Faulty Follicles October 14, 2011

Listen, I know that the most beautiful thing about me is suppossed to be my heart. Love, humility, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, thoughtfulness, and peace are suppossed to reside there. But the truth is that I have not exactly been tending to the proverbial garden. Because of this, things like hatred, jealousy, anger, worry, greed, and selfishness have grown like jack and the beanstalk.

How do I know?

Because of all the things that I could focus on, I am choosing to obsess over a bad hair color.

In a matter of two hours I went from being an over processed (but happy) blonde to a DARK brunette.

The blonde hair helps lighten up my cynical Sylvia Plath like nature.

I arrived late at work with wet, dark hair and tried not to air my bad attitude. Inevitably, I practically stood on the bar holding a live broadcast about my “bad hair day.”

I know that with the title “yoga instructor” comes all these expected platitudes and attitudes (get it Dr. Seuss), but I’m human.

Someone said a few months back that your ego is wrapped  up in your hair. I would argue that my ego just needs a safe place to rest, and my hair follicles are as good a place as any.

While I was working, I tried to remember what is important in life. My dogs, dark chocolate, a good therapist, and community. But I realized that what is important to me is also to have a damn good hair cut and color. As I meditated on these things, I felt my face get hot and my hair get darker.

I thought about all the women I know who have short hair, no hair, or rapidly graying hair. I thought Pema Chodron mostly. People LOVE her. But it’s not because she is a smokin’ hot blonde. It’s because life has seasoned her like a tender piece of pork (I know, I think it’s a strange metaphor too) and taught her that what matters is how well you love yourself and others, how you react to what life gives you, how you forgive those who hurt you, how you ask for forgiveness for those you have hurt, how you deal with matters of the heart.

What is worse, is that as I sat in the chair with foils on my hair darkening my spirit and my strands, I was reading in Whole Living about women have aged well and the lessons they have learned. And I was all,

“Yeah. That’s the kind of woman I want to be. Graceful, gray, joyful, loving, and not willing to sweat the small stuff.”

I was so inspired and sure that I could approach the world with the same attitude. And then…THE FOILS CAME OUT.

RAGE. ANGER.

When I first started practicing yoga, I heard

“You are the sum total of your reactions.”

I remember thinking that I loved how nicely that sounded and that other people should really work on their reactivity.

Clearly, I have a lot to learn.

Writing about writing September 5, 2011

My friend Natalie hates it when writers write about writing, so she will have to forgive this post.
It seems that I have forgotten how to write. The words come fumbling off the tips of my fingers like Forrest Gump in braces. They are awkward and clumsy and incite pity from others. Apparently, if you call yourself a writer, you are supposed to spend a certain amount of your living, breathing time writing.

Sorry to disappoint whoever “they” are, but I have been busy:

losing my keys

starting school late

serving beer and scrubbing urinals (a.k.a. living the dream)

putting air in my tires

googling “how to break up with your therapist”

obsessively checking my mailbox for 7th grade type letters from Casey Cromer in Unit #1.

dog sitting and poop scooping

decorating the apartment I don’t actually spend time in

watering my rosemary plant that insists on death before life

I am taking a Writing of Fiction class this fall and am already certain that the 19 year olds in the class are creative writing prodigy’s who will scoff, mock, and shame my pieces that I am too afraid to write.

“They” (the writing gurus), say that you should write what you know.

I know bad dates, the best coffee in town, and how to make homemade pizza. These three things do not a fiction story make.

She sips the last of her wine as she gazes at the gentle flicker of the ivory scented candle, thinking about the parodies of life.

I mean…seriously?

LAME.

That is all I have anymore. Sentences dressed up like a made over guest on “What Not to Wear”.

Life at 28 August 7, 2011

It has been a while since I have blogged and written. I blame this on a few things.

1. I’m not as mentally ill as I was the first 27 years of my life, so I have less to say.

2. I am learning the art of self-disclosure…or rather, I own a journal and keep it by my bedside table.

3. I am boring.

 

(she sighs as she looks at her newly pedicured feet, half decorated apartment, and empty bag of Snyder’s pretzels).

