How I gained the ability to wear shorts.

Modesty can be a wonderful thing — it creates people like Audrey Hepburn. It also creates a wardrobe inappropriate for Chicago summers. I have always had an odd relationship to modesty. In bars made exclusively of dark corners I feel perfectly comfortable in little corset-style tops and fishnets. However, you get me on a sunny street and I become some pre-suffragette trying to make amends with the fact that it is okay for the modern girl to show a little ankle. Or, at least, that was the case until one remarkable event. 

Getting me into short shorts for Bikram was a slow process. My first class was spent in knit pants and two layers of shirts. The first shirt was a tight tank top, so that if I had to flip upside down, my belly would not hang out (I was familiar with downward dog and prepared should it rear its ugly head). The second was a loosely fitting T-shirt so that, heaven forbid, no one could see the curvature of my body. I should mention that this behavior was not driven by some teenage angsty body image issue. More than anything, I just didn't want to assault the person next to me with unwanted fleshy bits. 

Within a month the outfit morphed into a tank top and loose running shorts (with built in undie-guards so the person behind me didn't have to see anything in balancing stick). Over the course of the next 6 months, my belly even made an appearance. Granted, the belly-bearing top had thick padded cups I would shove into it to prevent anyone from being able to see that I, like most other people, have nipples. 

This steady pace might have gotten me to the blasé attitude I have now within four or five years but a miracle happened. My first year as a yogi, I competed in my first Asana Championship. While always an enriching experience, this one was special. Rather than performing the 3 minute routine on a stage in a park, where your audience passes by at a distance of 20-30 feet, or in an auditorium, where your audience is only people interested in the sport, this competition was in a Whole Foods. Yes, right in the grocery store. 

Tucked safely between the check-out lanes and the entrance we lifted our legs, shoved our chests up to the sky (which incidentally, was not a sky, but the second floor and escalator. One competitor, when folded in half in guillotine, saw, just past her own rear, two young boys staring at her from said escalator). To ensure that no competitor would leave this day with lingering body-shame, the warm-up area was placed on a second level, past the floral department. Yes, to get on stage we had to walk past hoards of urbanite mothers and their gaping children in what amounted to our undergarments. Many a young child was educated that day on the glories of anatomy as competitor after competitor wove through the floral department, past the check-out lanes, passing the natural soaps, to the stage — clad in spandex leotards and banana hammocks.*

Aura's Guillotine

Now that my hoo-hoo has been pointed at unsuspecting shoppers of organic produce I find bearing a little ankle, even knee, quite unremarkable. And thus, you can now find me purchasing flimsy bra-tops and clingy short shorts for my practice. Problem solved. I would recommend this as a sure fire cure to any person willing to try.**

* I would like to make special note that I think this was actually a genius move. Being in such an open venue ensured a lot of visitors who would not have been watching otherwise. It also put us in close proximity to food, which was a huge bonus the second we were off stage. 

** The author of this blog will not be held responsible for any person being forcibly evicted from Whole Foods for indecent exposure.

My Incredibly Efficient Sweat Glands

For the first time in my life I plan on purchasing a scale. I have, as a rule, never owned one as I can see myself obsessing over every pound. This thought is not without reason. At one point, living in my parent's house, I stepped on a scale twice a day, if not more. I worked out the averages for morning and evening, before a potty break or after a meal. I knew this behavior was obsessive and that, lacking the willpower to stop myself, the easiest solution was to never have a scale stare at me from the foot of my home commode ever again. This plan has worked out great and I can currently only guess my weight within 15 pounds. I am willing to revisit my willpower over my former obsession, or possibly just purchase a scale as a disposable item, to answer one burning question, "Exactly how many pounds of sweat do I shed in one class?" I, up until this point, have squelched my curiosity, feeling it was just too odd to disclose, until yesterday. Yesterday, The Boy expressed the exact same desire. 

You see, The Boy just had his first tactile experience with what I have explained to him many times is a phenomenon beyond explanation — the amount of sweat my body can produce in a one-and-a-half-hour period. It happened because The Boy and I got home later than intended from Occupy Chicago. In order to get seven hours of sleep before a planned 6am (zombie) yoga class The Boy and I divvied up the chores I had left that evening. The only chore I could delegate to him (could he brush my teeth?) was laundry, which included the yoga gear I had been lugging around downtown with me for the past four hours. I was hesitant, but he was insistent. After he promised me he would still sleep with me after handling my grody towels I acquiesced — I really wanted to get to bed. 

