Sweet Sweaty Goodness!

So, I've come to the conclusion that I'm the sweatiest person I've ever met, well, at least the sweatiest girl I've ever met. I'm not just saying that because I have to put a towel down on leather furniture during the summertime so I don't leave drip marks. This really has been an issue since I was young.

I've always been a "hot" person. Of course I'm talking about my temperature not my looks--let's be clear about that. When I was young, my hair would curl up on the ends into some to-die-for blonde cuteness in the summertime. The heat and the humidity took a hold of my hair and it was all over. As I got older and the heat would have a different effect on my body. My face would get redder, then my neck started heating up a little bit more, and sure enough beads of sweat would run down my face when the temperature started rising. The cuteness was replaced by a little bit of an "ewwww" factor.

It wasn't until I went to junior high did underarm sweat rear its ugly head. In seventh grade I borrowed my sister's long-sleeved turquoise t-shirt. It was so cute with the hot pink and black lettering of B.U.M. Equipment on the front. I was so excited to wear it that morning and show off this very chic piece of clothing for 1993. I found my good friend at her locker and we made our rounds around the school chatting it up with all sorts of cute boys and girls. When the homeroom bell rang, we raced up to our classroom, battling the hundreds of students milling the hallways.

We made it just in time for the tardy bell to ring. Sitting down at my desk I realized that I WAS HOT! It was then that I made the biggest mistake that I would come to regret for the next 7 years. I happened to lift up my arm to re-adjust my barrett. If I could take back that innocent gesture, I would in a heartbeat, because I believe it was at this moment I hit puberty with an audience. A very nasty, popular girl called out to the rest of the students, "Oh, my gosh! Is that sweat in your armpit?"

Horrified, I quickly put my arm down and stammered, "Uh, I don't know, I guess so. I'm just really hot." This was followed by several students gathering around me to see this freak of a girl who was able to produce sweat in such a disgusting place. They asked me questions like if I wore deoderant or if I took a shower. Little did they know that I had been using Secret since I was in third grade and of course I took a shower! I was mortified! And to top it off, when we were taking lunch count, I told the teacher I would be having hot lunch. The same icky girl piped up to the whole class, "Oh, are you SURE?" as she raised her hands over her head showing off her bone dry underarms. I have truly hated her since that day and have hated anyone who had the same dry armpit affliction.

The next day, I took great care in choosing an outfit to camouflage my sweat. This also set off my new wardrobe selection which would carry me through both junior high and high school. I was only going to wear clothing that hid those horrid armpit stains, because the more I would think about them, the bigger the stain got. I wore black, I wore layers, I wore plaid, and I wore white like it was nobody's business. I couldn't borrow anyone's clothes for fear that I would leave a sweat stain. I hated shopping because my mom would pick out pinks, blues, reds, and yellows on the cutest of clothing. I would scoff at them and tell her she had no taste, but deep inside I would have given anything to comfortably wear a green cardigan set. The times that I would buy those pastels, I would end up having the worst day ever trying to cover up the deep coloring under my arms. I would never raise my hand in class, I only used long strapped bookbags--there was no way I could wear a backpack, it's a deathwish for sweaty armpits, and I would leave class to find the restroom with the hand dryers to blow away a sweat stain. White t-shirts had a drawer life of roughly 2 months before they turned yellow. I was ultra-sensitive to those that didn't sweat. The lucky bastards leading their carefree lives.

In high school I wanted a boyfriend so badly. I just knew it would never work because I could never hold his hand or snuggle closely to him. I would surely drive him away or maybe he would just slip out of my slimy grip. I kept a distance with boys, for fear they would find out about my baloney-sized sweat problem. It literally paralyzed me in many parts of my life and created a mountain of laundry at the end of each week.

By the time I went to college, I had learned many tricks of the trade to hide this embarrassing secret. We were still wearing plaid shirts under sweatshirts and layering was a really big deal. I lucked out in some ways that first year of college. After my freshman year, I came home and I finally came to grips with this issue. 7 years of shame and embarrassment needed to end. I told my mom that I was going to see the doctor and tell her that I sweat a lot. She looked at me quizically and asked what they could do about it. I told her I didn't know, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. Much to my surprise there was a treatment. I was not alone and there was help to be had! I was given a prescription liquid that was to be rubbed in my armpits at night and then washed off in the morning.

