On the Road to Dubruvinik

I have started taking advanced classes to prepare for Dubrovnik. What a surprise, this has led to more epic falling! In deference to the fact that this blog is turning into a regular bloopers reel, I will attempt to convey the massive FAIL that was this, most recent, fall. 

I attempted, with the guidance of the oh-so-generous teachers* to stand up from a backbend (with both feet and hands on the floor) by simply** using my core muscles to lift me up. 

I did not get into this backbend to cool way (from standing), rather, I pushed myself up from the ground like you do in grade-school gym class. Once I was in this back-bend arc the instructor asked if I could stand up. I knew I couldn't because I have tried it countless times. However, I have this part of me, which is turning out to be rather helpful, that says, "let's see" whenever a teacher asks me if I can do something. They could pretty much say, "Now levitate!" (which they have) and I will honestly give it my best shot (which I have). Sometimes the results are better than expected, most times not. I have yet to levitate.*** 

It seems to me that the times I fall over are well worth the 1% of the time that I don't. 

With a plethora of helpful hints and a whole ton of cheerleading, I managed to pull off the most awkward, flailing, catapulted reverse of a pose ever. I rocked, rolled, pushed, launched forward, very briefly passed through a standing position, and flopped onto the floor. Once I found myself stationary I proudly looked up from the floor -- exactly opposite my previous position on the floor -- and beamed, "I did it!"

A brief encounter with the goal of standing

A reunion with the floor

The other, much more advanced yogis in the room, did not cringe but only suggested that I try "grounding myself." In other words, sink the heels in, flex the correct muscles and next time manage to end up standing when attempting to stand. I like to call this "finessing" the pose. 

*Seriously, these guys are awesome. I have no idea what I am doing yet nobody seems irked at the extra attention I need. Everyone has been super nice, even joking with me about how great Im doing when I manage to wrangle myself into a pose. Such a great group. <3

**Please note the massive sarcasm.

***Yes, this is a joke, I am not a 'floating yogi' or whatever that sect is called. It seems really odd that I feel the need to clarify that.

I Have Paid a Man to Kick My Ass

Here is my coming out post. I will be gone soon for two weeks (posts will still go up). Some observant yogis might note why. I am going to get my ass kicked by The Boss himself in Croatia. No turning back, they already have my money. ...dear lord, what have I done?

I am giddy and scared to death at the same time but I don't think this is generated from the physical undertaking. I think it is the idea of coming face to face with Bikram himself.

It's certainly not a hero-worship thing. In fact, I fear that he won't live up to the meager bar I have set for him. I currently explain away the eccentric, controversy-loving man behind the mission with reasoning I can admire. His showmanship, flashy cars and pimp-like fashion sense has done wonders to draw in publicity, as an advertiser myself I don't count this as a bad thing. With all his sex-talk, wild living and complete lack of regard for what we think a yogi should look like, he isn't so 'other.' He can be human. Like us, flawed....way flawed. The practice seems less out-of reach that way. I don't have to 'om-shanti-shanti' my way through life to practice.

I also love the admission that some of this stuff hurts. Hurts like heck, in fact. He acknowledges that we want money, that we hate to work and that self-improvement can suck a lot of the time. If we can admit that, I am willing to step in and curse my way (as nicely as I can muster) to a better me. I mean, after all, isn't being honest with yourself the first step? I'm not being honest with myself if I can't even admit that I have a really rough time getting myself to class.

The only controversy I think holds any traction with me is the copyrighting issue and it doesn't hold much. Yes, we want free and open things. Open-source = good. However, quality control is also good and let's face it, there is virtually none in the yoga world. We've all paid for a class only to discover this studio's version of Hatha yoga is sitting in lotus listening to a woman drone about tree roots for an hour. That's not really the class I have the beef with anyway. It's the one where you can hurt yourself because you aren't being watched and the teacher has no idea what they are doing. It's the wild-west of yoga out there and I just want one section of yoga to say, "If you find yourself in Iowa I still promise you can walk into my studio and know you are getting quality." To take that 1 step further, I am glad he is willing to protect those teachers who take the time to put his name on the studio too. Maybe Ill expand upon this later, I think it's a subject that deserves addressing further.