As I was picking out clothes for the next day I heard a shout from the laundry hallway (it can't really qualify as a room), "This is all sweat?!?" While I was expecting some variation on this exclamation, I was not expecting the tone. There was no disgust in the voice. He was expressing sheer curiosity of the scientific variety. "Yeah!" I shouted proudly back.  

The Boy is stymied by my glands' efficiency.

I am not saying I sweat a lot for a girl; putting to shame those who "glisten." While I have never been a "glistener," my current capacity for water release puts most men to shame. I am captivated by the new efficiency of my glands.  If I can weigh my towels before and after class Im pretty sure it would be a figure of epic proportions. I may be able to get into Guinness for this!

At my studio, we frequently discuss the 'top sweaters' and my name is always in the top three. Of these three, the other two are men. I like to play a game with those other two, you know, like "Monkey in the Middle" only way grosser. One of these two fine gentlemen will set up on one side of a good friend yogi and I will set up on the other. We form a wonderful sprinkler system in eagle; sweat flying off our swinging fingertips in giant arcs. Our friend in the middle gets an unwelcome shower if they don't move to the back of their mat.

One of our teachers is such a good sport, when teaching from behind me she once exclaimed, "Whoo! You got me!" I apologized and she quickly retorted, "I like it!" I have also gotten the comment (from a much taller member of the top three tier), "I didn't know such a small person could produce that quantity. I mean, there just isn't that much surface area!" 

This might seem incredibly gross but it is just how comfortable I have become with myself. At some point you just shrug it off. There is even a "two towel club" I am proudly a member of. Yup. I sweat right through one bath towel and my teachers have kindly requested I lug not one, but two towels around with me so as not to form a marsh around my mat.

So, when The Boy had his first confrontation with what I had been trying to explain to him was a miracle of the human body and reacted in the same sheer wonder I experience every day, I was all too happy to puff up my chest and proclaim, "Yes, that is my poundage of sweat you are hefting!" And that, is why a scale may just make it back into my house. 

Two, Two, Two Posts in One!

Am I the only one that will get that outdated Certs reference? Yeah? Oh well. Im not changing it because this is my blog and I can rave like a lunatic and make inside jokes if I want to. 

I will get to the regularly scheduled post next, but first, I would like to share with you the coolest thing I have ever seen on public transit. I can not tell enough people about it. Maybe it's all over the interwebs by now, but I haven't seen it. In fact, my fellow passengers were so plugged into their gadgets that I am the only one who seemed to notice! I weep for them.

I was on my way home from a client's office via the brown line. For those not familiar with Chicago public transit; all of our lines are elevated. This line is above ground for it's whole route, putting you at eye-level with rooftops. In this particular section of Chicago, Lakeview, you pass many four-story brownstone buildings with flat roofs. A few of these buildings have short brick walls (about three feet high) around the roof. I imagine the idea is so that one can safely work on the roof ...or paint graffiti in private.

On this particular roof, the one where I saw the coolest thing one could ever see on public transit ever, three individuals decided to dress up and enact a scene exclusively for us tired, huddled masses on the brown line at rush hour. 

Two people stood roughly 4 feet apart, dressed in brown outfits, held cylindrical, possibly by a hoop-skirt type form. The third stood in between the other two with a giant mallet. The gentleman in the center faced one brown cylinder, then the other, swinging his mallet at each when he faced them. As he swung, the brown critter getting clobbered would sink down below the short brick wall surrounding the roof. Get it!?! GET IT!!?? They were Whac-a-Moles! One of only two games I could play at Chuck-E-Cheese!*

Coolest commute EVAR. Or, at least I thought so. One yogi's only response was, "Yeah, I think you have to be a little nuts to live that close to the tracks." Point taken, John.  

Okay, now on to the yoga!

The other day my mat was placed next to a gentleman that must have been eating curry for lunch, dinner and breakfast for the last twelve years. The smell was pungent and pervasive. It kept assaulting me in waves, rushing over my nose and filling me with images of wholly unappetizing dollops of red, yellow and green sauce. And you know what? As long as my own lunch stayed down, who cares? Really. 

Knowing what I have put into the air after weekends of binge drinking, the classes during the first months of winter, when my diet consists of brownies and wine, and the worst, after one of my rare rendezvous with red meat, I have little room to complain. 