Not quite believing that this would actually work, I filled the prescription, went home and waited for bedtime. I rubbed the liquid on my underarms and it burned like nothing else. Did that mean it was working? I wasn't sure but I had a restless night's sleep as the stinging raged on. That morning, I woke up and was ready to start my day. In the afternoon a friend and I were going to babysit my cousin's children. When we arrived, the temperature was hot and the house had no AC. I started playing with the kids and my face was getting red, my neck was starting to overheat, and soon enough I had beads of sweat on my brow. This was going to be a true test to see if this really worked, was it worth the pain? I rubbed my armpit with my finger and it slid across the skin. Sweat? Hmmmm.... It didn't feel like sweat and I immediately identified it as my deoderant. I rubbed that off as fast as I could and touched my armpit several times to truly capture what it felt like to have dry armpits in a hot house. It was beautiful. I nearly cried.

This was the beginning of the end for me. I continued using the medication. I arrived back at school a new woman. On one of the first nights back, I was with some girlfriends in a hot dorm room with no AC and of course super dry armpits. One of them said, "I'm sweating terribly right now." I rolled my eyes, because I've heard that before from girls who will lift up their arms only to show a dot the size of a pencil eraser. Puh-lease. Only this time, my friend lifted up her arm to show a rather large stain the size of a peanut butter jar top. I stared in amazement. Another friend chimed in and notified us that she, too, was very hot and sweaty. She lifted up her arm to show us a likewise stain. Again, I was shocked. Kindred spirits of sweaty armpits!

I almost couldn't get my words out to express my understanding and empathy with sweat stains. I told them of my gift of prescription medication to alleviate such embarrassment. We swapped stories of volleyball jerseys ruined, of a friend's gymnastics leotard that had a sweat stain from elbow to hip, and other stories of home remedies that have failed miserably to cure such a vanity ailment.

Since that year of college, I have become immune to the medication, but I no longer keep this problem a secret. I embrace it with love as part of who I am. I love reading articles about people who sweat a lot and are healthier than others. It makes me proud to do any sort of exercise and have the sweatiest back, stomach, neck and of course armpits. It makes me look like I've worked a little harder than the rest.

Don't get me wrong, life isn't perfect, I still sweat, but not nearly as much only because I don't worry about it anymore. I still use the blow dryer in public bathrooms to dry up big stains, I still never wear blue button-down shirts (don't trick yourself that you can, Stacy), and I still loathe holding hands during the "Our Father" in mass. So icky junior high girl, I'm SURE that you suck! (And yes I did use deoderant, it's just really hot in here!)

Yum-Yum in my Tum-Tum

So I think I've been on a diet since I was 13. I've never been obese or incredibly overweight, but there were a few shaky moments in college that could have gone either way. I have a very sturdy body that was built thicker than some. I will never be 100 pounds and if I ever was, I would surely have an intervention done on me because I would look sick. Stick thin or lean have never been words to describe my silhouette.

My legs have been described as "muscular" and one time "stumpy" by a person who knows who he is and never made that mistake again. I can't wear super short shorts or skirts which I'm mostly okay with, but it would be nice in 111 degrees to wear shorts to the gym. I also have this pouch around my tummy, I guess it's known as a spare tire, since it looks like I swallowed a bike tire that won't deflate. No amount of crunches, pilates, or ab rollers will get rid of that thing. I think I would be sad if it ever left me since we've been together so long. I wouldn't know what to do...maybe comfortably wear a bikini or run in my sports bra?

I work out enough and eat healthy food to maintain a body size that isn't small, but isn't big, it's very medium. But I know what is in the way of my knock-out body. It's a little obsession I like to call the "treat." Some people like to have something sweet in their mouth after they have dinner, hence the after dinner mint. That small piece of hard candy will not even come close to suppressing the lion that lives in my belly.