I am THAT June 1, 2011

My co-workers don’t get my humor.

Which could be the result of two things:

1. I am not funny.

2. They are not as sarcastically evolved as me.

The correct answer is obvious.

I asked the M.O.D. (Mom, that stands for ‘Manager On Duty’) to take a picture of me with my orange rubber gloves and toilet scrub brush tonight. She asked me if it was for some erotic fantasy I might have.

I cocked one eye and responded,

“No. But now that you mention it…”

Just kidding. I gave up fantasies after the match.com jerk off from India ‘lost’ my number and his wits.

What I was thinking about was how I went from scrubbing urinals at age 22 in a hostel in Portland to working with meth addict teenagers to stocking canned goods at Trader Joes to making commercials with Don King to being a personal assistant and back to scrubbing urinals.

As I tried to scrub the man stench out of the bathroom tonight, I had a momentary flash of awareness:

I was not destined for greatness. 

Please don’t argue this fact.

Not everyone gets to be fabulous like Carrie from Sex N the City or my friend Sally who is a smooth operator (yes you are Sally) and could make long underwear and hair that hasn’t been washed in a week, look sexy.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am fabulous in my own right. But I don’t think I was meant to be a philanthropist, a politician, a counselor, a nun, a nurse or doctor, a saint, a business owner, a girlfriend, an actress…well, truth be told…I’m still kind of holding out for that one but my therapist says its just because I want to be “known” or something.

Perhaps my lack of definition has defined me: I am just…ME. Urinals or not.

Clause: That was a very cheesy ending to this blog post, but I’m too lazy to wrap it up, so I guess that I am not a writer either. That’s okay. Maybe I’m like Jesus who says, “I AM.”

Resistance is futile…or is it? May 26, 2011

Dear Readers,

I am sorry I have not written in a while. The truth is, I have nothing to say. It is relatively quiet in my head these days. Perhaps I have killed all my inner demons. Or, maybe they were taken in last weekends rapture.

I have jumped back on the existential train and decided that with life being so fleeting and with 2012 looming, it would be incredibly selfish of me to write. I am sure this is just a really creative way of justifying writers block and/or resistance.

You understand, don’t you?

The reasons go something like this,

I can’t use my precious time on earth to write because….

1. There are starving children in third world countries. True.

2. I should be riding a bike with a basket on the front

3. I should be volunteering my time at a nursing home or with Big Brothers/ Big Sisters

4. I should be saving the world, one yoga class at a time (right, like I am that powerful and/or significant).

5. I should be meditating/visualizing/creating world peace not writing ‘another twenty-something book about young adulthood angst’

6. I should spend my time falling in love or something. (insert chuckle, eye roll, five second cry, and complete resignation to the subject)

7. I should be buying canned goods and building a stock pile just in case everyone gets sucked up and I am left behind because I am not as spiritually evolved-or whatever.

Those are the best I can come up with for right now. Keep Calm and Carry On.

Church Hopping. April 3, 2011

I went commando to church today.

Yesterday I had a 24 hour flu bug and used the down time to listen to my filthy, nasty thoughts and contemplate the meaning of existence as one is wont to do when they are ill. Sex and the City re-runs would have certainly been a much healthier approach, but that didn’t occur to me until it was too late.

I laid in bed reading Anne Lammott, nostalgic for my days of simple faith. So I decided I would go looking for it today. I decided that I would go to either the Center for Spiritual Living OR the Presbyterian Church down the street from me. Based on time, I chose the hokey pokey New Age church.

The perks:

french vanilla creamer for my coffee

The woman who spoke shared my sense of humor and I almost peed myself, which as you can imagine would have been messy.

I sat next to my friend, Elle who is ALWAYS so happy and positive. I love her for multiple reasons, but sometimes I want to mess up her hair, put my hands on my hips and say, “No one is that happy all the time. Don’t you have some deep wound you can sulk and cry about?”