So here we have the problem. I am now going right to the man. I would hate to discover he is not, in fact, ensnaring our egos to capture the ego-centric Western mind, engaging us on our own territory, playing with our sense of 'right' and 'justice' but is, in fact, just an ass. An ass who has a lot of my money.

The Boss

So here we go, the proverbial 'belly of the beast.'  I take solace in the fact that, no matter how wonderful or heinous the man is, I walked into Bikram yoga expecting nothing and received amazing benefits. He gave me something wonderful. I can take that gift without taking the parts I don't agree with. You can call this cherry-picking in an admonishing way but I choose to see it as common sence. There are very few things I buy into whole-heartedly and none that I buy into without a healthy dose of examination. I am a firm believer in Buddha's teaching, "Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense." I love that.

This is how I see my Bikram practice. I like what I've gotten. I ask a lot of questions and my teachers answer in ways I agree with. Pieces I don't agree with I put on a shelf to examine later and decide on when i have gathered enough facts.

When I get home, I will report on my experience. I will do so honestly as I can. Ass or genius, I hope I can still appreciate the plethora of benefits I've gotten from him. 

I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Affectations

I now own my first Lululemon  hoodie, although, now being indoctrinated, I do not call this a hoodie but a, "scuba." My hoodie in no way resembles diving gear, so I have no idea why I call it a "scuba" except that the sign at the warehouse-sale listed it as such. The new name for the familiar item of clothing is comparable to a 'grande' at Starbucks. If I ask for a medium I get that blank hampster-fell-off-the-wheel look. To avoid confusion I have just learned to replace my nouns with whatever the marketers tell me to.

I adore my scuba, yet live in shame that I am now the owner of a $70 hoodie. Excuse me -- scuba. Now I will attempt to justify this cost.

LLL scubas are unique in several aspects:

1. They are long, preventing coin-slot. (A feature worth at least $10. I like a warm bum.)
2. They have thumb-holes.* (These can be created for free, but then you have to hem them. My time is worth $65/hr. I am a bad seamstress. $90 feature)
3. They actually have curvature -- going in at the waist, rather than hanging limply around the middle and squeezing the bejezus out of my hips. (not walking like a penguin is worth $10 to me)
4. The signature logo smeared all across the front, although a bewilderingly bad logo, is fantastic at showing off those curves. I am suspicious that the logo was only created in order to sell 'scubas'. ( -$40, I hate being a billboard; even a curvy one.)
5. The materials are amazingly high quality. The fabric is so thick and soft it could take bullets. Do not test this theory.** (I hear kevlar is expensive; $80. I'm going to take the high road and avoid pot-shots at the cities I have/do live in *achem, Detroit*)

My scuba also comes with a feature that leaves me flummoxed. The  sleeves detach. The brushed metal buttons holding them on are esthetically meaningful, adding that je ne sais quoi...'I may be over 30 and wearing Lululemon, but I'm still tough,'  but I can not think of a time I ever wore a hoodie and thought, "this would be perfect, if only it didn't have sleeves."

I have thought of removing the sleeves just for the sake of utilizing all the features of my LLL scuba (I mean, isn't it wasteful not to?) but the look is rather like a tailored version of an 80's muscle-T. I would be forced to complete the outfit by lurching forward with a wide-set gait, knuckles inches from the ground, grunting. This sounds like a lot of work so, for now, I will utilize all the features except the neanderthal impersonator.

Lookin' good in my LLL muscle scuba

I still love my ridiculous hoodie. Scuba. Whatever. Don't judge.

This is supposed to be Jon Stewart. He disproves of my $70 hoodie. Why Jon Stewart? Because I was watching The Daily Show and wondering if I could do portraiture. That's why.

*Why has it taken snow-board companies and LLL this long to catch on? I was WAY ahead of my time. In high-school, my best friend and I spent many an afternoon gnawing holes into our sleeves to poke our thumbs out of.

**LLL scubas are not to be worn in place of kevlar vests.

Headplant!

In my continuing quest to discover every possible way to fall out of each pose I have, yet again, managed to fall directly on my cranium. I can see a pattern developing. I hope it does not develop into brain damage. 

I have recently received a modification to fixed firm pose. This is, although a great experience, not entirely surprising. My knees, unlike my spine, have the same genetic code as Gumby.