I could eat an entire bag of M&M's, and I'm not talking about the impulse buy when checking out groceries. That's just a warm-up to the main event. I could take down a large bag of peanut M&M's in one night. Easily. I love the sour tasting treats, I love ones with peanut butter, I love ones with chocolate, I love them rolled in sugar, I love them dipped in caramel, and I especially love them smothered in ice cream (with caramel, peanut butter, and dipped in chocolate).

If you were to bag my groceries, you would see tons of fruit, vegetables, lean meat, and many nutritious things. But under the non-fat yogurt, you will see the struggle of a treataholic. I don't want to buy the tub of ice cream, so I'm going to get these sugar-free fruit bars at 72 calories each. I can't bring myself to put the bag of chocolate in the cart, but I'm sure these sugar-free chocolate pudding packs will do the trick when I'm really craving a bag of bite-sized Snickers.

When you've been on the treat for as long as I have, these are just items to tie me over so I don't get in my car and drive to the local gas station and get a large bag of Hershey Kisses. I can tell you that one time a gas station attendant asked me why I wasn't getting any sour gummy worms with my Reese's Pieces like I usually do. After I awkwardly laughed and hurried out, I made sure to start mixing up my gas stations. I binge on these items and leave not one iota of candy left. My stomach hurts, I feel like puking, and yet the candy keeps going in my mouth.

This isn't something that happens everyday, but it happens enough, let's just put it that way. After I have my crazy, psychotic episode with the candy, I swear that I'll never eat treats again. I also promise that I'm going to eat healthy from now on. This inevitably happens, because I'm too sick to eat until the next day. I go back to eating my fruits, vegetables, lean meats, and my fake sugar-free treats.

After a week, something builds up in my system and those red warning signs start to flash while blaring a loud horn. "You've gone too long without a good treat!!" it screams in my ear. I try to ignore it as long as I can, but after a few days of ignoring the piercing sounds, no amount of sugar-free Jello will hit the spot and I cave.

I stand in front of the candy aisle, having a hard time deciding what to get. Sometimes I have a little will power and just get the Sweettarts that come in the long tin foil cylinder, but other times I go for the hard core chocolate treats. I sit in my car on the ride home and fire them in without breathing. I'm a drug addict that's scored cheap crack, just something to calm the craving.

The cycle repeats itself again and I go through the same song and dance. If I'm stressed out at work or if someone said something to hurt my feelings, then it's an automatic stop for candy and I feel better instantly. Then I have an upset stomach on top of the stress or sadness, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

I wish I knew the magic solution that would help me overcome those treat demons in my brain. When I have conquered them, I will let you know via email with an attached picture of me in a string bikini while running.

Francophile, Mais Oui Say that Again?

So, I've mentioned in the previous blog that I read a book called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. I guess I didn't read it, I listened to it on CD, but that's beside the point. It's an awesome book and I completely recommend it, however, when I read the back cover, I was baffled by a word that I was very unfamiliar with.

It described the main character, a nine-year-old boy who lost his dad in the World Trade Center attacks, as a "francophile." He was a precocious child and a collector of many things, but what was a "francophile"? Disillusioned by what I thought it might mean, since the only word I could think of that resembled it is "pedophile" and I didn't think they were the same thing, or at least I hoped not, I did a little research.

I grabbed my husband's Blackberry, too lazy to go to the computer, and typed "francophile" into the Google search engine. Wikipedia came to my rescue and answered some questions about this very peculiar word. Apparently, a francophile is a person who has a deep love and appreciation for France and the French culture. I can appreciate a person like that and I think they would have a deep love and appreciation for me.

I'm not an egophile, a person who has a deep love and appreciation for oneself--I just made that word up--but I do have a lineage of French in my system, in fact, half of me is French. I think it's all the smelly parts and the parts that love high fat and carb-infested foods and I'm pretty sure the mysterious parts of me that don't like Americans. My dad came from two parents that had pure French blood flowing through their veins and passed no love and appreciation for the French culture down to my dad and his 11 siblings. They were not francophiles, therefore leaving their descendants to fight for their Frenchness on their own.

