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.

Introduction to Princess Sidney, the Perpetually Annoyed

I am owned by an adorable, spoiled rotten princess who's only reason for having not taken over the planet is that she lacks the necessary opposable thumbs. Her name is Sidney. All 7 pounds of her little fuzzy existence is devoted to following me around, ensuring that I am not doing anything that messes up her living space.

Every morning my alarm goes off too early for my liking, although later than most of the rest of the world. I hit snooze. This is Sidney's cue to leave the closet of my home office and join me for the last 15 minutes of cuddle time. She lies down on my back or belly, depending on which is facing up, and purrs so contentedly as to drip a drool puddle onto my comforter. She is the reason I had to purchase a fancy duvet cover, so I could wash the darned thing of cat drool regularly. I know the drool doesn't magically stop at the cover and the down-alternative beneath must be getting soaked too. I try not to think of this. I suggest you do the same.

15 minutes later the alarm sounds again and I slap at it until it silences. Sidney happily jumps off the bed and rushes ahead of me to the bathroom. The Boy and I keep the bathroom door closed so Sidney can't spend all night drooling on the sink waiting for one of us to go to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. She loves drinking from the bathroom sink and will spend all day there patiently waiting if we let her. The Boy gets annoyed at the hair and I can't help but think that, although it makes her happy, sitting on the sink 24 hours a day can not be good for anyone's mental development. As such, this is the first opportunity of the day she gets to be truly happy with her beloved faucet.

Once I am done brushing my teeth, showering and banging my head against the wall (mornings are not my strong suit) I open the door, point and grunt. She gets the idea and hops off the sink and trots out ahead of me. She lingers at my feet as I make a green juice and tea if I am ambitious,  whatever seems easy and tea if I am not. Then, off to the office, a whole 30 feet away. Sidney sits in my lap, which is folded into lotus or criss-cross, ensuring the princess has adequate lap space to unfold herself.

I tell you all of this so you get the general idea that my cat and I are very used to each other. Like an old married couple, we have come to our compromises, roll our eyes at the other's perceived shortcomings and begrudgingly alter our routines to accommodate the other's needs. Everything goes very smoothly until a new interest or hobby is introduced, like yoga poses in the home.

Much to Sidney's displeasure, I have taken to trying headstands, with the eventual goal of Tiger Scorpion. Very eventual. I am pretty sure I've got a shot at the pose if I can just figure out how to lift my head up. While I am aware that lifting your head is not the most challenging part of the posture, I get the definite impression that this tiny movement will take me so long to grasp that by the time my head is lifted, I will have been practicing for 19 years and the rest of the pose will fall into place.* By then, I plan on having such a great backbend I look like one of those Chinese gymnasts cultivated from the womb or something.

At any rate, here I am, fairly regularly, placing my forearms on either side of my head, and slowly lifting my legs up into the air. Once vertical, I visualize my head lifting off the floor. Slowly, I move my eyes in the direction I want to go. Flop. Try again. Flop. Try again. Flop. No worries. Again. Flop.

After a few very discouraging attempts at moving my head I decide to just hold a headstand. Maybe all I need is a really strong headstand. I get up, hold it for less than a second and inevitably my little Lucy Ricardo trots over to see why I am not petting her. The balancing act that I am so carefully honing impresses my little one not at all. In fact, with my hands so close to her level, why in the world aren't they attending to their duties i.e. petting her? She, I kid you not, starts head-butting me. In the head. I have to squint because her fur and whiskers are poking me in the eyes.

Not only does it take extreme concentration to keep the pose up with a cat head-butting you, but she is also circling my arms and head, which is dangerously close to where my body would come down should I fall. I get a tickle in my nose. Probably from one of the stray cat-hairs she has just thrust up there. It is clear I am going down. In a desperate attempt to clear my precious from the crash zone, I blow as hard as I can on her face. She looks annoyed, but not so much as to run away. Well, crud. Here we go. Whump! Down I come, narrowly avoiding her tiny form as it dashes out of harm's way.

