My Other Guru, Ms. Pink

Every morning of the Croatian advanced seminar, with surprisingly little trouble, or drool, I managed to pry myself out of bed at 6:30 in the morning. Then, stumble into the dining room for an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of foods that no yogi in their right mind would consume as fuel for class. Fortunately, I am never in my right mind before noon, so I shoveled increasing amounts of cheese blintz into my body each day as I tested the limits of my ability to hold food down before a class.*

This buffet was largely Croatian-style. From my observation, the Croatian diet consists of a wide variety of animal products. The breakfast buffet alone held five types of meat and ten types of cheese. I am captivated by a particular dish, a giant urn of oil you dunk a ladle into and fish cheese out of. Yes, congealed fat soaked in liquid fat. I am pleased to announce that us Americans do not, in fact, have a monopoly on overly-indulgent foods.

The Curious Vat 'o' Oil-Cheese Course

There was also a token pile of fruits.** In an attempt to avoid scurvy, Jen and I developed a habit of taking our purses to breakfast to fill with pears, kiwis and bananas. We were mere amateurs compared to a yogi whom we have dubbed, "Ms. Pink" (due to the fuzzy pink jacket she wore when we met and Bikram's penchant for referring to students by their clothing color). To watch Ms. Pink work was to watch a master.

Let me begin by describing our troubles which she so skillfully circumvented.

6:30am is too early to eat all the food you really want. Food from the free buffet must be transported to the room for consumption at a more reasonable hour. Jen and I, thinking ourselves clever, ventured into town to procure ziplock bags. There we discovered Croatia has no ziplock bags. There are also no rolls of plastic-wrap. No tin-foil. No tupperware. There is no food-storage of any kind. People do not consume leftovers in Croatia.

With our plans thwarted, we spent breakfast #2 perusing the buffet for items of food that would not slather the insides of our purses with seeping fats (the cheese-vat was out). It was during this perusal, we saw Ms. Pink produce from her Lululemon bag disposable tupperware from home. She deftly filled said tupperware and a bottle with juice, placing each tidily back in her bag.

If anyone knows Ms. Pink, make friends with her. Should the zombie apocalypse come, you will be in good hands.


* I was thrilled to discover that I had suddenly developed the ability to eat before class and enjoyed my super-power so much that I smelled like cheese blintz through the majority of the classes that week.

** The pile of fruits, I discovered, is mainly for display and will not be found anywhere in the country locals may be expected to eat. During my two weeks of travel I was fortunate enough to have friends willing to scrape the sour cream off their garnish and pass me the wilted display-only leaf to eat.

Kate Runs on Dunkin'

I had one of those days today. Doing training seemed impossible, but not doing training became this weight of unimaginable proportions on my feeble back, not that I was going to any backbends even under that pressure. I would just mope instead. I procrastinated all day going to yoga, the one thing I knew had a chance of honestly making me feel better, opting instead to try things I knew would not make me feel better. Sushi, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, ice cream, chips, cookies.

Just before taking the last yoga class of the day, 8pm, I gorged myself on one more pb&j, figuring I would just puke if I had to and that was that.

While eating this pb&j I decided that the one thing that would make me happy— the only thing in the whole wide world was donuts. Not just any donut; I wanted munchkins. Everything is cuter small, and therefore munchkins bear even more cheering-up power than standard donuts. Furthermore, they had to be the munchkins with sprinkles. The glory that is the sprinkle munchkin is unmatched in both adorableness and sugar delivery method. These little deep-fried bits of dough are rolled in viscous sugar-glue (aka: frosting) and then dunked in sprinkles. I have a feeling this process repeats a couple more times because otherwise I can not figure out how they achieve a two-inch thick crust of sprinkles on such a small sphere of fried dough. The result is a brightly colored cuteness sugar explosion.

The Sprinkle Munchkin: Sunshine Incarnate

I would drag myself into yoga with the understanding that, no matter what type of class I had, I would bike right down to Dunkin' Donuts afterward and claim my rewards. My cute, little, sugary, rewards. 