In this slight modification one sits, hips on the floor between your legs, puts their hands on their feet, looks up and traces a line back to the wall, eventually touching your head to the floor. Sounds normal enough, but notice what I left out -- lowering yourself down with one elbow at a time. I now get to attempt to lower myself back with no assistance. It has to be pure core muscle lowering me onto the ground. I don't really have the core muscles trained yet though; they have no idea what to do without my elbows guiding them. 

I start the pose like normal. I can see the ground. Just two more thumb-widths to the ground.

Hello, floor! Fancy seeing you here!

At exactly two inches from the ground my brain begins sudden rapid communication with my body.

Body: I have no idea where to put my hands!
Brain: On your feet, dummy!
Body: Where the heck are those? Ak! Which way is down? Where is the floor!?
Brain: You are LOOKING at it! How have you survived this long?

My hands flail, I lose track of the ground. My tummy muscles give up and release, probably just to prove to my body that the ground is still the direction gravity pulls. 

Oh dear, floor! I am SO confused!

The two inches between my head and the floor become a monumental gap. I hit the floor with the speed indicative of a fall from a dizzying height rather than a pathetic two-inch gap. I lay there laughing. Possibly this is delirium. 

Floor, great to see you. We simply must do this again sometime!

Now the work begins. I have to get myself back up from the ground, again with no elbows. I repeat the process backwards, hands flailing, tummy muscles flexing, giving up, flexing, laughing. 

I am not entirely sure I have been given this posture for the reasons I outlined above. It has occurred to me that the floor series is quite boring for teachers. It seems to me likely they needed a floor show to liven things up. I am happy to oblige. 

Talking the Talk

Increasingly, I am discovering my vocabulary includes words people cock* their heads at. Tonight, I found myself typing, "I am just glad you are coming, any dish you bring will be a bonus, like that little back-bend you get in fixed firm!" and, heaven help me, I meant it.  This was an honest attempt at a simile. The idea that in a knee-opening posture you can also get this little stretch in your back seemed exactly fitting to my feeling of receiving chicken wings from a friend. *face palm*

Another surprise metaphor in my new vocabulary was discovered over fries at The Bad Apple. "I didn't just have my fingers crossed, man, I was in eagle! 

I wonder if some day in the not-too distant future I will only be able to communicate with fellow yogis. I will become to a seven-year-old shouting at whales** to my own family. I will have to create an elaborate 'How to talk to Kate' class in which we will sit in a semi-circle and I will hold flash cards aloft, pointing and saying in a too-loud voice, GAR-ood-asana! while my poor mother tries over and over again to wrap her mouth around the sanskrit syllables. 

Gold stars if you can name this asana. Does anyone remember what 'asana' means? 

Knowing my lack of success with language, it will have to go this way; I certainly won't be able to re-learn English. 

On the other hand, maybe I just sound like one of those foreigners who, when they get a word in the wrong context, it actually adds meaning to the word. ...yeah....probably not. Excuse me, I have to go make some flash cards now.

*COCK! Another vocab word!

**Reference to the last post. I promise Im not trying to make you read more -- this honestly fits here.

Better Than Jesus Toast

The other day I got up from the first savasana to see this sweat mark on my towel. I am magic.

NaNaNaNaNaNaNaNa KATE'S SWEAT!!

And just because I can never get enough of it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLu0uhx_r5g

Of SOPA and Whale-Song

First off, if you haven't written your representatives about SOPA/PIPA yet, please do so now. Yesterday was the day of action but I won't fault you for getting on the bandwagon late. I will wait. .....welcome back.  Thank you for helping us all live outside of an Orwellian nightmare. Compliments of theoatmeal.com I have included this educational animated gif. 

theoatmeal.com would like you to know pirating this is a-ok by them.

Now that we are all back and have participated in the great democratic process, I was at the Bikram studio in Rome... hmmm? Yes, Rome, lovely city. Very sweet little studio. Okay, enough pretending to be all continental and stuff. I WENT TO ROME! And did YOGA THERE! It was awesome. It was also over a year ago, so I am getting rather nostalgic about it and I figured I would share. 