You would think this harrowing escape from death would be a learning experience. Not so with my wee idiot savant. The next day she is there again, head-butting me in the face. Bless her. She will make sure I get my balance one of these days.

Believe it or not, this is actually a step in the right direction. I, at one point, did backbends at home instead. She liked to hang out, to lay down in fact, between my feet and hands, making it impossible to come down. I have literally been in backbends staring upside-down at her screaming, "PLEASE move! I can't come out of this with you there! Sidney!... Damn it!...Jeff! Can you come in here and get the cat!?!"

Sidney strives to accurately convey her level of extreme apathy toward my discomfort.

Sigh. As I said, I am owned by one spoiled rotten princess.

*If you are about to tell me that this is not, in fact, how yoga works, I have just stuck my fingers in my ears and am loudly proclaiming, "LALALALA...I'm Not Listening!...LALALALA!"

P.S. If you read this far, I assume you are also a cat fan. So, I feel I can share this with you, compliments of the best cute-cultivator EVAR, Bleu Caldwell, YOGA KITTEH!!! http://happybiscuits.posterous.com/yoga-cat

Enjoy, yogis, enjoy.

99% Perspiration

Like most of my generation, my siblings, parents and grandparents have chosen their places of residence based on family. Specifically, how far away can I move to ensure they will not pop in for surprise visits?

While eliminating the tedium of family dinners, we have now ensured exotic vacations are a thing of the past too. Self-centered destination retreats have given way to visits to the family bases. Specifically, my vacations have been replaced because I have been deemed the most mobile of my family. My refusal to have children, freelance career and major airport hub city have made me the prime candidate for a nomadic lifestyle. The rotation, kept as strict as tribes moving from planting ground to hunting ground, has me bouncing between Chicago, Washington D.C., Detroit, St. Louis and St. Petersburg.

I love my family, I really do, but most of them are far more sedentary than I am (heck, most gazelles are). By mid-day on day one, I begin a Mr. Bojangles routine that would make me a pretty penny on any street-corner in New York. In each of my temporary residences I have a yoga studio to stop the tweaking.*

In home base #3 (Detroit) I usually have a pretty rough class. I'm not sure why, but I always end up trying desperately not to loose control of my breath by the end. The places where my heart-rate are supposed to decrease come and go without respite. I stare intensely at the ceiling fan above my head willing it to spin faster (our gazes transfer energy, right?).

Upon my most recent visit to this studio, the person next to me announced herself as a first-time practitioner. I felt a little bad that she would have to experience her first class with me trying to cling to sanity through the mental madness that is this particular studio for me. I did everything I could to be strong that class. Still, I found myself panting like a dog by the end, as usual.

At the final savasana I was trying to get the gasping down to a minimum, counting my breaths: in... one... two... three... four... five... six... out... one... two.... when the persevering first-timer leaned over and whispered, "You're perspiring."

I thought this was a most lovely gesture. Here I was, about willing to die and the brave new yogi made a 'captain obvious' joke to ground me; reminding me that we are all just as comically sweaty and gross. I laughed and responded, "I know!" and laid back down, comforted by the laughter.

Two seconds later, I popped back up, my eyes widened in horror as I realized what was actually said.

The new girl did not say, "PERspiring." She had said, "INspiring." As in, "You are very inspiring," and my response, with a cocky little giggle, had been, "I KNOW." 

So, yeah, girl who took her first class at the Farmington Hills studio, I swear I misheard you through the blood pumping feverishly in my ears.

For every other yogi out there, if you ever hear a rumor that Bikram yogis are conceited, it's my fault. I'm sorry.

* With the exception of St. Petersburg. For mercy's sake, will someone please open a studio on the West side of Florida?!!

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.

Brace Yourself, This is a Long One.

I whipped my cock out on stage yesterday. That is correct, as I am writing this, yesterday was the Illinois Asana Championships. There is so much to say about the day; the competitors were ecstatic, love was gushing out the floorboards and inspiration was everywhere.

