or not). Like Lost, The Stand has a one-hit wonder rock star, a pregnant girl, a good man with leadership qualities, a fat guy, a guy who is unable to readily communicate (in Lost it is because he speaks onlyKorean, in The Stand it is because he is deaf). And ultimately, in both, there is the battle of good versus evil.

But I digress. I don't think that my family has Tube Neck or Captain Tripps or The Rales. But still, it's eerie to be reading about a deadly plague that starts out like the common cold, when you're lying in bed with the common cold.

On a sadder note, my parents' dog, Fergie (Dutchess Sarah Ferguson of York), a teacup Yorkshire Terrior, passed away last night at the ripe old age of 16. As old as she was, it is still devestating to my parents, who were with her when she died.

I guess I should stop there, in honor of Fergie.

YC

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Woof woof

I am sick as a dog.

I feel miserable! MISERABLE!

I am such a baby when I get sick, literally, channeling myself as a two-month old baby who, when sick, believes that she will never ever feel better again and that this is all that life has in store, ever.

I woke up at 5 a.m. screaming. I have no recollection of what the nightmare was about. But I scared the hell out of myself. Then I realized my throat was on fire, and that someone had taken a mallet to all of my bones, joints and muscles. Oh, and an anvil to my head. Smack. Without giving it more than a second's thought, I knew that only the big guns would do. And so I stumbled over to my secret stash of Vicodin (there's like six pills left from my October surgery) and swallowed one down. Even as I walked to the kitchen, where I store the Robitussin Cough and Cold, I could feel the Vicodin smoothing out the jagged edges of flu-ey aches and pains.

I went back into the bedroom and told the Husband, flat out, I am not taking B to school today (A is still sick at home), it's up to you, and I won't take no as an answer, goodnight. And just like that, YC layed down the law for once, no negotiations, no compromises. You see, last night, I had a realization: if the Husband has a social engagement to get to, he gets to it, screw the work. But if I ask him to take the kids to school, it's always a "no can do, got too much work, gotta get to the office, sorry, off I go". Therefore, there must be wiggle room in his big-important-partner-in-a-NYC-lawfirm schedule.

I quite enjoyed my epiphany, and completely out of character, I decided to keep it to myself for future use at a more opportune time. It's right here up my sleeve, and I will roll it out if and when and whenever I get a "no, sorry and away I go". I didn't need to use it today because my craggy voice and take-no-prisoners tone rendered it a complete seige.

I woke up several hours later, still painfree, but feverish and congested. And my first thought was "when can I have more of that Magic Fairy Dust?" That was when I realized that I like it too much to have more.

You know how when you were young and falling in love, and the other person would break up with you with the line, "I like you too much. It scares me"? Well, that was a lie. But in the case of Magic Fairy Dust, it is one hundred percent true.

I'm just too into you, MFD.

YC

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

A little higher


Maybe no one else can see the difference, but I really think my backbend is gaining some height. I think. Practice today was strange - stiff yet no less bendy than usual. As Sir says, stiffness is in the mind. Most of the time, I am not really sure if I believe that. Today, I saw it in action.

Still have one sick child at home, and am coughing my brains out as well. Tomorrow is a moon day, so even if A is back in school, I won't be at the shala. Hopefully Thursday! If not, then definitely by December 31, when Sir returns!

YC

Monday, December 18, 2006

Separated at Birth?


Anyone else think they kind of resemble their canine best friend? I have this theory that people are attracted to dogs (and people) that they resemble, at least to some extent. Anyone see the resemblance here?

If anyone wants to submit me dog-look-alike (or cat or bird for that matter) photos, I will post them here, and we can have a contest: Who Looks Most Like Their Pet?

Can you tell I have no interest in blogging about my practice at the moment?

YC

What Like about Jew

It's Good To Be A Jew At Christmas (words & music by Rob Tannenbaum), from the album "UNORTHODOX"

I've neve rknown the giddy joys
Of other Christmas girls and boys
I never sat on Santa's knee
I've never tasted Christmas ham
Or carroled Winter Wonderland
I'm just not down with Christianity, you see...

It's good to be a Jew at Christmas
It's nice to be a Jew this time of year
It's clear that we're the chosen ones
We got eight nights, they got just one
It's good to be a Jew at Christmas

On Christmas day we'll eat Chinese
Walk empty streets until we freeze
Once a year the city's ours alone
Anyone you see must be a Jew
Why not say "Hi! I'm a Jew, too!"
The goyim are all getting drunk at home

Oh yes it's good to be a Jew at Christmas
It's nice to be a Jew this time of year
You know that Christ was born a Jew
Which means that Mary was one, too

It's good to be a Jew
Don't you want to be one too?
It"s good to be a Jew at Christmas
Good to be a Jew

YC

P.S. Be sure to check out the other songs on Unorthodox, like the ode to JDate and "They Tried to Kill Us But We Survived". Rockin' good stuff. It's on iTunes. Also, the Barenaked Ladies do a couple of Hanukah songs, quite well, I might add. Check them out on iTunes as well! But truth be told, my favorite song of the season is, and has for a long time been, "Oh Holy Night". It is just so incredibly beautiful, and there are so many wonderful versions of it floating around out there. I have a reggae version, a version by 98 Degrees and a version by En Vogue. Kelly Clarkson really does it up nicely as well, but her voice is so powerful, it almost scares me. Finally, Sixpence None The Richer does "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" in tones so melancholy, it's all I can do to keep from weeping, especially if it comes on while I'm practicing Savasana.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Tale of the Turtle, or Ardha Supta Kurmasana

Supta K is finally getting interesting again. Back when I first started working on it, I both relished and feared the discomfort I would feel, the sense that my collarbones would shatter beneath the weight of my legs, my legs made heavier by hips that were open enough for a truly excellent lotus, but not nearly open enough to comfortably send my legs on a trajectory straight up the back of my body. As soon as I lay squashed in Kurmasana, my heart would race as I waited, with a mixture of dread and glee, for my teacher to take hold of my limbs, one by one, and wrap me up like a little package. Of course there never seemed to be quite enough twine to get that package closed. But that's an old tale. No need to repeat it now.