In fact, yesterday and today I have become a Glade layered scented candle from the Garbage Pail Kids' dimension. Breathing through eagle is onion. This melts away to a pungent ammonia smell that I, like all cat owners, can only relate to in terms of cleaning the litter box. Finally, from standing bow until I have flushed the last of the odiferous toxins out, the bottom scent I will refer to only as, "musky male." Let your imagination go on that one. I'll give you a second. Yup, what you just cringed at? The smell is about like that. 

I understand these layered scents are my own fault, my punishment for seven cinnamon rolls yesterday, a plate of brownies the day before, a New York strip steak the previous dinner and various other offenses to my system that were just so good smelling on the way in. I can live with that. I know that usually I do not smell. Regular practice ensures that. 

I also know that the hot room itself smells no more offensive to my olfactory system than walking into a boy's locker room. I can handle a bit of curry for an hour and a half, knowing that he will walk out smelling a little less like curry for his companions in the elevator, cubicle mate and that blind date he may have tonight.

So you, my smelly yogi sister, wafting waves of stale cheese in my direction, rock on. My yogi brethren who continue to live on Cheetos and beer long past college, hold your head high. You there, in the back row reliving your poor decision making skills at the bar yesterday (scotch? I don't even like scotch) continue to push those toxins out of your system and I will do the same.

*The other is ski-ball. Maybe "could play" is a bit strong. I was relatively proficient at that one, as long as Scott Evans would crawl up the lane and put a ball in the 100pt hole for me every now and then.

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.

Grandpa

This has nothing to do with yoga. Or maybe everything. I mean really, yoga is a microcosm for life isn't it? But I warned you all this might go this way. Maybe I'll try to work a cat in for good measure. 

As I am writing this, my grandad passed away just hours ago. I was fortunate enough to see him so recently my carry-on bag has yet to be unpacked. I wanted to share my favorite memory of him because it so perfectly sums up who he was to me. 

I was still in college when I got a 9pm call that my grandmother had just passed. My college was in Grand Rapids, the West side of Michigan, and my parents, in Detroit on the East side of Michigan, were in the process of booking an early flight to Florida for us. I had nine hours to drive the 3 hours to Detroit, sleep, make myself presentable and pack. While this may seem like an easy feat, let us consider two items on this list severely impacted by my college lifestyle:

1. Packing a funeral outfit.

Being an art student I did not own any funeral-appropriate attire. Heck, I didn't own a pair of jeans with even one knee intact. I had to dash from dorm-room to dorm-room asking girls roughly my size and shape for black dress clothes, which, of course, they did not have, being college students themselves. I managed to scrape together a skirt and blouse that fit...more or less. Nylons and shoes had to be arranged over the telephone. I called my sister for nylons but she couldn't help with shoes, her feet being a very normal size for an elf. My mother provided shoes, her feet were only one size too large (I brought a spare pair of socks to shove in the toes). 

2. Making myself presentable

College Kate was well known for her wide variety of hair-styles. Shaved head? Done. Purple leopard-print? Yup. Princeton? Uh-huh. Chelsea? You-betcha. Female pompadour? Briefly. The coiffure of choice this month (actually, I had been growing this out for almost a year) was a tall, fully shaved on the sides, green mohawk. My dad & step-mom are pretty conservative and, although they made their best effort not to show it, were horribly embarrassed by my hair and clothing even under regular circumstances. I was not sure they would let me on the plane, let alone look my poor grieving grandpa in the eye with a foot-tall green mohawk. 

As I explained, it took some time, but I did manage to get clothing together. The hair was another matter. I figured if I could just get my hair not-neon, I could comb it down and be okay. I sped to the nearest beauty supply store, which closed at 9. Of course the door was locked, but my pounding and yelling got the attention of the girls closing down in back. I knew I had to pound furiously because these girls were very talented at ignoring customers pounding on the door past closing. I know, I worked there. You would be surprised at the tenacity required to pretend the stylist screaming about her 8am perm appointment is not there. They let me in and I ran right to the dye aisle and picked out the top rated hair-color and developer (in darkest brown), some color remover and a crystal gel treatment. Does all that sound harsh to try on already bleached hair? It is. Very harsh. 

I grabbed my supplies and drove right to the other side of the state. Getting in at 1am, I had 4 hours to strip, cleanse, dye my hair and sleep. Hooray for adrenaline (I had yet to discover pranayama breathing)! I rushed through the treatments and ascertained that I had forgotten one major component — conditioner. My brittle hair felt worse than straw. I am sure half the hair attached to my head only remained because of the series of knots that tied it to other strands yet to break off. A little lotion was all I had to run through my hair, achieving the hard to acquire greasy-yet-dry look. To top it off, the brown dye and treatments only succeeded in turning my neon green to a moss-on-a-log camo pattern. Patches of neon butted up next to mossy brown. With two hours left, I heaved a heavy sigh and put on a baseball cap. Maybe it could be considered part of my funeral outfit, like a lady's bonnet? 