We did a great creative visualization and I got to spend some time in my imagination forgiving people. Hopefully, I can take that out into the world with me.

I got hooked on the idea of prayer again. And positive thinking. Will try both this week.

The un-perks:

I cried. I can’t walk into a church or any religious place without crying. It got so bad that at one point, I almost blurted out “Clean up aisle 4!”

For an hour, I became aware of how closed and angry and fearful I am. So I closed my eyes and said to God, “I’m a fucking disaster down here and could use a little help.”

The lady next to me grabbed my hand at the end of the service as we swayed back and forth to the music. That was a little much.

I think next week, I will take it down a notch and try the Presbyterian Church.

My version of crazy March 9, 2011

My procrastination tactics are getting considerably worse.

On Sunday morning, I re-arranged my room, browsed Victoria Secret for clothes that wouldn’t fit me, stalked craigslist for apartments I can’t afford, and bought music on iTunes that no one wants to hear in downward facing dog. I swept the kitchen and stopped mid sweep when I started to get angry. I had the sudden urge to chuck the broom across the room, so i left the heaping pile of dust next to the refridgerator, slipped on my running shoes, and ran in the pouring rain while screaming at the top of my lungs the words to Lily Allen’s “F*** You”. This was an unfortunate day to be procrastinating because the following day was my proofreading exam which, if you haven’t already caught on to, grammar and the correct usage of commas, em dashes, apostrophes, and hy-phens is (or is it ‘are’) not my forte.

Along with poetry. Dear sweet baby Jesus, I suck at poetry. All these 20 year olds in class are churning out poetic images that make my professor shut his eyes and say ‘mmmmmmm’ . When I read my poem, his head cocks to the side, one eye raises and I think his left leg even starts to twitch. I don’t blame him. But I don’t get what Joel (prodigal poetry guy from California) is referring to when he speaks of the cathartic process of poetry. I spent a whole therapy session last week restoring my self worth because of my failed poems. And even that was not cathartic.

“Oh but at least you have nonfiction” some might say.

No, no really I don’t. You know why? Because of people like Patricia Marx who write side splitting witty books that I was supposed to have written by the age of 25. Instead, I am killing cockroaches in my bathtub, confessing my infatuation with prick Artists who want nothing to do with me, and spending inordinate amounts of time drinking alkaline water while staring at the zits on my chin to see how quick they will shrink from this apparent miracle water.

Things are not going as planned.

Also, I received my midterm grade for The Form and Theory of Poetry. I hid under the desk when she tried to hand me the dreaded slip of paper that let me know despite the FIVE hours i spent scanning ONE poem, I pretty much still suck at life. My professor wears too much aqua, crosses her eyes when she teaches, and speaks in incomplete sentences. I think that she is having multiple conversations in her head at once and forgets to invite her students to the roundtable. I understand her frustration. I have so many inner children that I am on emotional welfare. But, this is not faring well for my grade. Also, she is very product oriented. She threatens us with her yellow highlighter. I sit there with the same look you would have when a five year old throws a temper tantrum. Seriously? I thought this was college. Ok…that was me ranting and with my blog history, i will probably get thrown out of The University for writing about this on my blog. I will also be told that I am narcissistic and should go buy a journal.

(She sighs, looks out the window at the red shed and looming gray skies, and resolves to devote the rest of the day to The Power of Positive Thinking).

Why I can’t write my paper February 25, 2011

1. My roots are growing out and I really want to get them colored but Professor Creech has me in yet another existential crisis of faith and humanity so I’m thinking I should save that money and give it to a child in Uganda. Or pay rent.

2. I’m worried my Dad has not had enough fun in his life, so how could I be so selfish as to write a paper for school when my Dad has spent his whole life working?

3. I need to obsessively update my Facebook status.

4. The train is really loud.

 

February 23, 2011

This week, school is down a couple points. Or rather, poetry. It appears that my writing has a little stage fright or rather can not show itself on command. Kind of like when my brothers used to have burping competitions. I could never understand how they could burp on command (and in tune, harmony and all).