After a short while, it came to pass that my heart no longer raced as I awaited my teacher's footsteps. The thrill was gone. All that was left was the futile attempts to bring fingertips to fingertips around the backs of my legs and back and hold them there as my legs exerted what felt like thousands of pounds of pressure on my arms, causing my arms to spring outward, my fingers to leap apart, inevitably, depressingly.

Sir said my arms seemed to not rotate in my shoulder sockets. It felt to me as if my shoulder sockets were filled with wet cement where my arms were attached. I eagerly awaited my surgery in October which promised to soften the muscles, releasing my arms to rotate freely. And in that sense, the surgery has been a success. My arms are far more free now to rotate, although I am still in the process of waking up the muscles and teaching them how to rotate once again, particularly on the right side. But my muscles are eager students, and I'm quite kinesthetically oriented. So I figure that with a little practice, my muscles will memorize the feeling of a nice deep internal rotation.

But now that the arms are moving, it becomes apparent to me that the legs are in the way. And this is how Supta K has finally become interesting. As I begin to notice my hips softening, I am finally able to work my shoulders pretty much completely under my legs, freeing my arms to rotate as they need to. Stuck at home with sick children as I have been for more than two weeks now (Adam is now sick - fever of 104 degrees!), I have been working by myself on Supta K, getting myself as far into it as I can on my own, which is further and further every time I try.

At this point, I am not even ATTEMPTING to get my arms behind my back, and oddly enough, this seems to be the key to my progress. For anyone who thinks it might help, here is what I have been doing:

I start out by getting myself into a kind of lacksadaisical, wide-legged Kurmasana (I mean no disrespect to the yogini pictured here or to anyone whose Kurmasana looks like this...it's just that for my particular anatomy, there is no way that I would be able to get into Supta Kurmasana from a Kurmasana with legs spread this wide).



And then I bend my legs and start to work my shoulders behind the legs.




At that point, I go BACK to Kurmasana and lie there for a while, breathing, sweating, giving relaxation my best shot.



After a while, I bend my legs again, and work my shoulders even deeper behind my legs.



When I get my shoulders as far under as I can, I cross my ankles (like the photo below, with ankles crossed on the floor over the crown of my head, but without a belt, arms are still reaching freely).



At that point, my legs are usually slippery with sweat, and my arms slip even further under. I then begin to stretch my feet forward, which gives me room to begin ascending my ankles up onto the back of my head and towards my neck. They are not at my neck yet, not even close. But they are not on the floor in front of my forehead anymore, and that is making a huge difference (it feels like they are about where this guy's ankles are...just ignore the fact that he is nicely bound, and nicely inked, and picture instead, my unadorned arms reaching outward and away from one another):




Meanwhile, I am rotating my arms in my shoulder sockets, inward and then outward, outward and then inward. Finally, when I feel that I have reached the end of my ability/desire/motivation to stay in that limbo between Kurmasana and Supta K, I stretch my fingers out to the sides as far as they can go, palms down and then wiggle my shoulders a bit to feel the freedom of not having my legs pressing down on them.

And then if I am lucky, I manage to walk my hands in front of me, and actually press myself up with my ankles crossed.





At this point, that lasts for about one second before my ankles snap apart. But it's progress.

Progress. That's all I wanted. That's enough for me right now.

YC

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Everyone Knows Joe Hayden

(Dedicated to my mom and dad)

Man walks into a bar. Immediately, the bartender breaks into a huge grin. "Hey Joe Hayden! Take a seat, let me get you your usual," he says, pouring the man a scotch and water, neat. "On the house, my friend," the bartender says as Joe Hayden goes to take out his wallet.

Joe Hayden smiles and waves to the folks around the bar, every one of whom greet him by name. Every one of them, that is, except for the middle-aged, professionally attired woman seated directly to his right.

"Excuse me, sir" says the woman, "but I couldn't help but notice that everyone here at this bar knows you, everyone but me, that is. What, is this some kind of a joke?"

"Well," replies Joe Hayden with a twinkle in his eye "actually, it's not a joke at all. You see, everyone knows Joe Hayden. Everyone. I would be far more apt to say that the joke is that up until this very moment, you did not know Joe Hayden. But, see, now you do too."

"That's ridiculous," the woman says, "Maybe everyone in this bar knows you, but it's a big world out there. Everyone cannot possibly know Joe Hayden."

"Well, Ma'am," says Joe Hayden, "I beg to differ. And I'll even go so far as to make you a wager that you can't find one person out there in this so-called big world who doesn't know Joe Hayden, present company excluded, of course, haha."

The woman, a lawyer and no stranger to the occasional social spar, opens her purse and takes out a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. "You're on, Joe Hayden," she says.

And with that, off they go, the woman and Joe Hayden, in search of someone, anyone, who doesn't know Joe Hayden. They walk through the town, but everyone knows Joe Hayden. They leave the town and walk into an office complex off a highway 30 miles from the town, but everyone knows Joe Hayden. They leave the state but can't even find a truck stop where everyone doesn't know Joe Hayden. Eventually, they hit the furthest reaches of the continental United States, and to the woman's dismay, everywhere they go, everyone knows Joe Hayden.

But the woman is tenacious. "Okay, Joe Hayden," she says, "That's it, we're going to Rome. We're going to see the Pope. There's no way he knows you."

"Oh! The Pope!" exclaims Joe Hayden, "He's a great friend of mine!"

"Sure he is," scoffs the woman.

And off they go, to the airport, where everyone knows Joe Hayden, onto the plane, where everyone knows Joe Hayden, and finally to Rome, where Joe Hayden is greeted warmly by the Pope and invited up to stand beside the Pope as he gives his address that Sunday.