The day started at 5:08am when I peeled open my eyes, a good seven minutes before I was being picked up by the clown-car of yogis carpooling from Chicago to Naperville. Four bleary-eyed competitors and all our yoga gear piled into the car and drove the hour+ to the studio hosting the pre-show class. The studio was one of the prettiest I have seen (well-done, Mama Tam!) with a beautiful faux wood floor. It was flocked, making it carpet-like, but the pattern was so real my pre-noon senses were thrown for a loop.

Taking class pre-competition is a beautiful thing. Looking around you there are yogis of all sizes, skill levels and age brackets (so, yeah, a little like regular class I guess). In front of me was, I would later discover, one of the judges. To my left and right were fellow Bikram Yoga Andersonville friends. Kitty-corner was a little girl of maybe 10 that may or may not have been doing a dance routine throughout class. I attribute my excellent focus that morning (and maybe the lack of sleep and food) to the fact that I missed (and therefore did not break out laughing at) the little girl turning around mid-standing series and facing Borislava, the yogi next to me. Good job, little girl! Testing Borislava's concentration was key to her performance later that day. Maybe if we all had had a little tap-dancing cutie to challenge our focus that morning none of us would have fallen out of standing bow later.

Borislava's Standing Head to Knee

After class, we piled back into the car, passing Starbucks, Chipotle, Five Guys Pizza and many other drool-inducing stores on our way to the Wentz Concert Hall. Thankfully, green juice was in ample supply. In the warm up room, which counter-intuitively was quite chilly, the mood shifted from casual to anxious and back again. Camaraderie ruled supreme as people did each other's hair, gave last minute tips for transitions and shared green juice in the grand fashion of breaking-bread.

After a long wait for the on-stage dance, music and bowl meditation acts, the children were taken. This was especially sad as it took away our 6 year old entertainer, Christian, who had been showing us how he could use his foot as a telephone by holding it to his ear. The pied piper came back for the men and eventually for the first 5 women.

The thing about an impending performance is that there is both nothing you can do to prepare and everything you can do to prepare. Do you do backbends to make your spine limber, or will this just make you fret? Do you do a few cock poses, or will that tire your arm muscles? Do you sit and talk with others to calm your nerves, or concentrate on a spot to gain focus? I, at the advice of a pro, settled on pranayama breathing. I also figured I would get one solid standing-head-to-knee before going on stage. 20 standing-head-to-knees later I stopped, having finally achieved this goal. Maybe that wasn't such a grand idea.

My turn was announced and I cued up to the stage, careful not to watch whomever was on stage just before me. Stripping down to my leotard was fun. First came the leg warmers, socks, pants, hoodie, tank top. I felt a little like a stripper who wasn't aware there was supposed to be grace to her job. The pile of clothes next to me kept growing until eventually, I was naked enough to walk into the public eye. In seconds I would attempt to convey everything I've learned in my year and a half of practice through an odd but very precise dance lasting only 3 minutes.

Before going on stage, standing in that chilly stage-doorway I got hugs and well-wishes the likes of which true competitors would never give. This is why I take issue with the word, "competition." I have yet to find a word that truly grasps what we are seeking to accomplish here, but competition certainly isn't it. Yes, there is a winner, but that winner represents all of us. The winners got there because of all of us, and they know and appreciate it. There is an understanding that each one of us has a part on stage, virtually naked, proud and humble, with every demonstration. A part of my standing bow is trembling under the spotlight from the time it hits the first child to when the last woman shuffles off the tiny yoga mat taped to the palatial wood stage. I literally tighten my knee when I see a competitor shifting in standing head-to-knee, I feel proud when Gianna completes a full standing splits in bow. One could argue my tightened knee-cap will not help and I have no right to feel pride in another's actions. I will argue, they need my strength and my love.

It is that sort of spirit I find, waiting in the airy side-door waiting for my name to be called, as yogis twice my age, twice my size, half my experience, three times my hardships, seven times my strength, hug, kiss, wish me well and love me with all their beings, with all their honesty. In their hearts, they are about to walk on stage with me.