As this was pre-9/11, I made it through security and to my grandpa's house without taking off my hat, which had a Dropkick Murphy's patch safety pinned to the front. My parents had been warned of the horrors beneath my cap, but we choose not to speak of it. When we arrived at my grandpa's condo there were many relatives gathered around having the customary scotch and wine forced upon them by my grandfather.* None of my family lives in the same city so nobody knew what my hair was currently doing under my cap, but everyone knew me well enough to know to be afraid. And for g*d's sake, do not mention it. People avoided looking at my hat the way people would avert their eyes from satan. There was an elephant in the room and it was sitting on my head. Finally, my grandpa spoke up, "Kathryn. Come here. Take off your hat." 

For the first time all day (my family consists largely of stereo-typicaly thunderous Jews, of which I am no exception) the room went silent.

"Um. No, grandpa. That's a bad idea." I responded. We bantered like that back and forth, him sounding like he was coaxing a ball out of a dog's mouth to play fetch and me sounding like he was asking me to slay my first born. I looked into my parent's eyes and saw horror, I looked around the room, further horror. No solace anywhere but my poor grandfather's playful eyes. If only he knew what he was asking, surely he would desist!

I didn't want to disappoint my grandad, not even being able to clean up for my grandmother's funeral, but there was no way around it. I just didn't have time to fix it. I bowed my head, apologized and took the cap off. A gasp came up from the crowd but above that could be heard laughing. Loud, joyous laughter. Grandpa thought the matted, greasy, mess on my head was hilarious, made even more so by my cowardice!

He grabbed my head put his lips to my shaved haffet giving me a big kiss. As he did, he whispered in my ear, a conspiratory whisper,  "Next time, shave these  better, the stubble hurts my lips!"

My grandad was always a regal man, a proper man. A classic WWII vet who loved his scotch, golfed and drank his tea very black. He was also above judgement and loved me unconditionally. Thank you for that last visit, grandpa. It was the greatest gift ever — even better than those plastic fisher-price roller skates you gave me for my 8th birthday. 

* The man was so insistent that every visitor to his home join him in a glass of scotch that not 7 days before he died, while The Boy and I were visiting, grandad had me run to the liquor cabinet and pour us each a glass.

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.

Practical Yoga (A Continuing Segment)

Today, I would like to announce a new segment, "Practical Yoga." This handy guide is here to explain the benefits that yoga can provide to your everyday life. In an effort to appeal to the segment of our population preferring a logical approach, this no-nonsense guide will not be touching on the more 'foofy' aspects of yoga; instead focusing on hard, practical fact. We will not discuss calmness, increased energy or karma. We will eschew words like, "prana." Here, we will outline stale facts -- indisputable proof of yoga's daily benefits. Let's begin:

Practical Yoga #1:

Ladies, specifically, are familiar the burden of using public toilets. Public toilets are hazardous cubby-holes to be navigated with extreme caution. Techniques are taught at an early age to endure the hardships, but no amount of nest-building prowess has ever prepared you for the horrors of the late-night bar.

The scenario: 

You accompany three of your friends to an after-dinner drink. After an unusually classy evening, you are in heels(!!!), the comfortable atmosphere is perfect, low lighting, easy banter and the drinks are about as chill as you are feeling. After an hour you excuse yourself from your sedate surroundings. You push open an unassuming wooden door to find yourself within the ranks of hell. Wet toilet paper litters the floor and the toilet seat looks as if a blind person has been shooting it with a water pistol for months...and it must have been a Super-Soaker 100.* 

You build a nest 13 layers thick knowing that it is no match for the pestilence laying beneath it. Then, calm comes over you. You have got this. Thinking back to your yoga class, you strike a pose.

Fig #1: Awkward Pose

Fig #2: Awkward Pose for the Public Lavatory

The thigh strength and balance you have been building over the course of your practice have paid off. You wash your hands and exit the restroom (using a paper towel on the handle as you leave) with a buttocks as fresh as when you walked in. Congratulations. You have conquered plague with yoga.

(Seriously, I actually have had a way easier time using public restrooms since starting yoga. Even in heels, which I figure is just like second part of awkward, I can hold myself inches above the seat as long as I need. Thanks, Yoga!)

*www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYFma2IDwak