The woman stands in the crowd and watches as the Pope speaks to the people, and Joe Hayden stands beside him waving and smiling warmly. Shaking her head in disbelief, the woman turns to the man standing next to her and says, "Excuse me, Signor, but you wouldn't happen to know who that is up there, would you?"

The man looks at her, squints his eyes and scatches his head.

"Well, Signora, I'm not sure about the man in the big, white hat. But the gentleman standing next to him, why everyone knows that that is Joe Hayden!"


[Epilogue: Humiliated, ostracized by her peers and no longer able to get work, the woman left the law and became a great novelist. Joe Hayden is still traveling the world, endlessly in search of someone who does not know him.]

YC

Elisha Cuthbert: Trainee











"Is it time, Paris, I mean, Master?"

"A Pantawan must learn patience."

"Thank you, Master.

"Pantawan, have you prepared to exit the vehicle?

"Yes, Master, I have removed my panties and I have hiked up my skirt. I await your command."

"Pantawan, your moment to prove your worth has come. Exit the vehicle, legs akimbo! NOW, PANTAWAN! GO! GO FORTH AND SHOW THEM YOUR BUSINESS!"

"Thank you, Master, I shall make you and my gynecologist proud."

(wiping away tears of joy) "May the whores be with you, Pantawan."

"As long as you are by my side, Master, as long as you are by my side."


(thank you, Egotastic for the photo)

YC

Friday, December 15, 2006

The Other Side of Yoga Chickie

My mom wants everyone to know, and asked me to please spread the word, that I am not the obnoxious, braggy person I appear to be when I talk about a day spent in Soho getting pampered for no apparent reason or when I talk about a night spent at a black tie charity event, eating jumbo shrimp, following my friend L around as she networked, stars in my eyes at the opulence around me.

I have to admit that I was annoyed when my mom wrote me an email that she didn't like how I was presenting myself. I said, Mom, this is not all that I write about. This is me writing about what I did on specific days. I asked her if she would please rewrite the Saturday Night blog for me in a way that made me seem less braggy and less impressed with the whole affluent social scene. She never did. But on a phone call she suggested that perhaps I might have brought some cynicism to my post, perhaps some social criticism. The trouble is that I didn't feel cynical or critical of what I saw that night. I told it like it was.

Nevertheless, I was happy to spend a day today doing things that are quite unlike what I did last Friday (when I got my hair cut and styled at Devachan, ate Frisee aux Lardons at Balthazar and then pranced around to the sample sales with E) because now I get to write about them here and make my mama proud.

This morning, I woke up, put on a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, covered up with an old long-sleeved T-shirt and a Lands End vest and walked my kids to school, after which I took Lewis out for a nice long walk and then put together a playlist for my lunchtime class at Yoga Sutra. At 11:30, I walked over to the 6 (the subway line that is nearest to me), descended the long staircase, stood online to purchase a new MetroCard and boarded a smelly, crowded subway car. A woman in tattered clothing who smelled like she hadn't bathed in, well, ever, walked through the car selling batteries and other strange items I can't imagine needing or wanting while riding the subway. I gave her no money because I firmly believe that panhandling should be discouraged in closed quarters, and I silently fumed at the people who rewarded her intrusion into our space. Ooops. I should delete that last sentence. But, I can't! I just can't.

The subway stopped somewhere between 59th Street and 51st Street. Usually when the train stops, there is absolutely no explanation as to why, or else, there is some completely incoherent explanation (think: Charlie Brown's teacher). Today was no different. Why should it be? Finally, the train got moving, and I barely made it to Yoga Sutra in time to teach my class. Still, class was nice. Most of the time, it's purely improv for me, and today was a nice smooth flow. I used to plan all of my classes, from the first to the last breath. I used to chart them out and draw little stick figures and then I would memorize it all. It got a bit tedious. I will probably plan the Yoga-lates class I am teaching next week at a gym. But that's only because I've never taught a Yoga-lates class before. And if anyone has any suggestions, please, please send them my way.

After teaching, I decided against practicing because I am planning on practicing tomorrow, and it's only been two weeks since I started practicing regularly, and I don't want to push it. Instead, I decided to grab some lunch. And this is the most delightful part for me because it stands in such sharp contrast to my lunch last week.

Instead of Balthazar at the bar, I wandered into Pret a Manger, a ready-made sandwich chain, picked up a delicious veggie sandwich (sprouts, avocado and shaved parmesan cheese on seven grain bread) and a Diet Coke, and sat at the counter across from the Ladies' Room. In all honesty, the sandwich was way better than the salad I had last week.

Took the subway home, went food shopping in Harlem at the gigantic and awesome Fairway Supermarket and then took Lewis out for an even longer walk, up the East River and across the bridge to Ward's Island, home of the kiddie baseball league and an institution for the criminally insane, and then to Randall's Island, occasional home of Cirque de Soleil, and permanent home of the Icahn track and field stadium as well as the Randall's Island Golf Center, which is really just a Mini-Golf course, a Driving range and a couple of batting cages.

The walk home was excruciating. I should have thought of that before I walked so far from home.

Picked the kids up from school, put on an apron, grated three cups of russett potatoes and half an onion and made some potatoe latkes (you can call them "latkees" if you want to sound like you're from the shtetl), roasted a chicken, and together with my kids and the Husband, lit the Hanukah candles, said the three "First Night" blessings over the candles and contemplated the miracle of the lights.

We told our kids to contemplate miracles in general. But I don't think that they see miracles the same way we do. They think in terms of the miracle of the Game Boy DS and the miracle of the Topps 2006 Major League Baseball Collection. I didn't think to enlighten them about the miracle of the food on the table, the miracle of the roof over our heads or the miracle of health care when you need it. I think in time they will pick that stuff up on their own. And until then, I consider their innocence its own miracle.

