breakup in bulletpoints, pictures and swear words

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Stages I go through in a breakup*
(*not in any order whatsoever. *reserve the right to revisit bulletpoints)

  • Singing loudly with Annie Lennox, Aretha Franklin, Pink and Carrie Underwood while driving – e99486bc49cfd4bec71dc8ed7da45efdam strong empowered woman who needs no man

  • Fetal position, rocking back and forth muttering things to the dog – am certain no will ever love me, that my hair will never behave respectably, that my feet are just plain ugly and I should just give up now and become a cat lady
  • Cool. I’m, like totally cool. No, actually I’m so important and so busy with all my important busy life things that I have no time to do anything buy my very important things that really just take up all of my time. Lord I just have no time to be worried about such trivial things! Am important, very busy person, anybody can see that, also I like wearing my pants inside out.

  • Fuck it. Fuck absolutely all of it. Fuck all of it somuch that I’m going to sit here and eat ice cream – NOT low fat or froyo, but FULL fat Ben and Fucking Jerry’s ice cream, AND I’m going to eat it straight from the container sitting on the couch at 11pm, because I can, okay??? Am so damn happy that no man will ever see me naked again that I’m gonna sit here and my godamm ice cream,  okay?

  • Obsessively checking WhatsApp to see who’s online and when. Not because I care, I 456ff36526284be28c434f4763d1027bb105178f4bced101b5abe3679a9d065ejust happened to pick up my phone. Am totally in control here, and do not care when anyone is on line and not sending me messages. Do not care even a tiny bit. Absolutely did not just check my messages just now.
  • Hang out with hot 30somethings. Decide right after gorgeous blonde in short shorts says, hey you’re my mom’s age, you look good and that’s what’s really important that I need to hang with my 50something friends maybe a little more.
  • Make empowered decision to go see all Marvel/Xmen/Star Trek movies by myself, because dammit I am an empowered and free woman who needs no man to go to movies with. Also I can eat all the damn popcorn myself.9owjc
  • Buy a parrot, because… because honestly I’ve got nothing here, but I did buy a parrot who is learning to dance and sing to Brittany Spear’s Work Bitch, so that’s pretty entertaining.
  • Revisit the ‘Empowered/Fetal/Fuck All of Things’ Cycle for a few more rounds.
  • Journal, Meditate just like Mastin Kipp says I’m suppose to, because you know he’s a 30something who is apparently enlightened, or at least has a book and a blog and sends messages on YouTube from Maui on how to cope with heartbreak. (aside – he would likely frown benevolently on a few of my other coping mechanisms)

  • Fail spectacularly and not being petty and bitter. Journal about greater than average pettiness and bitterness. Meditate on super charged petty bitter non enlightened behavior that would disappoint Mastin.
  • Wonder if I should share any of this with my therapist, but then worry she will think less of me, then wonder if maybe I am not approaching this correctly. Decide I’m fine, and will tell my therapist so.
  • Draw picture. Write poems. Mock picture and poem. Buy $50 worth of art supplies to colour picture. Continue to mock now coloured in picture.
  • Buy cute dress, because Fuck it.
  • Buy new bra, because really Fuck it
  • Buy groovy top that 30somethings wouldn’t be caught dead in, but would probably say would look good on someone my age.

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  • Look at bank account balance. Berate self over apparent complete lack of self control.
  • Remember that my birthday is in a week.
  • Fuck all the thoughts about what to do on your birthday. Will pretend to ignore the damn thing this year, and secretly stuff face with cupcakes and Ben and Jerry’s.46178953
  • Re-examine feet. Decide they are the ugliest feet that have ever existed. Wear open toed sandals anyway, because Fuck it, no one will ever see me naked again, so why worry about ugly feet. Right moving on.
  • Wonder why you have to write all this shite only after midnight, and not in the morning like normal writers.
  • Debate major hair cut vs finally embracing dreads. Buy more hair product because bank account still had a few dollars in it.  Decide that stress increases frizz, and hair products with cool smelling ingredients will decrease stress.

  • Write self depreciating blog, spends hours writing and rewriting it, finding pictures and clever gifs and memes instead of sleeping, because sleep is for wimps and people who have to have passable hair, pretty toes, and who don’t eat Ben and Jerry’s at midnight, who don’t need to sing Carrie Underwood in the car.

have you considered flinging feces at it?

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fairly accurate illustration of my brain and hair on an average day

 

So, you might already know I’m not the most meditative person on the planet.

Or maybe you think that because I’m a yoga teacher I’m just All Zen, All the time.

Pete was what you would call 'easily distracted....

Right. About that. Left unattended, I have the average attention span of an over caffeinated squirrel.