After the last of us joined the audience, leaving the warm-up room empty, things got chaotic as they are apt to do when one person organizes an entire regional. As if in sympathy, my mental faculties began to digress from hunger; I had not eaten since the evening prior. My brain had long since abandoned its post inside my skull and the hole left in its place was calling for Chipotle. I had been eating raw for a week* so, with the promise of a burrito the size of my head looming over the horizon, it was taking all my strength not to take the microphone and unceremoniously announce winners according to who's leotard I thought was the prettiest.

After the ceremony, of which I did not ruin, possibly my greatest accomplishment that day, a few of us ate ravenously at Chipotle before heading home. Post competition libations were consumed in a beer garden (rain be damned) and I got to bed after 22 consecutive waking hours.

At the risk of turning this blog into a cheese-fest, I would like to formally say, "thank you" to my instructors, fellow yogis, friends, family and the boy, making special note to those yogis to whom I have met only in passing, yet still show amazing interest in me, as they must to everyone. It takes an open heart to put that much love into every person you meet and I am grateful.

*Full disclosure: there were two relapses 1. pizza 2. bread with peanut butter.

Yogi Drugs

One of those beautiful and frustrating things about Bikram Yoga is that taking care of yourself outside of class makes you feel better inside of class. Yogis, constantly in search of the illusive 'easy class,' often try to stuff extra nutrients and hydration into their meals, (right between the chocolate cake and donuts). It leads us to eat some foods most people would not like. Furthermore, the more of this stuff you eat the more you like it. One day you find yourself enjoying a tasty beverage and when a friend making a Mr. Yuck face asks what in the world that green stuff tastes like (NO, I do NOT want to try it) you think for a second and reply, "Grass!" before realizing that, while an honest answer, this answer makes you sound like a cud-chewing cow. Quickly backpedaling you try, "Salad?"

This is how I frequently find myself discussing with other yogis the glories of green juice. A quick infusion of all the nutrients of a sink of veggies, in a calorie laden, water-rich beverage. While I do not, myself, own a juicer, I fake it by stuffing a bunch of green stuff in a blender with a glass of water. Violá! I am part of the juicing party without having to invest $1000!

A fun activity I have found is discussing juice with my fellow yogis enthusiastically in public. It's not hard to up the enthusiasm to levels only seen when addicts gather around a spoonful of the good stuff. Yogis LOVE their juice. The joy is multiplied when these yogis are also training for the Asana Championships. In case you don't understand the beauty of this conversation, let me write some sample dialogue for you.

Me: Do you find that juicing helps your training?
Yogi A: Yes! I juice almost every morning!
Yogi B: I would love to, but I hate the mess it makes.
Yogi A: But don't you find you feel slower on days you don't juice? I feel sick when I don't.
Me: I bet most of the competitors are juicing...

...and so on. By now, more than a few people are looking at us. I like to have fun with this. If a fly buzzes around me I get extra dramatic about shooing it away.

My Morning Fix

All About My Cock

I can not tell you the endless fun I have discussing my new pose.* I'm fairly certain the only reason I keep practicing the pose is to continue discussing its progress, or lack there of. That's not even a disparaging remark. I enjoy discussing either it's progress or it's stagnation; either way, I get into the most wonderfully inappropriate discussions that only myself or a 12 year old boy would find amusing. Endlessly amusing. Even when I try to keep it clean, the conversation results in gales of laughter (exclusively from me, I think everyone else has long since tired of the cock talk).

Example conversation I had last week:
Me: Have you ever found that if you aren't sufficiently sweaty you can't push up because your knees stick to your arms?
Yogi B: Are you asking if I have problems getting my cock up?