YC

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Trippy

Today I had the Fourth Grade Winter Solstice Celebration first thing in the morning, and so I got to watch Brian play the flute in the Fourth Grade Band. It's totally trippy that he, not to mention all of his classmates that I have known since kindergarten or in some cases, pre-k, is already in Fourth Grade and in the school band. TRIPPY, I tell you.

Afterwards, we parents proceded to the classroom to celebrate the "publication" of the "Small Moments" books that each child had written. A "Small Moment" is kind of like a slice of a memoir. It's a bit like a blog entry, as a matter of fact, only it is bound and has a dedication page. Brian's small moment concerned Lewis as well as me, but in all honesty, I have no memory of the incident, whatsoever.

Apparently, however, Lewis does. So, I thought I would let him weigh in on it. Go ahead, Lewis:

"Yo. Thanks, Mamacita, it's an honor and a thrill to be telling the tale here on the blog that you spend so much time writing, when you could be spending that time feeding me. Not to make you feel guilty or nothing. It's just that I come from the streets, in case you don't remember. I found myself out there, well, I don't really know how anymore, somethin to do with a fence and a hole and a serious squirrel jones....yeah....squirrel....okay, right...so, there I was, out on the streets of the Bronx, and the last time I had anything to eat was breakfast that morning when the dude that be my alpha threw half an egg mamuffin and a coupla hash browns into my bowl. Ahhh...egg mamuffin....but anyway, right...so, yeah, I donno where my next meal coming from, and food is kind of like crazy important to me, you know? And then somehow I got ended up in a kennel in some crazy-ass place where the cats just taunt you from across the hall and dogs have a way of disappearing...you know?

Mama? You never been to a place where the dogs have a way of disappearing? It's called the "System". And it means bad food. Kibbel, dry as dust, on a paper plate. Yeah, there's smuggling of cookies. But if you want in on that deal, you need to be someone's bitch. And was bad enough when I woke up one morning and found that, well, someone had already started that process.

Oh! The humanity!

But about the kid. The kid with the red hair. Yeah, he don't eat too fast. He taunt me. He plays wit his food, and he leaves it sittin there while I drool and remember the hard times. When food was scarce, or at least you had to like getting humped by some pit bull mix to get the good stuff. So, the red head has this muffin on his plate. It's dark and lovely and studded with something dark and lovely. Perhaps liver chunks with a side of, I don't know, liver chunks. I didn't know. But I had to know. And so when the kid turned his back, I lunged. I grabbed for it. That dark and lovely muffin went down in one swallow.

But the kid had a look of terror in his eyes - he thought that the muffin was a double chocolate. And chocolate be dog-arsenic, or so the peeps would have you believe. Truth be told, I don't buy that junk. But the boy, well, he's another story.

You, mama, you had to tell him it be a cappucino yuppie scum muffin. But we know the truth, Mama, don't we? Chocolate all the way, Mama. I'll never tell. One condition though. One condition. NEVER ever offer my leash to a Jack Russell Terrier at the Dog Park. EVEN AS A JOKE, Mama. It's not funny. Did you see me laughing? No. Never. Again. We got a deal, Mama?"


YC

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Yet another home practice

Why is it that I am sooooo much better at Mari C and D when no one is looking?



Mari A and B are always a little better with an assist. But C and D rock harder when I am home practicing by myself.



Practiced in a non-conventional way...while watching The Devil Wears Prada.





Anne Hathaway is so adorable. And Streep completely embodies her character.


But the movie is really about the clothes.




Ah...the clothes....Anne and her clothes. She is a stunning goddess and is the absolute rebuttal to the claim that one's body must resemble a coat hanger in order to properly wear couture.

YC

The Hand of God-damnit

My hand in all of it's bruised klutzy glory. And yet this hand is the key to my learning to jump forward on the palms of my hands, rather than rocking forward onto my tender fingers.





Here we have the arty version:












Oh, and something is happening in Supta K. And by something, I mean something good. I am moving my shoulders further and further under my legs, making my arms feel longer and more mobile....I wouldn't even dare to try to bind at this point, with a towel at home, or in the Shala with teacher. Too much ouch. See photos above. But it's coming.

For some reason, my teachers are never willing to convey even the slightest optimism about my getting into any postures.

"Will this ever happen" has been met with:

"I don't know."

And even worse:

"You never know."

That last one was Petri. What up with dat, Petri?

I would only ever ask the question once my fingers are touching in a bind.

The exception to this rule has been Christopher, who has told me that once the fingers touch (I am paraphrasing now:), the pose is within grasp. No pun intended.

But I know. I KNOW. It HAS to happen eventually. Right?

YC

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Petri Party

As some of you may have gleaned from reading this blog or otherwise, it is our custom at Shala X to send off our guest teachers (and, for that matter, Sir) with a yogically appropriate celebration.

It is, alas, drawing close to the time when we must say farewell to Petri (for now). And as is the custom, a celebration is in the works. I know that a lot of you know him from Shala X as well as from AYNY, and the Ashtanga "scene" in NYC in general (such a scene that it is), so instead of Sherlock Holmes-ing for email addresses and putting together a blast that might not get past your junk mail filter, we're putting it out there, on here (you know that you read me).

We can't promise that you'll see any hip hoppers with questionable signage shaved into their hairdos. We can't promise that if you forget to wear panties, the flashbulbs will be popping as you exit your limo. We can't promise you a 32 ounce porterhouse or a hangover on Saturday morning. But I can tell you this: the venue is hip, and the company hipper.

If you're interested in the coordinates, email me, and I'll hook you up.

YC

I thought I was kind of up on these things

So how come it took a lawsuit to make me realize that Mariah Carey was a porn star?

YC

It was for a Fendi party






Kanye West shaved the Fendi logo into his hair for party thrown by Fendi in Japan on November 30.







It was only when I saw the logo without the name that I realized how sinister the logo really looks on its own.





Am I the only one who sees the swastika between the "F"'s?