So in the pursuit of some mental calm, for scraps to mental peace and quiet, for maybe 3 or 4 thought free nano seconds, for the answers to life the universe and everything, or maybe just how to figure out my “it’s really so fucking complicated I can’t even” relationship status (get ON that one willya Facebook?), I have started meditating again.

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I drink Kombucha. I have a freaking LOTUS FLOWER tattoo. Still want to smack.

I also found Mastin Kipp and his blog The Daily Love and just to be safe I’m reading his book.  Also, I started journalling. I have done these things before, but in my usual, mostly distracted about some little thing or another way, I had dropped both a long while ago in favour of more worthy pursuits, such as:

  • Netflix
  • Ben and Jerry’s
  • Netflix with Ben and Jerry’s
  • Pokemon Go
  • Pokemon Go with Ben and Jerry’s
  • Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, but NOT Pinterest (not sure why, maybe I’ll pop over there for just a second)
  • All of the above with Ben and Jerry’s
  • Googling stupid things (long story, but you really, really, REALLY don’t ever want to Google ‘asshole yoga’ looking for funny yoga teacher stories. Just don’t. Learn from my mistake.  Did you just Google it even though I said not too? Are you sorry now? Don’t ever say I never warned you.
  • Looking at approximately 3 bazillion*  (*estimated, rounded down to the nearest bazillion) memes, images and gifs about being distracted, having monkey mind, having too many thoughts, Hyperbole and a Half,  hair products (completely unrelated, because… Squirrel!) Wait But Why, and only just at this moment noticing The Irony.
  • Lamenting that I am now out of Ben and Jerry’simages

I also discovered how fun passive aggressively coping with frustration by live Tweeting could be. Like, say that time I didn’t show up 15 minutes early to my Discount Tire appointment.

 

And you wonder why my friends dubbed me Zen Bitch.

So meditating. How hard could it be? I mean I used to belong to the is way cool Buddhist group that mediated for 2 freakin hours on Sundays. I semi regularly pop into a sensory deprivation float tank – Anicca Float Club, awesome place, and I can sit on my couch and do essentially absolutely nothing for hours (see Netflix, Ben and Jerry’s etc bullet points).  Picking up meditation again should be a cake walk.

My monkey mind has apparently been doing one arm pushups while I was distracted with my other important pursuits. My monkey mind, because even my monkey mind has to be more special than anyone else’s, flings feces, screeches, grooms, and scratches in the most Inappropriate places and at the most Inappropriate times.

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Ideal conditions – seen for approximately 3-4 nano seconds per week

On any given day my monkey  mind is having a party with several friends you wouldn’t consider introducing to your mother, like ever, and my panic monster is running around the room flapping its arms and screaming at the monkeys to calm the fuck down. The rational thinker part is generally sitting crossed legged in the corner focused on my smart phone screen and considering the best Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat posts that would make me look the most clever, witty, intelligent and attractive.

And don’t forget my lofty journalling. I have made some profound insights in my beautiful hand made by a local artist with red and shiny gold bits on recycled paper.

Actual Profound Knowledge Quotes from my journal

  • my bed is super awesome!
  • well I sure fucked that up didn’t I?
  • hey, that think I fucked up? yep, did it again, but better this time
  • I think maybe I procrastinate more than the average bear
  • dammit* (*multiple entries also #dammit, because handwritten hash tagging is a thing, I think, maybe….)
  • people are not behaving, this is irritating
  • Party on Garth
  • Fuckity Fuck Fuckery with a side of Fuckstockings
  • My hair today, wtf? natural-hair-humidity-meme
  • meditation is irritating
  • why the fuck am I doing this to myself?
  • #dammit todo list!
  • developing good habits is a pain in the ass
  • Motherfucking Lord of Middle Aged women! What was I thinking?! ** (**personal fav)
  • 3 responsible things in 1 day – BOOM!
  • Donald Trump, no words
  • Why am I still awake?
  • I did my MF journal and mediation, so am actually a total boss today
  • I may or may not be able to move mañana
  • Spanish, ye gods! (see ** comment)
  • FIVE extra minutes of meditation – fist pump for me!
  • day 3 of not giving fucks about this, yah me.
  • I don’t wanna
  • I might not have approached that in the most mature manner
  • My dog and I have a few things in common it would seemdogs10
  • Do NOT Google ‘asshole yoga’ looking for funny yoga stories (see ** comment)
  • and now for MORE flung feces
  • confirmation bias is actually a thing, like whoa
  • Burning Man….. now there’s a thought

So12919897_1019903358084771_9205901722785851826_n yeah, I’m still figuring this stuff out. And that’s okay. I suppose…. mostly.

