So what does that say about me

Daylight hits my face after a deep sleep and having dreamt about being at a Miley Cyrus concert (that is NOT one of my real dreams, I would like to state for the record), I move a leg.

FRIGAN OUCH.

I am sore from head to toe. My arms ache, my legs ache, I think I've found a muscle that I didn't know existed.

Oh, I am so mad at Bikram.

It is 11:23 PM and you know what? I still feel the SAME way I did this morning. But damn it, instead of being a blabbering idiot about this, what does this really say about me?

The last time I did Bikram yoga it rocked my world, enough so that I showed up to class again the next day. It made me feel refreshed, open, detoxified. This was in 2005 or 2006, about 3-4 years ago in SF, CA where I walked everyday, maybe 1-2 hrs. everyday, without even thinking about it. It was before my pregnancy and before the baby. Before suburban-car-driving life where my only daily exercise is daily chores and any other exercise has to be done consciously. It was before my body transformed into a "post" something or another. It didn't actually transform, it kinda became a new creature by default and reclaiming this skin is taking me some frigan time. I've retained the 10 lbs that I got from being pregnant. I really can't call it a post-pregnancy body anymore b/c my baby's almost 2. And what the hell am I complaining about when I only have 10 lbs to lose??? I live in America for goodness sakes, these people here have like, 100's of pounds to lose!!!

So what does it really say about me?

Am I just a lazy-ass?

Do I just love food too much? (oh lordy do I love food)

Do I not know how to do this?

----OR----

DOES MY FAT JUST REALLY LOVE ME TOO MUCH TO LEAVE ME????

I don't know. I don't know what it says about me. All I know is that if it's hard for me to fight this little battle that seems like a war, I know that the way my world is built around me doesn't help it. But that doesn't mean there aren't ways to climb out of here. I've got my mini steps set up. I guess I just wanted to be bitch-slapped by somebody besides myself and it took Bikram to remind me why this has to be done in the first place, this physical health thing.

So this is my next message to Bikram: Thanks for the bitch-slap.

A Message to Mr.Bikram: Thanks for creating HELL on earth

Somethings don't mix. Like fish sauce and mayo. Like beer and wine. Like Flava Flav and weird big clocks. Like a fatass in the middle of a Michigan winter and Bikram yoga.

Imagine: It's the middle of winter and it's 30 degrees outside and your scarf is keeping you toasty. You're body's 3 months into this weather. Recently, your sweat glands have been nicely massaged by Netflix Instant Watch aerobics with "Marie," You're used to just enough bending where the next morning you feel a tinge of muscle sore.

Then imagine opening the door to: HELL.

It is 105 degrees inside, humidity level probably 110%. Breathing makes you want to choke. Then, you are introduced to the instructor- a cross between Madonna's grandmother and a leprechaun: wicked ripped for her 60+ age, with a face of a beat-up hooker (way too much make-up), and curly red hair that fell all over the place.

And it gets worse. The room is packed. There's a yoga mat every 8". I am the last student. I can barely fit between two old-timers. "Bend, breathe in, breathe out, put this here, put that leg there, stretch, stretch..."

I...Am...GOING...TO...(water)...DIE!!!!!!!!! This thought occurs about every other minute. 90 minutes of this, that makes it 180 minutes of, SHII, I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF HELL ON EARTH. And I paid $15 bucks for it.

But I survived it. Right now I am in my bathrobe, 4 hours later, doing absolutely shit, trying to recuperate. Bitter. Body confused. Internal organs still cooking but toes cold. My sweat glands are in shock. All this makes me want to smack a leprecaun then kick it up Bikram's butt. And I would tell him, "Thanks for creating HELL on earth. And having it curated by a Madonna' leprechaun grandmother."

Suburban Complacency Part 0

Isn't it funny how we find out what we're made of when we are put in the middle of hell on earth?

What I HATE but have started to believe that it is "kinda nice."

1. Saying "kinda nice." so descriptive.
2. Eating fastfood more than 1/year and justifying it.
3. Eating frozen foods and canned food as part of a "normal" way to eat.
4. Not talking.
5. Always agreeing.
6. Dressing like I am an old time Casual Corner shopper- properly sanitized and extremely white???? i'm frigan yellow!!!
7. Allowing myself to believe my own bullshit...

I am protesting with huge signs of "get a life and be yourself"... in front of my own home.

Suburban Angst Part III

Some people just can't believe it's true sometimes, that you may be capable of more than they assume. And then they undermine you and try to put you in your place. My school district wasn't going to pay me for my hours of service at a student conference because they couldn't believe that I actually attended.

And I see it in the secretary's faces when they have to give me messages. It's the look like, "why am I giving you messages?" I can't say it's racism anymore because I'm totally confused as to how I'm suppose to tell that it directly is, and I can't say it's ageism, so what "ism" is it?

And of course, this is the work you love doing the most; you pour your heart into it and get compensated monetarily for only parts of it. And it goes back to always trying to prove your ass to "these" people. And you fill in the blank as to who "these" people are. Because it could be anybody really.

Abandonne

I love this photo. Sometimes don't you just feel "Abandonee" by- you fill in the blank. Right now, after my Suburban Angst post, I feel "Abadonee," not by my wonderful husband, or my child, or by anyone in particular. In a sea of shopping malls and people making transactions, I do not have a sense of home in this place. It's like when you look in the mirror and you hope to see pieces of you or something like it, but instead, when you look out in this mirror, there are no familiar faces. So you must continually remind yourself that you are there, and the reflection is real.

Suburban Angst

Part I
The check-out lady at Kroger's reminded me of my suburban angst with her reaction to my putting two packages of chicken in one plastic bag. She pulled it out and threw it down as if she was insulted that I was trying to get away with hiding the second package from her. She would have never thought that I could possibly be trying to save a plastic bag...b/c what kind of freaking hippie crap is that?

But instead of telling her of my intentions, I just put them back in one bag. Why argue or try to explain the color of fijian aqua blue to someone who's use to the dreary drab of slushy gray?

Part II
I'm blinded by the vision of that red bullseye Hello... Goodbuy... HELL NO!! GOODBYE!!!

I'm blinded by the endless stretch of highway and multiple lanes...(Michigan seems to have built roads for SUV first, THEN buildings and houses.)

I've become numb to the haughty expressions of white suburbian upper middle glass middle age women...

I'm confused as to how I should look, what I should wear, how I should talk, so that I can move like a chameleon in this place...because I did want so bad to belong...because isn't this where my baby will be brought up healthiest?????? But I don't want her to suffer from suburban blues or angst.

But it seems impossible with my jet black unapologetically straight hair flapping around my face, reminding me that I just can't tame it...it's in my roots...it's in my blood...

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