Yoga went without the expected naps, not a bad class all in all. I hopped on my bike singing the whole mile to the nearest Dunkin' Donuts. While I can not remember the words, I am positive I sounded something like when a four-year old makes up sonnets to their puppy, "Puppy! I love you, Puppy! You are the cutest thing on the planet! No...in the universe!...Mom, that's bigger, right?" Replace, "Puppy" with, "munchkins" and you've pretty much got it.

When I arrived, I perused the munchkins section on the wall. NO SPRINKLES. I asked desperately, as if maybe it was like a shoe-store and they kept spares in the back. No luck. They were out. I opted instead for some bland looking peanut, plain and cinnamon munchkins. That was it, nothing was going to cheer me up today. Then, a surprise. The man charged me 50 cents for the three requested donut holes! Well, that was nice! Then I got outside to gorge myself on my small non-sprinkled stash and another surprise! He had given me not three, but six munchkins!!! Oh glorious day! I camped out by my bike with my water bottle and had a tiny munchkin feast. As it turns out, I did not need the sprinkles to make me happy, I only needed six 50 cent munchkins.

The Decline

My mood swings are monumental in a way that makes Liza Minnelli look stable. Yoga has helped me even them out a bit and come to terms with the ones I can't manage gracefully. Still, during slumps, I whine about going to yoga the way a 6 year old whines about going to Sunday school -- complete with shoe throwing. Or, if you were a creative kid like me, hiding in the closet and refusing to get out of your pajamas by anything other than force. At any rate, this sort of behavior is REALLY unbecoming of a 30-something.

I had decided that the only way to get myself to stop making excuses was to include practice into my daily routine. If I was to go everyday, martini lunch be damned, I would, in theory, stop whining and just do it. Actually, this worked pretty well. The result has been far fewer hours spent wandering around the house, shoulders slumped, jaw slack, kicking things in my path, complaining about the impending yoga. The irony here is that I complain like this knowing that I will emerge from class the bright, pert woman I wish I was all the time. It is the only sure-fire cure for slumps that I have ever found. Does this knowledge make me skip into class merrily waving my rolled up yoga mat like a baton? Never.

What happens now, the shortened fit I have come to accept as my daily routine, is so predictable as to be obnoxious. Both my cat and my boyfriend have memorized their lines perfectly to get me the f*ck out of the door and on my way. I wish that meant I could dispose of the theatrics, but they seem interwoven into my person.

The daily script:
The deadline approaches. I wander into my boyfriend's home office and pull him (quite literally, his chair, conveniently, has wheels) away from his work, I curl up in his lap, as close to the fetal position as a full-grown adult can manage. I throw my head back and proclaim, "It's THAT time." This is said with the same inflection that one would inform their child that the asteroid will, in fact, be colliding with the planet, snuffing out the sun, at any moment.

He informs me what I already know, "You will feel so much better when you get done."

I inform him that, although what he said is common knowledge and I accept that, it makes my march into Mordor no easier a burden.

Several large sighs escape me before I begrudgingly let The Boy get back to his computer. I grab my things and go to yoga, telling myself the whole time that if I feel like sleeping through the entire floor series today, it is okay.

*Class* (cue fairy music)

After class I am energized. I am glad I rode my bike. I contemplate on the way home how freeing bicycling is. I decide dinner should be juice today. I am turning over a new leaf. Nothing but salads for a week. I could do a double (two yoga classes) tomorrow!

I realize I do this every time. Better to think realistically. Maybe dinner tonight just won't include a starch.

Halfway home my tummy grumbles and I think of ice cream. It's okay though, there are good alternatives. I could have some Italian ice before my salad. Five minutes later, it's sorbet. Five more minutes, it's gellato. Two minutes more and it's a scoop of rocky road, a scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough and a scoop of strawberry cheesecake ice cream, all topped with fudge. Whipped cream is a must, but we can balance it out with a banana...I should have some potassium for all the work I did.

I arrive at home happy, with plans to make a seven course meal. Now that I think of it, no wonder The Boy is so encouraging of my yoga habit.