 

 

 

the post in which I give zero fucks

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It didn’t happen when I turned 50, but sometime after I turned 51 I stopped caring so desperately about what people thought of me, and I have to say that it is really fucking awesome (yes, I will use profanity when I want to – Sorry. NOT sorry, who am I kidding).  I still have moments where I grab the “rock of really giving a fuck about what you think about me” I used to wear like a raincoat, and haul it around for a while, but I just can’t be bothered to carry that weight anymore, ya know? In one way the “swirling shit storm” of my life the last several months (years, really) has helped me let go of many things simply because they are too heavy to keep carrying.

There are things I will not apologize for anymore, and if you don’t like me because of it, I’m really, really super-fucking-okay with that.

You don’t like my politics? Great!
My life choices? Fucking Awesome!
My tattoos? More power to ya!
My sarcastic, sassy and profanity laced language? I will somehow manage to carry on without your fucking approval.
Can’t decide if  I’m worth dating? Sayonara, Adios amigo, Caio bello, sich verabschieden, d’adieu, tchüss. (because I totally AM worth it, ‘Slaying Dragons For’ kind of worth it, and I can’t spend my time with someone who doesn’t think so).

There also things I will apologize for, because like most humans, I can be a self-centered asshole on a remarkably regular basis. Those things I try to be accountable for and apologize. Things like running about 5-15 late on a staggeringly regular basis. I do apologize for this, but I haven’t suffered enough negative consequences from this for me to alter my behaviour yet. That and forgetting your name, I have a smooth spot on my brain where people’s names are stored, it’s not you, it’s me. Really, really.

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Then I read Mark Manson’s Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck and was forever changed. Well not quite, but damn.

The point is, most of us struggle throughout our lives by giving too many fucks in situations where fucks do not deserve to be given. We give a fuck about the rude gas station attendant who gave us too many nickels. We give a fuck when a show we liked was canceled on TV. We give a fuck when our coworkers don’t bother asking us about our awesome weekend. We give a fuck when it’s raining and we were supposed to go jogging in the morning.

Fucks given everywhere. Strewn about like seeds in mother-fucking spring time. And for what purpose? For what reason? Convenience? Easy comforts? A pat on the fucking back maybe?

This is the problem, my friend.

Because when we give too many fucks, when we choose to give a fuck about everything, then we feel as though we are perpetually entitled to feel comfortable and happy at all times, that’s when life fucks us.

And life will fuck you over, and over, and over, that’s just the way life is. It is also beautiful, tragic, sacred, messy and glorious . Our big mistake is to think the world, that life, that God owe us something. That we are supposed to be, #happy, #blessed, #blissful and need to share this with all our Twitter/Facebook/Instagram/Wordpress followers all the fucking time. Seriously?

Here’s the thing, the world, life, the universe, God and everything else you want to call it, do not owe you one single solitary fucking thing, got that? Does Not Owe You. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Pas du tout. Nichts. We are not here to be entertained, to be taken care of, to have all our superficial and egocentric whims catered to. Life does not owe us. Life does not owe us a certain lifestyle, a six pack, an adoring partner, lots of money, an easy go of it, and when we caught up in the Super Sucky Vortex of Entitlement and we think that somehow we deserve these things, that we deserve all the stuff, all the fucking junk that we have been told over and over that we should have, when we get stuck in that vortex of really giving a fuck about the stupid shit, that is when we are most miserable.

tumblr_mmm3xfqWTM1snu8fxo1_500Okay, so my title may be slightly misleading. I do give a fuck about somethings, not about what you think of me, or my life, my family or any of that, I  give a fuck about what’s truly fuckworthy. In my 20’s I gave the most sincere fucks about the stupidest things. I tried, I tried so damn hard to be what I thought people wanted me to be. It made me fucking miserable.  As I aged, and occasionally matured, I found I didn’t have the energy to give a fuck about anything that wasn’t worth it. The clarity about what is important, what is worth giving a fuck about is what has liberated me. I am not apathetic, I am simply not will to waste my time and my fucks on anything unimportant.

Which is what exactly? We are here to give back, to be of fucking service to our fellow humans, to those who hold no power over us, to animals, to plants, to our mother, the fucking earth. What we need to do is to take care of each other. Is that so hard? Because it sure seems like it’s really fucking hard for people. And this is where I actually do give a fuck. I give a fuck about that homeless guy that you pretend you don’t see. I give a fuck about the recycling you just tossed in the street, about the dog you left in a hot car,  about the plastic floating in the ocean, about being kind to the person who seems to least deserve it, about feeding people who are hungry.

I give a fuck about a lot of things, just not what you may or may not think of me. Hasta la vista.

