Tag Archives: yoga

Nov14

Let Me ‘Splain…

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not what you think it’s for

No, it is too much. Let me sum up:

  1. No, I did not just have hip replacement surgery – that happened in 2009.
  2. My 2009 hip replacement gave me heavy metal poisoning in my blood, bones, muscles and connective tissue. Especially in my Left hip. My Left hip really was the BIG winner poisoning wise.
  3. I should make a movie called My Left Hip, or in Canada – My Tragically Left Hip.
  4. Like super wtf levels of cobalt and chromium, in my blood – good thing they don’t do any harm or cause cancer, or tissue death…  or anything.
  5. Wait…
  6. So, I had super fun hip REVISION surgery (what you get after your hip replacement surgery goes real bad) in Jan 2017 (yes, almost 2 years ago, time flies when you’re in pain)
  7. The top of my Left femur is gone, my pelvis had to be grafted with cadaver bone. The muscles, tendons, and ligaments of my Left hip are mostly dead (or all dead, depending who you talk to).
  8. Because of #2, #4, #6 & #7, there are not enough muscles etc to keep my leg bone in my hip socket. This kinda sucks (except use the word REALLY instead of kinda for better accuracy).
  9. Hip dislocations hurt more than a lot, like a bazillion time more than a lot. Like worse than labour and delivery. Not kidding, even slightly.
  10. My left hip has dislocated 5 times. Aside, they are now hiring 12year olds to be paramedics. Not that I care just as long as they have the pain medicine and can get me to a hospital, just an observation. Also, some ER docs are great and some are… not as great. Just saying, but at least they’ve all been over 12.
  11. Yes, I have a lawyer. We just filed suit. No, there won’t be much of a settlement, possibly none.
  12. Yes, I’ve seen lots of specialists and had 2nd, 3rd, and 4th opinions. The most specialest of the specialists says ‘sucks to be you’ and you have to have this super sucky revision of the revision surgery (like Bride of Revision surgery… almost, okay. not.) that will cost billions and make getting off a toilet challenging, and the floor is right out.
  13. I don’t like orthopedic surgeons anymore.
  14. Yes, I tried MAYO, they said no – twice.
  15. I still have heavy metal blood poisoning. No, there is nothing to do about it except wait till it goes away all on its own.
  16. Dr. Specialest of the Specialists says you’re not getting any better and just have the super sucky surgery or don’t even try to talk to me again. Really.
  17. I’m really not a fan of this guy (wait, all of the ortho guys are about the same, so ditto lack of affection in their collective and general directions).
  18. I don’t want the surgery – I like being able to use a toilet, car and getting up and down on the floor.
  19. I just got Stem Cells in My Left Hip  (Tragically Left Hip in Canada).
  20. My Right Hip has the same problem that caused me to need my Left hip replaced in 2009.
  21. They want to do hip replacement surgery on my Right hip.
  22. Wanna guess how I feel about that?
  23. I just got Step Cells in my Right hip, because F that surgery.
  24. Nobody wants to watch my Stem Cell video or pictures because 8″ long needles.
  25. I think it’s really cool, but okay, fine I won’t post it here.
  26. I have three sets of crutches.
  27. No, I’m not using them for attention.
  28. I limp. Sometimes on both legs because it’s difficult to tell which leg will hurt/wobble etc. I pretend like it’s interpretive dance.
  29. I got ‘sorta-dumped’ because of limp – to be fair it was 15mins into a first date and he said he couldn’t hang with a gimp, and got up and left me holding my coffee, so that was fun.
  30. Yes, I can teach yoga on a crutch. I can even teach yoga in Cook County Jail on crutches and in a leg corset on Halloween because I’m a stubborn sort of person.
  31. I got told to NOT bring my crutchy self into two separate yoga studios, because yoga students can’t handle a teacher on a crutch (just like 15min first date dude) and should not be subjected to that sort of trauma. Thank goodness for yoga in jail.
  32. I have two walkers.
  33. Ditto about attention.
  34. Guess what I can do – Life Coaching, Personal Training, Yoga teaching, Sound Therapying, Light Therapying, Aromatherapying …. write ridiculously long blog posts, sarcasm and art.
  35. Guess what I can’t do – practice yoga (well just vinyasa … and fusion… and Bikram… and hatha…), also can’t sit cross-legged – sukhasana free zone here.
  36. I have one leg corset that Dr Super Sucky Specialest Specialist says I have to wear for 6 weeks, even when I’m sleeping.
  37. I took it off after two weeks because this.
  38. Are you still reading these?
  39. Awesome, you’re the best.
  40. I really mean that.
  41. That’s about it. Thanks for walking my dog, bringing me groceries for the last two years, and making it possible for me to get stem cells, you know who you are and I love you a lot.
  42. I bet I’m the first person to make a photo collage of their hip dislocations. #EarlyAdopter.
ouch
more ouch
continuing with the ouch theme
labels and junk
ouch for the win
Nov10

And One F@cking Leg Corset

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And One F@cking Leg Corset

It had snowed and I couldn’t get my foot into my boot because of the fucking leg corset.