I wrote in my notebook today, “I wish there was a degree for self-help and personal transformation. I would already have my Phd.”

This week I am feeling either too ethereal or just plain dumb for mainstream school…do they have a special english degree for people who have read all the books on co-dependency but just happened to bypass Gone With the Wind?

I need a restorative yoga class. ASAP.

MY V-DAY BLOG. February 14, 2011

In honor of Valentine’s Day I am compiling two lists.

The first one is 15 things I love. The second list will be 15 reasons I love myself.

As I stood in the card aisle at Target tonight, all I saw were cards for those in romantic relationships and I realized that I had forgotten to be upset about being single on Valentine’s Day…call me narcissistic (you would not be the first) but I really enjoy my own company. A valentine would just be like that second glass of wine…enjoyable but not entirely necessary.

I love

1. NoDa Yoga- this place is a haven for me. I am blessed to be a part of what Maria, Jillian, Jen, and the students have created and are creating.

2. My friends  and my friends dogs. They have been unconditional with me which is great because I am dramatic and moody.

3. Grass Fed Ground Beef. Tonight I told my mom I felt good about life again. She said, “To what do you attribute that?”

“Grass Fed Ground Beef” I responded.

True story.

4. Deva Primo- its like having your mom sing to you and brush your back.

5. Evening Primrose and Alkaline Water- the combination is clearing up the acne I have had since conception.

6. Common Market. Thank you for feeding me and being weird.

7. The single bamboo i bought in Asheville and put in a glass of water. I am going to try and nurture it and keep it alive. Its a science AND social experiment. I am testing how responsible and capable I am to prove to those who think I suffer from Arrested Development wrong. I don’t suffer, I enjoy every second of procrastinated adulthood.

8. My nieces. You should meet them. They are all really cool.

9. My family. Thank you.

10. My west coast family and the newest addition-Logan Bridger.

11. Therapy, yoga, and multivitamins.

12. The smart kids at school who help me and don’t laugh when I drop my books, spill my milk, and get a run in my pantyhose. Thank you.

13. My Green Papasan Chair. I curled up in the fetal in it yesterday and took a 2 hour nap. It was like being in the womb again, only not as wet and there was a bit more leg room.

14. Baths. It continues to amaze me how much I like to be submerged in water.

15. Laurel Market- but more specifically the guy (what is his name?) that works behind the counter Mon-Fri. He always asks how my weekend was, if I have a busy day, and he smiles constantly. Plus he’s my caffeine dealer. I have to respect him.

Okay…stand up. Put your arms in the air (Just do it)…now wrap your arms around yourself and say out loud -LOUDLY

“I AM SO IN LOVE WITH MYSELF”.

One time when I was in California, I was taking a workshop with Sark. She made us do this. I was cynical at first until later that night at the wine bar I was sitting at. Two guys in their forties conversed with me. Buisness men.  I made them do this in the bar. They were resistant at first, but then (this IS a true story) they stood up and yelled “I AM SO IN LOVE WITH MYSELF” with their arms wrapped around themselves. I think I peed my pants (just a little).

Just do it. You will feel great.

Okay. Sit back down. I’m not done yet.

15 reasons I love myself.

1. oh my gosh-this is really hard.

1. I have not given up on myself or my dreams.

2. I love fiercely, imperfectly, awkwardly but I love…

3. I am full of courage.

4. I try new things.

5. I take myself on dates and I am really good company.

6. I have survived a lot of weird and hard experiences and continue to journey toward living a balanced, whole, and healthy life.

7. I can admit when I have been wrong, selfish, and prideful…

8. I am IN PROCESS…or more so…still rising like YEAST.

9. I am not afraid to FIT OUT…or if I am afraid, I do it anyway

10. I love myself because I make myself laugh

11. I am creative and innovative.

12. I am giving.

13. I love myself because I am amazed at my own hearts capacity to open and to love. I know its capacity for the opposite, but it is the capacity to give and receive love that humbles me.

14. I love myself because I am not afraid to go to the grocery store in my pajamas.

15. Just because.