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enlighten this

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Me. Except change “ladies” to “Bitches”

Until I can have an exceptionally hot Latino man behind me continually squeezing and lifting my ass I’m going to have to settle for my “uplifting” yoga pants and blue jeans.

Statement. By me. Today.

For the record, I was wearing just regular, not “firmly cupping my ass and lifting it six inches from my thighs, super compression” yoga pants that take 20minutes to pull over my ass, but I was talking about the “ass sculpting, tummy flattening” jeans I was planning on wearing on my hot date that night (coming soon, maybe, depending: How to Date a Yoga Teacher).

Yeah, I continue as the top contender for Most Goddamned Enlightened Yoga Teacher, like ever.

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I know, I know…. Yoga teachers are somehow supposed to be above this sort of thinking, “Levitating in Lotus Pose” kind of above it, but hey, some of us (#me #allthetime) are still rolling about in the lovely muck and mud down here at the bottom of the pond and haven’t managed to bloom into the Freaking Floating Lotus Flower that we’re supposed to be.

I try, really I do. Well, more accurately, I used to try. I tried for a long time to be the type person that I thought you thought, or society in general thought, or the person I wanted to impress thought I should be. Of course, this was what I thought they thought I should be. Just writing that sentence was exhausting, and you probably had to read it more than once.

So sorry folks, but I just don’t have time for that kind of bullshit anymore.

So last month, I’m on the beach, yeah, go ahead hate me a little, talking to a fabulous young male yoga teacher. He is everything you, okay I, imagine a stereotypical male yoga teacher would be, he has long pretty blonde hair, a adorably scruffy bit of beard, mala beads on his wrists and around his neck, cute yoga tattoos and spends most of his time shirtless and in handstand, and never seems to lose mala beads, or look anything other than hopelessly young and hot. So, yeah, we’re chatting, about yoga, because that is about the only thing we have in common – things I am not, young, hot, in control of my mala beads, and more thankfully, bearded – and I mention this blog – Zen Bitch, and he says in the sweetest most adorable way, “Well, if you worked at it, you could start calling it Zen Sweet”.

Oh my god, aren’t you the cutest thing ever? Zen Sweet? I have been called many things in my life, but “sweet” doesn’t make the top 20… or so. I opened my mouth, paused and closed it, I did this a couple more times, but the only things that wanted to come out of it were things that would go along with the Zen Bitch nom de plume, and we were having such a nice little moment on the beach I didn’t want to spoil it, so I did what I do in these situations, smiled and crinkled my eyes in what I hoped was a merry and cheerful way and changed the subject to just how good he was at handstands.

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Other somewhat Unenlightened thoughts I may or may not have had:

How does my ass look in these pants?
How does my ass look in down dog in these pants?
How much of my ass is showing in down dog in these pants (aka – how see through are these pants)?
Is anybody noticing how my ass looks in these yoga pants?
Why the hell isn’t anyone checking me out?
I am totally above all this checking out in yoga class, it never crosses my mind.
Wow, shirtless guy in handstand!
Dammit! I’m wearing the same pants as she is.
The pants look better on her.
I need to go home and change, like right now.
Don’t fart. Please don’t fart. Dammit.
Pretend it was the guy beside you, glance over, so everyone knows it wasn’t you.
Why did I have the beans lunch?
How do I look in this pose?
How does my hair look in this pose?
What the hell is my hair doing in this pose?
What exactly is going on with my hair period?
This sports bra makes me look like a teenage boy. No really, I’ve been mistaken for one.
I should put this pose on Instagram because I am totally rocking it.
I bet Yoga Girl looks gorgeous in this pose.
I wonder if I’ll get a lot of “Likes” for this pose?
I bet Yoga Girl has 5 billion likes already.
Forget Instagram.
This pose would look better in different pants.
What is that on the back of my legs? Oh, wait it’s my ass. I want to die now.
Are we inhaling now? Why the hell are we inhaling?
I should not have looked in the mirror. Look down for heavens sake!
Lower? Are you kidding me?!
I am totally wearing the wrong malas.
Is it me, or does the little tassle on mala beads make you just a little bit crazy?
What does a person have to do to get a 1/2 pigeon assist here folks? Seriously!
If he/she can do it, then I sure as hell can, and I’ll be much lower, and more spiritual about it.
Where exactly is that Chakra? Because I think I’m missing at least one.
Are OHMing? Oh God! Okay, wait for someone else to start, and for the love of Pete do not be the last one making sound.
Can anybody hear me? I think I’m flat, or maybe I’m just super connected spiritually, yeah, I bet that’s it.
Did anybody see that? No really… anybody?
Why isn’t anyone else dying in here?
I am sweating 10x more than any normal person does. There is something seriously wrong with my sweat glands.
Seriously, can we all just savasana now?

don’t you dare settle

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And you do. Settle that is. I am freakin’ fabulous at settling, I could write a book on settling, those commercials about the ‘settlers’? I was the inspiration for them (I may or may not have a slightly elevated opinion of my own influence, but you get the idea), because you know what’s scary? Change is scary, it is fucking terrifying. Staying and settling for something that is less than we deserve, settling for a version of ourselves is easier than pushing for what we are capable of.