They did leave behind their complete devotion to the Catholic religion and apparently my grandmother also had difficulty with the NFP concept and planned or unplanned she produced 12 children like a good Catholic woman should. Child #8 was my dad. These children went on to have children, too, and by 1981, out came me, grandchild #32, the final one to round out this modest sized extended family--cough, cough.

Knowing that my birth would probably be the last among his siblings, he had a duty to fulfill. I was a cousin born into a family of Ryans, Patricks, Michaels, Marys, Michelles, and Shannons. These were nice names and all but none of them carried with them a French flair. In fact, it seemed as though the family was leaning towards a bit of Irish. The nerve! What happened to cultural pride and loving our heritage? We had an exhaustive French last name that was consistently mispronounced and frankly, my aunts and uncles spared their children a first name that was equally as confusing.

Enter me. I took the hit. I was given a name that had a beautiful French sound that would roll off the tongue of any Parisian and was chosen carefully by my very fickle father. However, in small town Minnesota, the Scandinavians we were surrounded by butchered not only the complicated, yet exotic sounding last name, but my first name went down in the massacre, too.

I went through childhood pronouncing, re-pronouncing, then writing and pronouncing again my name. As the youngest of three children, I thankfully had two siblings that sorted out the last name for all the teachers before I came, but I was truly on my own when it came to my first name. I resented them for having names from the "Popular Boy/Girl" name list printed each year in the paper or being able to find their names on key chains when on vacation at Mt. Rushmore. I didn't even try to look for mine...only reassured by my mom that we would find one with my name on it if we were vacationing in Bordeaux, France. Big whoop! Our Ford Aerostar wasn't crossing the Atlantic Ocean any time soon. Pouty face.

Another assurance from my mother was that if I got married to a person with a popular last name (Anderson, Johnson, Peterson) that my first name would set me apart from the rest. She was right, how many Kelly Andersons are there? It makes me sick to think about it. I prayed that I would find a husband that would provide a name that I could blend in with, something that I don't have to clarify when pronouncing. Ha! That DID NOT happen and I am back to square one with another confusing last name.

But, I think I have found it, the people that I have been waiting for all my life. The francophiles! People who will not ask for a re-pronunciation, but a mere questioning on the the accent aigu. The "J" sound won't have the harshness in the word "jar" but the sophistication of "zsa." There is even a website completely devoted to people who are completely devoted to France and the French culture cleverly addressed http://www.francophilia.com/. I have been actively searching for a support group on their site who caters to those whose French names have been wrongfully abused in pronunciation for a large portion of their lives.

Je suis si heureux avoir trouvé les francophiles! Au revoir!

My Infidelity to NPR

So, last year I went from being a casual National Public Radio listener to an extreme enthusiast of such shows as "A Prairie Home Companion" with Garrison Keillor, "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me" because I can't say no to a witty trivia show, and of course the affable Bostonians, Click and Clack, on "Car Talk" who solve automobile problems just by listening to people make weird car noises.

I don't just stop there, I love listening to local, national, and international news so when I listen to "Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me" I can accurately guess the right answers or start somewhat intelligent conversation not having to do with People magazine. In general, I just like to listen to people talk and not have to talk back when I drive in the car. My long car rides to and from work can be lonely, but listening to "All Things Considered" or "Talk of the Nation," makes me feel like I have a companion riding in the passenger seat.

Recently while in the library, after trying to find another Jodi Picoult book that they never have, something new caught my eye. They were bright, shiny, colorful, and they were made for me, my car, and my listening pleasure. I touched my fingers against the plastic spines. They were books on CD and they looked mighty fun to have in my car.

I stood there gazing at the different titles mesmerized by all the books that I have yet to read--it's what I love most about the library--and here someone would do the reading for me! This would help immensely in my almighty task of reading every awesome book that anyone has ever recommended. But I thought of my old friend, NPR, and all the good times we have in the car together. Could I borrow a book on CD and still listen to the radio? I've never had 2 boyfriends at once, again, not by choice, but I think this would still have the same juggling effect. I would really have to manage my time and make sure not to miss the important parts of NPR, but also listen often enough to the book to keep up with the storyline. I was torn, but before I knew it, I was sliding the plastic casing under the automatic check-out laser.