YC

Another day, another sick child

They're both sick today. No Shala X for me. Will be a home practice, like yesterday, which is fine, but I am unhappy that my routine is not getting back on track. At least I'm admitting it

My finger is in a splint from yesterday's klutz moment. It didn't effect practice much at all, except perhaps in a good way: it kept me on my palms and off my fingers, which somehow made my "shoulders under knees" postures much deeper by the time I got to them (Buja and Kurma).

My nose is dripping. I found a better Zicam though that you don't have to chew. You spray it. Much better.

I am writing all abbreviated because I can barely type with my left hand with the splint and injury.

I have to teach my Focus Fitness group at Yoga Sutra today. Need to call a sitter.

Saturday, we are driving around Armonk, looking at houses. Here is my dream house:



Let's see how reality matches up...

YC

Monday, December 11, 2006

Beta Blogger is so much fun

But all that fun comes at a price. I sat at my computer all day, when I wasn't napping, that is. I really don't feel well. But I still think I should get a little practicing in. What would Sir do?

YC

Sick kid again, plus sprained finger

These are my reasons, not excuses, for not being at Shala X today. Brian has 102 again, and on my way to taking Adam to school, I tripped, and broke my fall with my left hand against a corner of a building, causing my ring finger to bend back so much that I heard it crack. I believe the crack was a knuckle, not a bone break. But it hurts like a mutha right now. I am icing it with a bag of Cascadian farm Thai-style Stir Fry Blend.

I hope I can practice in spite of this finger problem. It would really suck if my practice got taken down by a mere finger. I do doubt that I will be able to bind well with the hand as it is. But I can try. All I can do is try.

The cold is still here, and I am growing weary of the Zicam. They taste like waxed lips with a delightful chalky center.

Lewis the Bagle is taking good care of us in the house. He is truly a sweet dog. But outside the house, he causes all kinds of trouble - barking and lunging at dogs. With my hand kind of useless, I was having trouble walking back home this morning after dropping off Adam, and when Lewis lunged at a rather large Something-Doodle, I was unable to fully control him. Several people on the street, including one woman who was exiting Saint Monica's Church AA Meeting and getting into her Lexus, proceeded to hurl all manner of insults and nonsequiters at me:

From: "You better learn to control your dog!"

To: "What if that was a baby?!"

Heh?

Me to the woman getting into her Lexus: "Mind your own business, bitch! Get in your car and go back to HELL!"

Oh, the things that come out of my mouth when I lose control, which, thankfully, is not often these days. It definitely betrays a rage that burbles within. What it doesn't betray, thank goodness, is any sort of penchant for racial slandering or truly mean-spirited name-calling, a la Michael Richards. I mean, it didn't occur to me to call the woman "Crack Whore" or "Wino", so I guess that's not what's going on in my head. I think that it's the things you say when you lose control of your emotions that tell the most about what's going on deep in your heart and mind.

YC

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Jew eat?**

Well, hell froze over: I went out two nights in a row and lived to tell about it.

If I had given thought to the fact that I was going to be going out two nights in a row, I might not have been able to pull it off. Kind of like a tightrope walker being just fine, as long as he doesn't look down. But a call came late Friday afternoon from my friend L. She and I were in the same playgoup from the time our first babies were like three months old. It was a special playgroup that I created for working moms, and it has continued for nearly 10 years, although now the four core moms in the group no longer meet with our kids. Back then, we met at night, ate pizza and bonded over the challenges of not being part of the daytime parkbench crowd. These days, we still meet at night, usually with our husbands in tow, and bond over, well, whatever real friends bond over. But I digress.

Anyway, L's husband had bought a table at the annual Real Estate Industries' Winter's Eve Dinner Dance to benefit the National Jewish Medical and Research Center taking place the next night and wanted to know if we wanted to come as their guests. "Wow...sure," I found myself saying.

"Oh, and by the way, it's black tie," said L before hanging up.

Oh. Well. Black tie. My closet, stuffed as it is, isn't really geared towards black tie events. But I managed to find a dress, a pair of strappy sandals, and I was as good to go as I was ever going to be. The event was at the Grand Hyatt, right over Grand Central Station, and the theme was some kind of weird combination of Madame Butterfly, Memoirs of a Geisha and Vampire Lesbians of Sodom. Much of the cocktail hour involved food from all over Asia (sushi, curries, Peking duck, Dim Sum, Satay) and the Martini of the night - Asian Passion (Alize plus Grey Goose...ouch!) - although since (and I mean no disrespect to my people when I say this) the Real Estate Industry in New York City is dominated by wealthy Jews who were brought up to believe that it's not a party unless you go home with your stomach so full you need to undo your belt, the cocktail hour also featured all of the typical Jewish banquet "stations": the "Carved Meat", the "Jewish Brunch", the "Antipasto", the "Creperie", the "Shrimp and King Crab". There were also a few "stations" I have never seen before - a "sandwich" station where you could get burgers and hotdogs and club sandwiches, a soup station where you could get some sort of mango-chili cold soup concoction.

It was pure gluttony. I don't quite understand it. But it is, in fact, a part of my culture.

As we made our way around the many cocktail rooms, we saw some real estate royalty of the Jewish kind. In other words, Trump was not there, but Larry Silverstein was. Larry Silverstein is the leaseholder of the World Trade Center (for all intents and purposes, the owner). Lots of faces from my days as a corporate lawyer who helped clients like George Soros sell REIT shares.

As the dinner chimes rang, the guests were ushered into an anteroom where many drag queens dressed as geisha girls sauntered around the room, waving silk flags in the direction of the dining room, where the table was set with Thai beef draped over a salad of greens and udon noodles and a little book that told you where everyone was sitting so you could seek them out for a little networking (even as they were away from their table doing their own networking.

My friend L, who goes to this party every year, advised us where the best networking can be found: on line at the portrait room. I laughed because I could care less about networking.

In case you're wondering, the portrait room is where professional photographers take your "prom picture", and you can take it over and over again, until you like the way it turns out. Ah, vanity. Ah, technology.