Settling.
Don’t do it. Don’t you DARE.

A student was trying to decide if she should buy a pair of yoga pants and said “I don’t know, I’m getting divorced and I need to lose weight.”

20160414_151558-01.jpegWe talked.

She decided she wanted the pants and that cupcakes were awesome as a food group, and also that she was freaking fabulous just the was she was. Dammit. And she is, that was always a given.

Here’s the thing. You are already freaking awesome, you are already absolutely gorgeous, you are already utterly fabulous. You were BORN awesome, gorgeous and fabulous. Somewhere along the line the world, your family, your friends, TV, media, The Donald fucking Trump have told you otherwise.

THIS IS BULLSHIT. Do not settle for this bullshit. Settling, while it seems the path of least resistance initially, will come back and bite you in the ass, HARD, one day.

When someone tears you down it is a reflection of their own inner demons that they are trying to quiet by projecting on you. Do NOT listen to them. DO NOT give them one goddamn second of your consideration. 

Do you know what makes you beautiful, sexy, fabulous, awesome? Here’s a clue, it’s not your fucking pant, bra, or dress size, or the colour of your hair, skin, or eyes, it’s not the labels you’ve been given about yourself. It  abso-fucking-lutely is not your appearance.

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Roald Dahl has this shit figured out decades ago. The quote is from his book The Twits.

What he said. Sunbeams people, mother-fucking sunbeams, out of your face, out of your ass. That’s what you’ve got when you think good thoughts. Kindness is the new black, Kindness, Compassion, Confidence, are what make you beautiful. And it really makes absolutely zero difference what your pant size is, if you’ve got a big nose (got that), crooked teeth (ditto), what makes you sexy, fabulous, awesome, beautiful comes from inside you.

What you do with your external appearance is up to you. Like the look of eyelash extensions, then GET SOME! Want a different hair colour, texture, style, then CHANGE IT. Like those yoga pants? BUY THEM. But don’t do these things to because they will make you beautiful, they will not affect that, but if they work as  an expression of yourself, as a way to express the beauty you already have, then damn the torpedoes and GO FOR IT. Don’t do anything to your appearance, to your life to try and please some external force, a person, an idea, a set of labels that society is trying to hang around your neck to define you and pigeon hole you by. This will make you miserable and you will lose your sunbeams.

Fuck all of that, absolutely all of it. Let that shit go.
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“You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

― Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon

So put it down. Look at yourself, where are you settling? Why are you doing that? Then do the scary thing, the terrifying thing and change it.

“You are what you settle for.” Do not settle for anything less than your innate gorgeous, awesome, beautiful and sexy self.

both ears

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Self-Portrait-with-Bandaged-Ear-and-Pipe

And I do, have both ears that is, so romantically it’s really not so bad, right?

I went to see “Hello, My Name is Doris” with two friends in sympathetic life situations. Specifically, we are over 50 and in various stages of divorce and dating. These are my movie peeps, also known as the women I see movies with when I’m not being empowered badass and  taking myself to a movie dammit. Right, so the movie. The previews were shamelessly targeting those of us whose love and life situations might involve fantasies about a metaphoric or actual sledgehammers.

Really, I want a sledgehammer. I really, really, really do. I would also like Jake Gyllenhaal to come help me swing it around.

Both movies are about dismantling your life and possibly moving on. Possibly, not happily-ever-after moving on, just the moving on part.

Back to Doris and Van Gogh, who is never actually mentioned directly in the movie, but is used in the Our Love Lives Don’t Suck Too Much comment, “at least we have both ears”. Doris is going through a major life change and developes a crush on a much (30+ years-isn) younger coworker. I spend the movie deciding if I felt empowered, depressed, mortified, embarrassed or simply grateful for both ears.

In regards to dating younger men, I’ve been there, but just 16years younger (#ThatWasAwesome). Still, Doris resonated with me. I spent my time oscillating  between ‘insane old lady’ and ’empowered fabulous woman’. I still do.

I spend my work life and much of my leisure time with fabulous 30(ish) yoga teachers and half the time I forget I’m 20 years older or at least pretend no one notices, and half the time I think, what the hell am I doing here? Surely someone will figure out I’m much too old to be doing this sort of thing. The teachers who are my age are in stable married relationships, and then there’s me.