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Boots

That’s how yesterday started. It finished with a $2,025 puncture in each hip and chakra workshop. Just a regular Friday.

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You would think if I was going to pay someone over $4,000, pull my pants down, and let them take pictures and a video I would have walked away with something rather exciting and completely unsuitable for this family-friendly blog. I’m not completely ruling out such experiences, but that’s another post.

 

Snow
Yep, snow.

So. Yesterday was approximately 4years in the making. It started with our hero as a fearless badass yoga teacher, it involved:

    • Twelve Burly ER dudes
    • Eleven ER visits
    • Ten Shots of Fentanyl
    • Nine Thousand Needles
    • Eight Hundred X-Rays
    • Seven Special Lawyers
    • Six Ortho Surgeons
    • FIVE Ambulance Rides (with Hip dislocations)
    • Four Pitiless PTs
    • Three Sets of Crutches
    • Two Chiropractors
    • And One Fucking Leg Corset

 

I know, now you’ve got a Christmas song stuck in your head. Sorry. Who am I kidding? Totally not, sorry, cuz it’s kinda catchy. You’re welcome.

The story is not over, but our hero through it all remained a Badass yoga teacher and also managed to complete a 500Hour Yoga Teacher Training, a Personal Training Certification, a Life Coaching Certification, a Trauma-Informed Yoga Training, Mother Fucking Firewalked with Tony Robbins, started teaching in Cook County Jail (occasionally on crutches with aforementioned fucking leg corset), got sacked 1.5 times, hired 10+ times, broke up 5x, got back together 4x, and continues to have fabulous adventures and hang with a bodacious bunch of Badasses.

 

Wings
This kid
Bones, for the win
Fancy clothes
These students
Actually teaching
Sidekick
I got this
THESE students
The Jail
F@cking Leg Corset

There’s more, so much more, so you’ll have to stay tuned if you want to hear about the Mustang Convertible in Arizona, Osteostrong, Several Sets of Wings, Art, Truffle fries and Hamilton.

Till then, Namaste (bitches).

 

 

Sep29

Making Space for yoga

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Got Space?

Sep18

the post in which I swear. a Lot.

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images-20Last week I had a small issue with my garbage collection. It was actually more of a collect some of it, dump some of it on the street and leave most of it behind. Oh, and then drive over what was left behind making sure it was impossible to pull my car out without driving over it again. Let me tell you there is nothing I enjoy more than cleaning up garbage that I have already cleaned up right when I need to leave for work.

If only there was a way to actually express how that felt…..giphy-2

Well! Gee Willikers and Jiminey Cricket!!

Jeepers, somehow that just wasn’t satisfying, and wait, it’s also taking the Lord’s name in vain

gee willikers
a humorous or outdated extension of gee, which is a euphemism for Jesus.
Gee willikers, that wind’s a-blowin’!
#gee #geez #sheesh #jeepers

 

I love you Debra

Holy filet of fuck-minion!

Feckin’ flesh-turd dropped stinking from the poxy arsehole of a hare-lipped harlot! 
– Christopher Moore

There, that’s a little better.

Once again I was told to stop swearing and to be  a  Lady by a man who uses fuck like a comma.

So, for all the well-intentioned people who have told me to act more lady-like, this badger-shagging spunk monkey of a fucking blog is just for you.

As The Vagenda’s Holly Baxter explained in the summer: “Women are routinely told to hold themselves back and pay special concern to their language. It’s a foundation for real misogyny.”

 

Some people will continue to believe that swear words are unladylike. Others will claim, like (Quentin)Letts (who wrote of Dame Helen Mirren “blurt[ing] out filth like an uneducated trollop.”), that they indicate a lack of education, intellect or imagination. To those, I present some of my favourite words: Cackle. Hoodwink. Loquacious. Pusillanimous. Vernacular. Galumph. Because, if using a singular monosyllabic curse is unimaginative, or unladylike, then maybe we should dress it up a little. Put a metaphorical tiara on that obscenity, if it’s so deeply unfeminine. – 

So why would a well read and well educated modern woman feel the need to use profanity? Perhaps it is because I am well read and educated.

mark-twain-quote-when-angry-count-to-four-when-very-angry-swearwhoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch
vacant common-kissing coxcomb!
mammering weak-hinged canker-blossom!
currish shard-borne maggot-pie!
clouted fat-kidneyed foot-licker!
quailing lean-witted bladder!
– William Shakespeare

In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best-bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get renown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.
– John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye’ve produced. Choose life.
– Trainspotting, by Irvine Welsh

And maybe, just maybe there are a few really good reasons for women to swear.

images-21Women have far better things to do than express their frustration in a way that’s pleasing to patriarchal values. Today’s most offensive swear word comes from what’s between our legs – so surely we should best how to use it?
Caitlin Moran“I personally have a cunt. Sometimes it’s ‘flaps’ or ‘twat’, but most of the time, it’s my cunt. Cunt is a proper, old, historic, strong word. I like that my fire escape also doubles up as the most potent swearword in the English language. Yeah. That’s how powerful it is, guys. If I tell you what I’ve got down there, old ladies and clerics might faint. I like how shocked people are when you say ‘cunt’. It’s like I have a nuclear bomb in my pants, or a tiger, or a gun.