The meal, which at a Jewish event is never really the main thing since everyone is stuffed from the cocktail hour, was steamed snapper and sticky rice. I had a few bites, and then I heard that there was "stuff" going on in the anteroom. Cool....

Fake tattoo artists, caricaturists, face painters (who would get their FACE painted at a black tie event?! I did see women get things painted on their shoulders and backs though) were stationed all over the room. I got myself a really cool little fake tattoo on the back of my shoulder. I have no idea what it depicts though. It could be something really sweet. Or it could be some terrible curse, or a sign of Satan. Ah well. It will wash off in a few days anyway.

Okay, I better stop now because the Husband needs to go over our weekly agendas. Long story short: I am exhausted, I now have a cold, which I am beating back with Zymed (? Zycam? Alls I know is that it's homeopathic, it contains lots of zinc, and it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth...but it's working), I practiced today at home, but a very abbreviated practice (5 A's, 5 B's, most of Standing, all the Marichyasanas and sitting in Lotus).

Tomorrow is another day.

YC
_____________________________

** This is not me being a self-hating Jew. It is a line from a Woody Allen film, specificially, Annie Hall (Woody's character, Alvy Singer is on a rant about how everyone in New York is anti-semitic, even the network execs he has just met with who he claims said to him, "Jew eat?" rather than "Did you eat".

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Greenwich Yoga!

Stan Woodman just opened Greenwich Yoga, in Greenwich, Connecituct, a mere 8 miles from the farthest reaches of Armonk, New York! Stan is an advanced Ashtangi who has studied in Mysore and with BBB. He tried to get a Mysore program off the ground at Sonic Yoga here in NYC, but, shock upon shock, the people who practice the Sonic way didn't really take to the Mysore way. Again, shock upon shock. So, at least I will have an Ashtanga teacher nearby, if I move to Armonk (or Westport, for that matter). But, of course, I am going to want to come into the city at least once or twice a week to Shala X for "the real deal". Maybe by then I will even be learning some new poses from Sir. Maybe, I said maybe.

Today I taught The Worst Power Yoga Class Ever. It was HORRIBLE. First of all, it was on the Upper East Side, which is always a problem. The people up here (other than me) are not really open to yoga. If they are, they find their yoga elsewhere because the yoga up here tends to play to its demographic: sterile, aerobicized, non-spiritual, breathing not really playing a role. But I teach mostly at Yoga Sutra, where the aesthetic is quite different: intellectual, spiritual, creative, breath-oriented, yada yada. So, when I went in to teach this power yoga class last Saturday, I just went into my "real yoga" mode, teaching yoga.

The students hated me. Hated. Me. They wanted to do glorified squat thrusts and hold poses for, well, not at all. They wanted to do aerobics in barefoot, basically. Seriously, they were all complaining about me to the manager, who has recently added a class called "YOGA DRILLS" to the schedule. Yoga Drills! How about that??! What exactly would that be.......



"Get down and give me twenty chatturangas!"

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"That's all you got? What are you a bunch of girls?"

"Sir, yes, Sir, we are a bunch of girls, Sir!."

"Didn't yo momma have any children that lived?"

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"Attention! Arms up! Touch your toes! Jump back! Jump Forward! Arms up! Atten- HUT!"
Never mind that the students last week could barely touch their toes and didn't know from backbends and breathed out of their mouths no matter what I told them. So, this week, only one of them showed up, and she said, "I think the rest of them didn't come because they thought your class was too easy." There were two other students besides her. One had not taken a yoga class since 2002. One spoke not a word of English.

I told the "class" that this was going to be a hard core power yoga class, and that if they had trouble keeping up, to go into child's pose. I pretty much taught to the level of the woman who had been in my class the week before since she is the "regular", and I felt I owed her that much. She had a little trouble keeping up, and I had to give out a lot of modifications as we went along.

And it sucked. Sucked hard. Sucked like no other class I have ever taught. After about 25 minutes, I looked at the clock and I looked at these students who didn't care to listen to my breathing instructions, who didn't really want to be practicing yoga, who just wanted to be pounding out some calories, and I had a fantasy....in my mind, I stood up and told them "I'm outta here. You can't pay me enough to teach at an Upper East Side gym. I'm a yoga teacher, not a personal trainer, not a shrink." Of course, that would only cause me undue stress on an ongoing basis, for as long as I would remember it. So, it was out of the question. Needless to say. Instead, I steadied myself and told myself that if I could just get through the next half hour I would never have to teach another UES gym yoga class again.

It was painful.

At the end, they all came up to me and told me how great it was, how hard it must have been to have taught at such vastly different levels and levels of understanding. The "regular" told me that she was going to tell all the others from the week before that they really ought to give my class another chance. I told her that wouldn't be necessary because I am not planning on teaching there on a regular basis, that I'm only doing my "holiday karma", filling in for other teachers. But thank you. Seriously.

I have to teach another class today, but this one is in midtown at a different branch of the same gym. But it's midtown, as I just said, and a totally different clientele, a totally different vibe. And it's "vinyasa". Whatever they think THAT means.

Oh, so, almost forgot, went to such a typical Long Gisland party last night, it was like being in the Jewish version of Goodfellas. The host of the party is the Number 2 poker player in the country and spends his days and nights gaming online, when he isn't flying around the world playing in real life. His wife was actually throwing the party as a screening of some championship Cliff played in in Aruba recently. The Husband and I didn't know anyone there except one other couple, and Cliff and his wife, all of whom had been at our wedding. It's interesting to see your old old friends with their new friends. It's like watching your kids grow up and become their own people.