Doris is fun and open and spunky, but her younger friends and coworkers while quite fond of her, describe her as ‘weird, but in a good way’.  And then there’s me.

In the end I will say this about the movie, Sally Field does an amazing job, that and that at least I have both my ears.

how to yoga

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Yesterday a friend said to me she would come back to yoga, but couldn’t because she had gained some weight.

Thank gawd for people with some self insight!

Because that’s how we yogis roll. The other day a woman tried to pass as a size 2 so she could take one of my classes. She was very clearly a size 4, and had less than an one inch thigh gap. The nerve of some people. I sent her on her way and reminded her, quietly firmly, that yoga is ONLY for willowy tall women with long  flowing hair, big boobs (that do not need any form of support other than a skin tight Lululemon top), rock hard abs, and tasteful Ohm tattoos on their perfectly pedicured feet. Also, if you show up in an outfit that cost less than $400 you’ll either have to leave, or buy a new (size 00/xs – size2/xl) more yoga appropriate outfit from our retail racks.

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everyone has to have one

Oh, and if you can’t already DO every pose perfectly, do not even drive by the studio, ain’t nobody got time for students who are still actually learning how to do yoga. Honestly I don’t know what people are thinking.

If you are anything above a size 2, large breasted 20 something who can already do absolutely every yoga pose pose perfectly, then go get yourself a dvd and practice yoga by yourself, preferably in a private room where no one can see you and be permanently scarred by your feeble attempts at yoga.

Also, if you

  • eat meat
  • eat gluten
  • consume dairy
  • have not been on a juice fast in the last 24hours
  • have body fat or a BMI over 12
  • do not own a juicer
  • do not make your own kombucha
  • do not have kale snacks in your Lulu bag
  • remember what refined sugar tastes like
  • use anything but essential oils  for health care
  • do not have a profound connection with your chakras
  • are wearing anything other than Tom’s shoes on your feet
  • can’t fluently speak, read and communicate in Sanskrit
  • cannot already wrap both ankles around your neck
  • engage in any behaviour that is unyogi like

Then don’t even think about coming to my class, and for Ohm’s sake, pull yourself together and get ON it will you?

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Taken on Friday. This group was one of my favourite groups ever to teach. They are The Dupage Derby Dames, a kick butt roller derby team. Okay, so I might have bent a few rules by letting them practice yoga because I’m pretty certain the pizza they were going for after class broke just about every food consumption rule, and while there were plenty of tattoos, there wasn’t a single Ohm, also there was zero Lulu outfits in the room.

So why do we do this to ourselves?

I can’t do yoga because

  • I’m not flexible
  • I’m not in shape
  • I have nothing to wear
  • I don’t know any poses
  • I don’t know Sanskrit
  • I can’t stand to look at my ass/boobs/arms/thighs/shoulders/belly because they are not absolutely fucking perfect, and I’m sure as hell not stepping onto a yoga mat until they are

Disclaimer: Just in case you think, well, easy for HER to say, she already has great body/practice/kombucha habit. Yeah, about that. Okay, I do have a kombucha habit, but I also eat meat, gluten, dairy, love sugar, have not done a juice cleanse or wear Lululemon exclusively. I also have all that body image self talk – my ass is too jiggly, my belly has loose skin and stretch marks, my boobs, gawd, my boobs are a sad, pathetic disgrace that I keep well hidden and carefully camouflaged. Also, my hair is a frizzy mess, my skin wrinkly, and I have bags under my eyes that you could store snacks in – seriously. And I still manage to practice yoga.

Here’s the thing about yoga, to paraphrase Brian Kest, yoga doesn’t give one single fuck about anything I have mentioned here, or anything else you have rattling around in your brain as reasons why you can’t do yoga.