Compared to this the most powerful swear word men have got out of their privates is ‘dick’, which is frankly vanilla… I love that ‘cunt’ stands, on its own, as the supreme unvanquishable word. It has almost mystic resonance. It is a cunt – we all know it’s a cunt – but we can’t call it a cunt. We can’t say the actual word. It’s too powerful…”― Caitlin Moran, How to Be a Woman

 

Beyond classical literature, feminist empowerment, fighting the fuckwitted patriarchy there are many good reasons to swear.

TOP TEN REASONS TO SWEAR LIKE A LADY

  1. It’s fun and it can be funny. Try saying badger-shagging spunk monkey without at least a smirk.
  2. It makes TV shows and movies more engaging. Who doesn’t love Samuel L. Fucking Jackson? More profanity equals more viewers. Not shitting you – Ask Monika Bednarek senior lecturer in linguistics at the University of Sydney, ‘The Wire’ outranked other comparable shows because it “averaged more than 100 instances of profanity per episode”
  3. It improves communication. By swearing, we not only communicate the meaning of a sentence but also our emotional reaction to it. It clearly lets someone know if they need to back off without having to resort to physical violence, and nobody wants to mess up a manicure when a well placed “back off you fucktarded asshat” will do.
  4. It’s more persuasive. Studies have shown that swearing can increase the effectiveness and persuasiveness of a message. It is an intense, succinct and powerful way of expressing yourself. Ever read Go the Fuck to Sleep? It’s succinct.
  5. It increases pain tolerance. Stub your toe and see how effective Rats! feels compared to Sweet muppity mother of Christ!!! Also, there are like 5 billion studies by real scientists backing this up. No, I’m not fucking linking all them, JFGI yourself. Okay, here’s one.
  6. It correlates with a higher vocabulary. No, I did not just make this up, read this published the journal of Language Science. They concluded the people who could recall a lot of swear words also tended to be more eloquent in general.
  7. It’s good for you. Health benefits of swearing include increased circulation, elevated endorphins, and an overall sense of calm, control, and well-being.
  8. It means you’re creative. Fuck can be used as a noun, verb, adverb, adjective and interjection and it still makes fucking sense.
  9. It’s cheaper than therapy and makes you feel better immediately.
  10. It makes you feel stronger and more resilient.

Really that’s what is comes down to. Being a lady in this world does not mean we have to censor ourselves from all of the beautiful terms of endearment like “shitgibbon” and “hellbeast” and “thunder donkey snot eater.”

Speaking of increased vocabulary, there are many British terms one can substitute and sound more cultured than crude. For example – “Yer fulla shite ye feckin’ arsehole” is a fancier way of saying “You’re full of shit you fucking asshole”. Options people, you always have options.

Creative swearing aside, I still know how to behave in polite society. I will not go all Pulp Fiction in front of your kids or when I meet your mother, unless she starts it, then we’ll probably get along famously.  I am in complete control of my vocabulary, and would only say ‘fucknuggets’ when it is truly warranted. I have never said “shitgoose” or “Jesus Christ monkey balls” at church or a PTA meeting. 

 

Just in case you were looking to expand your swearing vocabulary I’ve added some of my favourites, guaranteed to fill any swear jar

jerkwater
jerkpants
sassy jerk pants
quim
bitchenator
dickwhistle thundertwat
Sugar tits
Clusterfuck
Twat waffle
Motherfuckinator
Assclown
Silly Bunt
Turd burglar
Sweet muppity Christ
Fucktard
Fuckwit
Son of a shit biscuit
Wanker (what one does before tossing)
Tosser (what one does after a wank)
Interminable suck bastard
spank wanker
Holy filet of fuck-minion
Fucknuggets
Fuckstockings
Knob, knobend, knobhead, knobber
Ass jar
Ass hat
Gobshite
Shitehawk
Bag o’ shite
Bollocks
Cack-Handed (full of shite)
Bellend (head of a penis)
Bibbity bobity poop sac
Bastardised fuckwitted vagina captain
Flatulent bottom feeding wrangler
Monkey wanker
Bollocks
Sod Off
Feck Off
Hell’s own bunghole.
Badger-shagging spunk monkey
Bum tumpet
Fiery flagon of dragon toss

and from Christopher Moore’s “Fool”

“She can be a whirlwind of tits and terror when she puts her mind to a purpose, can’t she, sir?”

“You whoreson scalawag!” said I. “You flesh-turd dropped stinking from the poxy arsehole of a hare-lipped harlot!”

“Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair..”

“Love? Sodding, bloody, tossing, bloody, sodding, bloody love? Irrelevant, superfluous, bloody, ruddy, rotten, sodding love? What ho? Wherefore? What the f*ck? Love?”

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Jul24

have you considered flinging feces at it?

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creativity3

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.

 

 

 

May7

enlighten this

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enlightening

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?

Apr14

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.

Apr2

both ears

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both ears

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.

TWO pairs of glasses

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.

Mar28

how to yoga

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how to yoga

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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Mar20

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.