We stayed long enough to imbibe "Anorexics", the drink du jour amongs Long Island ladies: Vodka and Crystal Light, straight up, watch a little poker, poke a little fun at the fact that Cliff is like 20 years older than any of the other players and gape in awe at the Fran Drescher accents (without the irony) and the "Look at me! I look just like you!" clothing styles of the women, all of whom wear their hair all the way down their back and ironed. I was the only woman there who was not wearing cigarette-leg jeans tucked into stiletto boots. It's a look that is very very big right now, but mainly amongst the under 30 set. I have a pair of cigarette legs, but I think it looks classier for a 41 year old to wear them with a pair of flats, or even platform flats, rather than aping Jessica Simpson's most recent look.

Not to be judgemental, I'm merely explaining my choice of black Hudson bootleg corduroys, a black mesh handkerchief shirt by Sweet Pea and a pair of platform high heeled boots by Kenneth Cole. I must admit, I did covet my friend Karen's Christian Louboutin's - stiletto boots, not the platform peeptoes all of Young Hollywood is wearing these days. Karen is one of the most gorgeous women I have ever known. She only gets more gorgeous with every year, and I highly doubt she has ever seen the inside of a plastic surgeon's office. Lucky her...

Conclusion I made: wherever I move, there must be NO accents, and there must be no cocktails named after mental illnesses.

YC

Friday, December 08, 2006

SOLD!

So, the home is under contract, and now the Yoga Chickie family must figure out what to do next.  What to do next will definitely involve lots of open space and the great outdoors.  I vote for Westport, Connecticut.  But Armonk, NY may have to do.  Both are lovely, with large houses on large properties..  More house for the money in Westport but less land and an over-an-hour-commute to the city for the Husband.  Less house for the money in Armonk but more land (generally, 2 acres per property, which is more than we really even want, let alone need) and closer to the city (for the Husband's commute).  More houses available in Westport.  Like 41 in our price range right now.  Much fewer in Armonk (like five in our price range today).  But this is because Armonk has fewer houses and fewer people in general...the kids all go to one Elementary, one Middle and one High School, whereas in Westport, there are four or five Elementaries, two Middles and one High.
 
And no, there is absolutely no ashtanga in either community.  I will have to self-practice (which I don't mind), and come into the city once or twice a week for practice with Sir.  I kind of like that idea...gives me a reason to come to the city.  
 
The move will take place in the summer, when my kids will be in sleepaway camp, making the yoga transition easier.
 
In the meantime, practice was great today again!  Yay!  AND......Petri had me totally holding my own hands in Supta K, although he had to keep me from springing apart.  Still, progress, progress, progress.
 
AND...I found a place at the shala to shove my lotus knees after practice so that I can rock my own modified Supta Vajrasana.  Already, some of the thrill is gone; it's not longer uncharted territory.  It felt much easier today.  And so of course, I upped the ante, trying to hold my feet from behind, as in the real asana.  Course that didn't work too well, although I did manage to hold one hand to one foot for almost the whole ride down to the floor.  I am sure no one even knows what I am talking about....except maybe Ashtangis....although this may be too incoherent for even a seasoned practitioner.
 
Taught a class today at Yoga Sutra.  Then two tomorrow at Boom Fitness.  It's my busy pinch hitting season.
 
YC

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Best Day Ever!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. But I did have fun.

Started off with my late-morning practice at Shala X. LOVE those third-session Tuesdays and Thursdays. And today I really took advantage of it, having a nice hot bath and stretching out before heading down the FDR Drive. Unfortunately, I did take just a little too long at home, which meant that Petri left the room before I got to Supta K. Nevertheless, practice was juicy, good stuff. And that is pretty amazing considering that I spent the first 10 minutes or so breaking into fits of giggles, first when the Jazz Musician did a complete 360 on one foot after coming up from Ardha Baddha Padmotannasana, and then when I made eye contact with Petri while getting into a pretty damn awesome (for me) Parivritta Parsvakonasana (I am down to 75% of a flat palm, full twist, top arm diagonally overhead with my eyes gazing at the fingertips! It's only about eight months after I predicted I would get my full palm down....Ah well...expectations schmexpectations).

So, yeah, me giggling, Petri observing...about that: At various times throughout practice, I catch Petri observing my practice, as a teacher should. But it usually throws me off my focus just a little bit because I always think that there's something he wants to say to me, and in my head, I'm like, "WHAT?!" Only today, the word didn't stay in my head. It escaped out my lips, throwing me into an embarassed tizzy of giggling. Needless to say, I could no longer hold the pose. And then I caught Linda's eye. Linda was finishing up her ridiculously ridiculously prodigious practice and telling me what I already knew: "Everything's making you laugh today," or some such.

Petri got me into possibly the deepest Mari C I have ever been in - armpit flush against shin. It was awesome. I bound on my own in Mari D for the first time this week (tummy troubles, psychosomatic or otherwise), but Petri got me deeper. I felt like my old self, pretty much, in a good way, except for my press-ups between Navasanas and my vinyasasa are still a bit week. Okay, whatever. It's only been a week since I've been back.

Oh yeah, and Supta K...still working on that one. Groundhog Day.

I had only gotten to backbends when it hit 11 o'clock, which meant that if I didn't get my ass-ana out of there, I was in real danger of getting a parking ticket. Alternate side of the street parking hell. Do other cities have this? It's quite annoying. Anyway, I picked up and left, promising myself that I would finish later.

Meantime, I felt myself drawn towards Soho, toward Devachan, in particular. I really, really, really needed a haircut. My last one was in June, and since then I've taken a scissors to it and hacked away more times than I care to admit.

On the way, I made a quick stop at American "Cheap Rec Room Porn Pics" Apparel and bought a few new pairs of yoga pants and tank tops. It's my only source of yoga clothing - the only stuff that works for me in my Ashtanga practice - so I have to ignore the fact that the owner of the franchise is a first class sleeze ball whose advertising campaign for as long as I can remember has been lewd shots of his young and nubile employees, wearing things like skivvies and thigh-high socks. There's a billboard right now over East Houston Street with a teenaged girl wearing a leotard and thigh-highs, reclining on her side, with one leg flung nearly over her head. Think - Lord Vishnu's Casting Couch:





I think, actually, she was my salesgirl.