If you have been to the studio in Rome, or are a regular, please refrain from rolling your eyes at this American yahoo who did everything she could to blend in. This included wearing nicer clothing, putting on make-up and trying my best to speak Italian. To say I am bad at languages is to say that a child of seven is bad at communicating via whale-song to a hump-back.*  I took three years of Spanish and a Spanish language course as an adult, never once progressing beyond Spanish 2. To my credit, I can order a beer in Portuguese and Korean, and learned to order red house wine in Italian. Once back from my trip I forgot that one though. Mock-Chu Chu-say-oh is far more engrained because Koreans, in my experience, drink even more than Italians. 

Three Years of Spanish One

So, with my limited repertoire of, "House red wine, please," "Where is the bathroom, please?," "I do not speak Italian. PLEASE, do you speak English?" and, the Swiss army-knife of phrases, "Sorry, excuse me, please!," the phrase "twist your arms like wet ropes" was a wee past my linguistic capabilities. Fortunately, there is one English class taught each week at the Rome studio! Unfortunately, I was in the middle of a very large bowl of pasta while it was being conducted. I, much to the relief of The Boy, managed to carve out some time between wine and pasta bowls on day two. I say, "much to his relief" because I am very bad at relaxing. It seems this skill is not well suited for me. When I went to visit my friend in Portland, the land of retired 20-somethings, I was confronted with such a lack of anxiety it made me anxious. I wanted to shake every bearded man I met and ask him how on earth he thought he would live out his old age without a 401k. Granted, I do not have a 401k, but at least I have the good common sense to fret over it until I have ulcers.** So, when visiting Rome, The Boy knew it would take a while of twitching until I got used to a vacation's pace. 

He was a good sport as, for 24 hours, I rushed him past fantastic ruins to walk to...nowhere. That's right. We walked roughly 12 miles that first day. He tried to stop maybe 5 times as we passed giant monoliths of history. Tried. I would pace back and forth like a caged animal until he put his camera away and continued the walk/run pace I had set for us. On day two we decided he would catch a bite to eat and grab some wine while I took a cab to The Vatican and walked to the studio from there. I charged to the studio and began to unwind. 

At the front desk, I established right away that I did not speak Italian but had done this before and would do my best to follow whatever the teacher told me. They were so nice to me. One of the ladies, not the teacher I would have, spoke a little English and we mimed the rest -- she was happy to have me, I was grateful to be here, etc, etc. 

I was starting to feel grounded, partially from the sudden familiarity (it felt a little like discovering you have a relative in the area), partially from my independent foray (proving that separating from The Boy wouldn't equate to being instantly nabbed by the Italian Secret Service and held indefinitely for a crime I did not commit unbeknownst to the outside world). I set up in the room, nodded to the nice Romans I would be taking class with and got down to savasana. The class went really well, considering I could understand nothing. I moved from one pose to the next in time with the rest of the room, focusing on myself but feeling the general flow from one pose to the next. I thought I was doing pretty good. 

I was just in the middle of thinking how very good this was going when I noticed the teacher was getting very loud. We were folded forward in separate leg stretching. As I looked between my legs I could see that her, now overly enunciated, words were quite possibly meant for me. Oh dear. She walked toward me repeating the same phrase over and over, each time pulling her lips away from her teeth in a more exaggerated manner. In my head, it was just a more precise version of Charlie Brown's teacher, "WAH-wah-wah-wah-wa." I tried pulling my head closer to the mat, "WAH-wah-wah-wah-wa." I tried pigeon toeing more, "WAH-wah-wah-wah-wa." I moved my elbows closer to my knees, "WAH-wah-wah-wah-wa!" Finally realizing that she was in the presence of a seven-year-old attempting whale-song translation, she spoke the three magic words in English "Lock your knees." AHHHHH!!! I should have guessed. I locked my knees. She smiled and flipped right back to Italian. 

For the rest of the class, the only other mistake I made was to get into final stretching when we were supposed to be getting into rabbit. Wishful thinking. The nice Roman next to me gave me a little nod to her folded legs, as opposed to my strait ones, and I got the message before any Italian need be uttered. All in all, it was a lovely experience. The studio is great, with a little zen fountain by the changing rooms and the staff were accommodating. Besides, you can say you practiced IN ROME. I am fairly certain you get like +30 Cool Points and at least a bazillion Provincial Points for that.

* If Science Officer Spock had a hard time I assume it is exceedingly difficult for a seven-year-old.

** If I have told that story before, please forgive me, I am still working through the trauma.

This is for Dalia, who learned to talk to her whale today. See comments if you are confused.