Yoga doesn’t care what your hair looks like.
Yoga doesn’t care if you wear Lululemon or Spiritual Gangster.
Yoga doesn’t care if you are vegetarian, if you eat meat or know what Kombucha is.
Yoga doesn’t care when the last time you practiced was—yesterday, six months ago, never.
Yoga doesn’t care what kind of mat you have, brand new or eating away at itself.
Yoga doesn’t care if you show up cranky or exhausted.
Yoga doesn’t care what religion you believe in.
Yoga doesn’t care what color your skin is or what gender you choose to love.
Yoga doesn’t care if you wear mala beads.
Yoga doesn’t care what the tag on the back of your pants says.
Yoga doesn’t care if you don’t know what yoga means.
Yoga doesn’t care how much money you have, what house you live in, what car you drive.
Yoga doesn’t care if you are flexible.
Yoga doesn’t care if you fall over in Trikonasana.
Yoga doesn’t care if you fart during practice.
Yoga doesn’t care if you ever make it into head stand.
Yoga doesn’t care if you feel uncomfortable saying Namaste and Om.
Yoga doesn’t care if you drink super food smoothies or drink coconut water.
Yoga doesn’t care if choose the back corner or the front row of the room to practice.
Yoga doesn’t care if you stay to meditate.
Yoga doesn’t care if you can put your leg behind your head, or lick your own ass.
Yoga doesn’t care if you know what Ujjayi breath is.
Yoga doesn’t care if you smoke cigarettes, and drink whisky.
Yoga doesn’t care if you need to leave class halfway through because you’re dehydrated and need to get water.
Yoga doesn’t care if you have a man bun.
Yoga doesn’t care if your monkey mind takes over.
Yoga doesn’t care how old you are, the color of your hair doesn’t affect your practice.
Yoga doesn’t care if you juice or cleanse.
Yoga doesn’t care if you shake the entire 60 minutes.
Yoga doesn’t care if you only feel comfortable doing yoga in Mexico.
Yoga doesn’t care if you spend the entire class in child’s pose.
Yoga doesn’t care what political party you vote for.
Yoga doesn’t care if you are single or divorced.
Yoga doesn’t care if you like Rumi.
Yoga doesn’t care if you like your teacher.
Yoga doesn’t care if you complete a 30 day challenge.
Yoga doesn’t care what version of wheel you go up into.
Yoga doesn’t care if you shop at whole foods.
Yoga doesn’t care if you remember to shave your armpits.

So Get the fuck Over it People. You don’t have to come to my class, or even practice the type of yoga I teach, but I will not accept any of the above excuse as reasons why you can’t do yoga.

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bejesus. really, that’s a thing

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Go to a movie she said, get yourself out of this funk she said. Better than my plan of smashing possibly valuable antique china against the garage door, and throwing everything into garbage bags and slinking off to go live a quiet hermit like existence and never speaking to anyone ever again, plan. Ever again, except people I like, except for Fezzik, because he’s the best, except my students and coworkers. Okay, never again speaking to people who annoy the bejesus* outta me.

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see, I didn’t make it up

*Bejesus, is a lesser known, but fairly important hormone found in most humans in varying amounts depending on varying factors. It is excreted or lost in times of agitation, surprise or stress, as in “you scared the bejesus outta me!” Similar to, but still distinct from ‘crap’, which has an entirely different odour when it is ‘scared outta you’. It has been known to stimulate the ‘Fuck This-FT’ response which is responsible for the ‘Clean all the Shit Syndrome-CSS’, ‘Send Incoherent Emails your Ex Disorder-SIEED’ (except he’s not really your ex, because you have to be a ‘thing’ before you can be an ‘ex-thing’ and he wasn’t into being a ‘thing’, and would only state (under great duress) that your ‘thing’ was slightly more than friends with occasional benefits, odd movie dates, with witty and occasionally racy texting on the side kind of ‘thing’), and the subsequent ‘Sound Like a Fecking Idiot Syndrome-SLFIS’ which has been linked to ‘Eating the Whole Goddamn Box of Cookies’, ‘Hating All of Your Clothes’, and can include side effects such as ‘web searches for plastic surgery’, ‘installing dating apps’, ‘uninstalling dating apps’ , ‘application of detoxifying lime green facial masks’, ‘having existential conversations with the cat’, can also trigger Hamster Wheel thought brain override. Bejesus is not for everyone. Ask your doctor if Bejesus is right for you. If you’re a woman in the United States ask your white male congressman if Bejesus is right for you, then ask your white male conservative Christian religious leader if Bejesus is right for you, then pole your white male relatives to see if Bejesus is right for you, then consider why you need Bejesus in the first place, and why aren’t you happy enough in your subservient societal role, and let go of all this ‘Uppity Woman Bullshit’, and get your ass back in the kitchen and just make the men in your life a goddamn sandwich, like God intended.

 

tarantino-sukiyaki-xlargeMovie. Great idea. Quentin Tarantino movie, even better. There will be no covert love story, no sweeping music, no heartfelt redemption, just fabulous gut and brain splattering violence, the very darkest humour, and Samuel (Fucking) L. Jackson, who is even awesome without is testicles (oops, spoiler alert).