Next, I made my way to Devachan, where I did not have an appointment. This kind of left me at their mercy. At first, they told me that they couldn't fit me in until 12:30, and that would be with a stylist who charges $125 (I usually pay $75). I was like, hmmm....well, I coooould go across the street to Eddie's shala and finish my practice. I mean, I was still sweating at that point. As I turned to gave across Broome Street at L'Orangerie and its upstairs neighbor, AYNY, the girls at the desk found a stylist who was ready right then and there, and who only charges $75.

Off I went to the changing room, where I changed into a fresh pair of yoga pants and tank top, and threw on the salon robe and was off on my two hour haircut/curly hair tutorial. It's pampering, it's informative, it's always fun at Devachan.

Two hours later, two inches lopped off the bottom, two new bottles of DevaCurl AnGel, and one revived head of curls, I made my way to Balthazar for a late lunch. What I found when I got there was that the place was completely packed. I settled for a seat at the bar, ordered my favorite bistro dish (vegans, please look away), Frisee aux Lardons , and sipped a cup of coffee. Just as my salad arrived, my phone rang. It was my friend, E, who had just had her hair cut at the other Devachan (the one that is not across the street from AYNY, but is in Soho somewhere). Now this was not entirely a random coincidence. Yesterday, I had run into her uptown, and she had told me she was going to Devachan today. I was all, "I need to go there too! I'm going to try to get an appointment for tomorrow." So then it was a totally random occurence that she happened to call me after her own appointment to see if I had gotten my own appointment.

Within minutes, she materialized at the bar, and from there, we made our way to the Botkier sample sale, where we bought....nothing...and then to the Sigerson Morrison sample sale, where we bought...nothing...but not before E convinced me NOT to purchase the gold leather slouch boots that seemed to need to be bought just because they were on sale. Moral of the story: Never go to a sample sale alone.

At around 4 p.m., we drove uptown, I dropped E off, went home, unrolled my mat, warmed up a bit and did a backbending practice, followed by the finishing sequence. Just like I promised myself, only moreso.

Now, someone commented on an earlier entry regarding Backbending, suggesting that my upper back could use a bit more bend, and that perhaps Kapotasana or even Supta Vajrasana might help. I scoffed at that, thinking that this commentator was just kidding. But the advice was sincere, it turned out. Today, I put it to the test. Sort of. I mean, I don't have a hope in hell of grabbing heels in Kapotasana or of holding my feet with my arms crossed behind my back in Sutpa Vajrasana, BUT, I did an approximation of both poses today at home, and and all I can say is WOW.

Okay, that's not all I can say. There were actually no surprises with Kapotasana - I've played at it before. But the Supta Vajrasana suggestion was absolutely brilliant! I lotused up, stuck my knees under the sofa, held onto my feet from in front, a la Matsyasana, and arched back as deeply as I could to touch the top of my head to the floor.

YUMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hate to use that word - it sounds so "Cyndi Lee"- ish. But seriously. It was amazing. It really worked for me, and by "worked", I mean that it felt amazing, it felt like I was moving and bending things that don't usually move and bend, and it put me into this fabulously enthusiastic mood that I am in right now.

Oh! And I just realized that tomorrow is Primary Only Day!!! Hahahahaha. Every day is Primary Only Day for me.

YC

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Another day, another dead turtle

The stomach bubbles are seriously impeding my ability to twist in Mari D (binding by the fingernails, I knew they would come in handy if I finally stopped biting them) and kind of making Mari C unpleasant. Went to my shrink today, and she put me onto the notion that the sour stomach and inability to find any food or drink that doesn't bubble up and gurgle unpleasantly (even 12 hours later) might just be symbolic of me swallowing my rage at having to be home for almost a week with a sick child.

Dirty little secret time: it's not always fun and stimulating to take care of your kids. And by "your", I mean mine. But probably, yours too. Even if you don't care to admit it to yourself, and instead, churn acid in your stomach and then have trouble binding in Mari D.

Seriously, homework? It is as boring, no, more boring, than when you were the one who had to hand it in to your teacher. Listening to endless and exhaustive play-by-plays of the X-Box Baseball tournament? Like listening to water drip out of the faucet. Transporting kids to and from their activities? How do I describe the way this begins to get to you after awhile? Think Sisyphus with a rather unruly rock that is in constant danger of running into the crosswalk while a car is making a left.

But when your child is home for a week with a rotten cold, and you spend the week sitting around the house listening patiently to the bitching and moaning and cleaning up after the snooting and vomiting, well, it makes all of that look like a day at the beach with a shirtless Josh Holloway. Basically, it sucks ass. Only you are way too deep into the "Perfect Mommy Fantasy" to acknowleged those feelings. And when they begin to surface, you just no sympathy for yourself whatsoever, which only makes the stomach acid churn a little more.

Brian returned to school today (he tried to return on Monday, only to go home sick and stay home yesterday; I had a yoga furlough in the morning but spent the rest of the day playing the role of the Perfect Mommy, which is to say, the one who won't acknowledge that it's okay to hate staying home with a sick child, when the Good Enough Mommy would been good enough (that's the one who stays home with the sick child and allows herself to feel her feelings of feeling trapped). He is much better now and even has a friend over.

And the Good Enough Mommy is hosting that playdate like a trouper and is allowing herself to feel quite put upon.

Doctor's orders and all that.

YC

Copyright 2005-2007 Lauren Cahn, all rights reserved. Photos appearing on this blog may be subject to third party copyright ownership. You are free to link to this blog and portions hereof, but the use of any direct content requires the prior written consent of the author.

About Me

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Northern Westchester, New York, United States
I live by a duck pond. I used to live by the East River. I don't work. I used to work a lot. Now, not so much. I used to teach a lot of yoga. Now not so much. I still practice a lot of yoga though. A LOT. I love my kids, being outdoors, taking photos, reading magazines, writing and stirring the pot. Enjoy responsibly.

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