We welcomed Opal to "our" world last weekend! "To all my good friends!" was a quote we used to scream to each other in smoky bars, emulating Henry Chinaski's whiskey soaked voice before we guzzled whatever bad beer we could afford to drink that night. Today, we gathered in daylight and maybe snuck a sip of really good beer to celebrate family, of the friendship kind.
Please, Please, Please
It's never too late,
you're never too old,
you're never too sick,
to start again from scratch.
Bishnu Ghoshyou're never too old,
you're never too sick,
to start again from scratch.
I admit, I was a little nervous going to my yoga class at the gym. I signed up as a present to myself for quitting smoking (going on six months now, cold turkey, no sneaks!) My lungs are completely happy with me and congratulate me daily. My hips, not so much. They've been shaking their warning finger at me for a few months now, though I chose adamantly to ignore it. When I saw a picture of myself on the internet that I didn't recognize at all, that fervently shaking finger turned into "I told you so!" And just like the breath of fresh air March had blown into my house, I felt it just as strong in my body. I've been active ever since. Now, I had seen the girl who lead the yoga class and I judged her obviously fake tan and bleach blonde hair and instantly decided that wasn't the kind of situation I wanted any part of. I have been to proper bikram yoga in very inspiring atmospheres and have gotten used to the slow and stretching pace I practice at my house. I know myself well enough that with my newfound enthusiasm I was going to need a little more accountability to keep motivated. I sucked it up, grabbed my yoga mat and made my place within the class, in the back row, of course. My first class, she turned on the stereo and played a Michael Jackson mix. Doing yoga to Michael Jackson made me want to turn my downward dog a little dirty. My body was confused. I wanted desperately to hold my pose, but my hips intrinsically wanted to bounce around the room like Beyonce. As I held my airplane for a full minute, I reminisced about the days I thought I was going to grow up, move to NYC and dance in a studio like on the show "Fame". I loved their outfits and ability to seem weightless and I coveted the girls strong, sleek bodies. With the introduction of In Living Color, I wanted to be a "fly girl". While I secretly worked out to New Kids on the Block videos, learned every lyric to En Vogue songs, blasted Slick Rick on the stereo with my brother, I was wearing Poison and Guns N Roses t-shirts and head-banging to Black Sabbath at my 8th grade dance. Ever the contradiction. I was unstoppable, the DJ couldn't stump me. I knew every lyric and every dance move, no matter what the genre, and usually could sense what song was going to play before everybody else. Oh, middle school.
I secretly hoped that the world would follow Sir-Mix-Alot's taste in women, then I wouldn't have to worry so much about the Size 2 I was never going to see in my lifetime. At least the public's love affair with J.Lo's derrière has helped me feel more comfortable in my adulthood with my most obvious "asset".
So, my judging of the yogi at the gym may have been superficial and uncalled for; she has more than enough ammo to judge me as I try to keep up with what I am calling her "boot camp bikram" yoga class. In the long run, I think I will be thanking her for the transformation I already feel and for awakening muscles in my body I never knew existed. Who knows. Maybe there is still hope for me as a back up dancer. Although MJ taught me not to stop until I get enough, after watching the T.A.M.I
show last night, dancing behind James Brown when he was on the mic, would always keep me coming back for more.
Old habits die hard
Spring has sprung and that means... Home moves!
Oh, the tid bits and sprinkles of memories that make you realize why you do certain things. I can still hear the record player in our split level house wailing Patsy Cline as Mom opened up the windows and declared "Spring Cleaning!" at the first hint of Spring. With a few grunts and a slow saunter to the cleaning supplies, eventually the dust wand became our make shift microphone and my 11 year old little heart could already understand Patsy's pain when she was "Walking after Midnight". Then with a quick flip of a record, we would slip into gypsy dancing to Fleetwood Mac and all troubles seemed to melt away. In the spirit of all the delightful things that happen when you rearrange the furniture and whisk away the subtle pile of dust from the winter...I will share the light with you and hope to inspire you to welcome the sun and air out the weightiness of winter. Don't forget to turn on some music and sing while you do it...
Oh, the tid bits and sprinkles of memories that make you realize why you do certain things. I can still hear the record player in our split level house wailing Patsy Cline as Mom opened up the windows and declared "Spring Cleaning!" at the first hint of Spring. With a few grunts and a slow saunter to the cleaning supplies, eventually the dust wand became our make shift microphone and my 11 year old little heart could already understand Patsy's pain when she was "Walking after Midnight". Then with a quick flip of a record, we would slip into gypsy dancing to Fleetwood Mac and all troubles seemed to melt away. In the spirit of all the delightful things that happen when you rearrange the furniture and whisk away the subtle pile of dust from the winter...I will share the light with you and hope to inspire you to welcome the sun and air out the weightiness of winter. Don't forget to turn on some music and sing while you do it...
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