 

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totally

So you go to a Saturday night movie by yourself because you’re a strong independent woman who makes sandwiches for nobody, and it’s awesome, running into people you know, not having to share your popcorn, drinking whatever you want to drink and sitting wherever you want to. Which turns out to be basically the same amount of popcorn, same drink and the same spot in the theatre, but you don’t even notice this because you are having a fabulous time dammit, and it’s Quentin Tarantino, could you be any more clever? No, I don’t think so. So there you are, in the same seats, eating your popcorn, with your jacket on the seat beside you, because not sharing is fucking awesome, and then an eHarmony add!? e-fucking-Harmony? Can they actually do that? Which triggers the Bejesus cycle and it takes half a bag of popcorn, 10 twizzlers, and 3 violent movie trailers before you get back to your self actualized independent woman who gives zeros fucks about all the adorable couples surrounding her in the movie theatre.

online-dating-inbox

online dating in 7 words.

Thank god for Quentin Tarantino, and Twizzlers.

 

things I should have figured out by now

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Swear to God, when I was 18 and 19 years old, I thought I would be handed a playbook, or a key, or knowledge would just magically appear in my brain when I turned 20. Just like that, one day a kid who knew nothing, and then BOOM! instant adult, ALL questions answered. Also, my skin would clear up.

Imagine my profound disappointment. Maybe 20 was unrealistic, but surely 30?

I was raised to think that ‘adults’ knew everything, that ‘adults’ never questioned things because at some magical ‘adult’ age all the answers simply landed in their brains. I am not making this up. I really thought, well into my 30s that I had missed the important download of ‘adultness’ and that everyone else had this shit figured out and I was the only one who was just flying by the seat of my pants.

Things I have still not figured out:

  • low maintenance hair
  • clear skin
  • walking in heels – gracefully
  • how to file (neatly)
  • spell words with all the right letters, in the right order
  • money, the part where I earn it and spend it only on responsible and prudent things, save for vacations,  and not say,  on another low maintenance hair product
  • how to paint my toenails (neatly)

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    professionally done

  • how to store art supplies (neatly)
  • not worry if these pants make my ass look flat/fat/good/not good, or if this shirt/bra makes my boobs look less pathetic/perky/worth noticing, and does my hair work with this outfit, or should I scrap the whole look and start over? Never mind, starting over…
  • Plastic surgery, worth it for my floundering self esteem, or shameless vanity that I should find beneath me
  • how to Ohm properly, or pronounce Sanskrit words
  • how to remember and pronounce 90% of people’s names
  • men. I haven’t a clue. I know I’m okay looking , reasonably intelligent, and also men like the hair,  but I keep ending up with a different version of the exact same guy
  • how to fake enthusiasm when I give zero fucks (zero fucks blog link)
  • eyebrows, pluck, wax, tattoo….
  • how to ‘stand up and greet your neighbour!’ without wanting to vomit into my purse first, or crawl away secretly underneath the chairs
  • get to bed at a reasonable time
  • making soup, eatable soup
  • fly kites
  • remove contact lens
  • read bad poetry – I can’t even

 

What I can do reasonable well:

  • doodle/draw/paint for hours upon hours wp-1457917804786.jpeg
  • fold socks and towels in an organized and orderly fashion
  • make my bed
  • teach yoga
  • make people laugh
  • tip well
  • playing cribbage in an unsportsmanlike but entertaining manner, or as we like to say, 31 ….. Bitch..
  • jigsaw puzzles
  • watch movies
  • cook and bake, not counting soup
  • eating – I’m super good at eating
  • 20150913_144951-01.jpegdrinking coffee, but I’m really fussy…
  • dressing up and passing for an elegant intelligent woman for entire evenings at a timewp-1457917806537.jpeg
  • being generally half decent to peole
  • supported fish pose – I totally rock this pose
  • staying calm when things get crazy
  • getting a massage – so good at this
  • dessert
  • rationalizing reasons to eat dessert
  • sleeping in  contact lens
  • drive a stick shift

Ultimately, I don’t have a clue. I am making everything up as a go. I suppose this is okay, but the skin not clearing up, I’m still pissed about that.

hamster wheels

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a74e60b5e292e4e15bd3e9430319439cI have a section in my brain where all the crazy thoughts go and spin around faster and faster. It looks exactly like this

I have responsibly roped off this area with bright yellow police tape, and have forbidden myself to go in there when I’m lonely, hungry, tired, upset…. anything but perfectly well adjusted and zen like, which translates to…. let me think… oh right, never.

cd4d95dc92f7eb5783a2f56e2c209cb0Somehow today I magically transported myself into the hamster wheel zone. Not my best work. It has been  unfun. I have been what you might call “unenlightened”, or if you were being more direct “Bat-Shite Crazy”.

and, I didn’t have a snickers bar.
confession – I don’t like snickers bars.
question – does this doom me to a lifetime of being ‘not myself’?

I did have a nap, cookies, and talked things over with Fezzik, until he had to chase a squirrel. That’s as close as I get to a Snickers.