The thing is, I really DO have problems getting my cock up. If there is no sweat, my knees grind into my arms and all the tummy muscles in the world won't lift my lotus more than a grasshopper's kneecap from the ground. This led me to a shameful act.** It might have been the result of all the innuendo being thrown around, but after one particularly difficult practice at home, (I swear, I was getting a rash on my forearms) I went to the bathroom, pulled out the jojoba oil and rubbed some on my arms. Yes, you can say it out loud with me, I lubed my cock to get it up.

I think that might be my magnum opus with this pose. It is not likely I will have a more beautiful experience than looking my yoga teacher in the eye and saying, "Please help me, I can't go on stage and show the judges a greased cock."

* For those of you just joining us, I am learning 'cock' pose for the Asana Championships. This is essentially lotus being lifted by your extended arms.

**I really want to add the words, "with my cock." I know this is unnecessary verbiage but, like that Chinese fortune cookie game where you add the words, "in bed" to the end of your fortune, I find, "cock" makes every sentence regarding this pose more amusing.

RE: Your natural ability to correct yourself.

As you may know, I am training for the Illinois Asana Championships. This involves finding two 'freestyle' poses. These poses can be any pose from the advanced series. A feat complicated by the fact that I have never taken an advanced class. A friend and fellow competitor has had the privilege of being able to yell, "Cock!" on stage for the last several years under the guise that his posture is called that. Being thrilled with the idea of screaming "COCK!" to an audience without being thrown from the stage, I wanted to try my hand at the pose.

A teacher I highly admire was giving me some pointers last week. Showing me how to lean forward into the pose, the teacher encouraged me to lean forward as far as I could onto my palms. "When you feel like you may fall forward tighten your belly and pull up. Don't worry that you will fall forward, you will catch yourself before you do." he said, helpfully.

I pointed out that I had, not one week earlier, tried a transition into crow pose from standing. In this transition, when another teacher said, "Now lean forward and bend your elbows down just a bit." My elbows bent, wiggled a bit and gave way. I collapsed, face-first, into the floor. I heard a little 'pop' when as my nose hit, but there was no blood. Which is good because, out of embarrassment, I quickly threw myself up to standing, hands above head and shouted, "Im okay! Everything's good!" This would have looked even more ridiculous had there been blood streaming from my face.

One week prior:

The teacher was unmoved by my story of peril. In fact, it proved his point. "See," he explained happily, "you stopped yourself with your face!"

I am now absolutely sure that the fact that I am frightened of neither the instructor nor the pose verifies that I am mentally deficient.

An Introduction

What makes me qualified to write a blog about Bikram Yoga? Nothing. But isn't that the beauty of yoga? You can walk in overweight, head twisted around sideways, shaking from stress, and rather than looking annoyed as you struggle to twist yourself into a pretzel, the teachers get this crazed look in their eyes like a kid with hard candy stuck to his pudgy cheeks has just walked into their fudge shoppe. They almost froth at the mouth at the opportunity to mend people that the untrained eye would judge inadequate candidates for yoga. As such, I deem my inexperience as no obstacle.

Now that we have established that I have no business writing this blog you may ask, "Why would I?" A very reasonable inquiry.

Simple. I like my boyfriend and want him to stay with me.

Let me explain. I have a very limited repertoire for conversation. The few subjects that have caught my 3.2 second attention span become so interesting to me that I find most people are baffled by my ability to hold 4 hour conversations, often without pausing for breath, about what, to anyone else, is roughly as interesting as watching dust-bunnies form.

For example: eagle pose

In an effort to spare my longtime boyfriend from an eternity of maddening drivel I will push my yoga babble onto the rest of the world. SOMEONE has got to think eagle pose is the funniest thing EVER besides me.

P.S. Bookmark this page if you have any interest in Bikram Yoga, cats or graphic design! Mostly this will be about Bikram, but there are bound to be more than a few other things my boyfriend would rather I shout into the internet abyss than share with him...again. It's a safe bet that those things will involve my other two subjects of conversation.

P.P.S. Bookmark this page if you have no interest whatsoever in yoga! My boyfriend can vouch for its content's ability to lull even the most stubborn insomniac into a sleep-like trance!