The first book I selected in my CD affair was Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I thought I might listen to this first part of the book and get bored or realize how overrated it was and come crawling back to my beloved radio. This wasn't the case. I had a new puppy love to the book and I couldn't get enough of it. There was no balancing of time; I devoted all of it to listening to this enrapturing book. The multiple characters, especially the protagonist, his grandmother and grandfather and their struggles with his father dying in the World Trade Center. I was laughing, crying, and thinking how much I loved books on CD. Did I love them more than "All Things Considered"? Hmm...I can tell you that I dropped NPR like a bad habit and didn't look back.

After finishing all 12 CD's, I told myself that I should take a break and get back into radio again. At least listen to the Saturday fun shows to remember why I really love tuning in. Instead, as soon as I dropped those CD's off, I was right back to the shelf like a fat kid to a cookie jar.

"Just one more...." I was dreamily thinking as I scanned the titles, "...oh, they have a Jodi Picoult book I haven't read yet. Let's see, Memoirs of a Geisha I've read before, but would I love it even more listening to it with a Japanese accent? Yes! I've found it. This is the perfect book to listen to in my car."

I grabbed Marley and Me from the shelf and couldn't wait to turn over the engine and place the first CD in the player. I honestly can tell you that listening to these books have made me a better and safer driver. How can that be? Wouldn't I be more distracted listening to the book? Absolutely not! I am more cautious not to pull out in front of cars if I can just listen a minute longer, I am relaxed in bumper-to-bumper traffic because it means more time with my new best friend, and I'm not against the euphoric state it puts me in. This could possibly be a cure to road rage.

I hate when guests come in my car and I'm forced to tune the radio to something with music; there's no way I can catch them up on my book and NPR is only for a particular type of person. Perhaps my books on CD have furthered me into an introverted state, but I can't say I don't like it.

I feel bad for dropping 91.5 for now, but I know this CD relationship won't last forever and I'll come crawling back on hands and knees on a Saturday morning like a cheatin' wife to her forgiving husband. For now, I think I'll enjoy this new found love and try to keep it a secret from my longtime companion, a prairie home companion, if you will.

Accessories Not Included

So, I was just thinking about some things the other night. I am going to be an aunt in about 5 months and when I got the news, I screamed into the phone. Babies make me excited, especially those that aren't mine. Oh, your baby started crying...you can have it back now.

There is also a new TV show on NBC called "The Baby Borrowers" where teenage couples are supposed to take care of babies for three days. After those exhaustive days, they must take care of toddlers, then 'tweeners, then teenagers, and then old people. It's an interesting concept and one that I think more teenagers need to experience before deciding to have a baby with their high school sweetheart while still in high school. I did not have a high school sweetheart, not by choice, I just wasn't that cute, but I did babysit and I'm Catholic so from both ends I knew that having a baby would ruin my life.

Fast forward ten years. I finally found someone who did think I was cute and decided to marry me a year ago. I wanted that beautiful, traditional Catholic wedding. In order to make that dream come true, we had many hoops to jump through. We met with a deacon of our church nearly 6 or 7 times. It was there we discussed the meaning of the vows, what things we found to be important in a marriage and of course our willingness to reproduce. This was half the reason why you get married in a Catholic church. I'm not quite sure what would happen if we said no to that option, but we said "Yes!" quickly, maybe a little too quickly.

In the next session, we had the most uncomfortable moment in all my existence. Our 75-year-old deacon was going into the delicate subject of sex and reproduction. He told us that there were a lot of people and media telling us to do weird things in our bedroom, but "doing it" the normal way with no accessories was going to produce the same result in conceiving. We sat there with vacuum tight filters (as my mom calls them). However, if we were sitting in a comic strip, a conjoined thought bubble would have formed over our heads. The Beavis and Butthead giggles followed by, "He said doing it." We nodded our heads, pretending we had never been exposed to such filth.

This set us up for another 6 sessions of something called "Natural Family Planning" or NFP as we called it. These sessions lasted 2 hours on Monday nights, as well as follow-up sessions with our teachers. I just couldn't understand why anyone would want to try this method when it takes nearly 12 hours to understand, well, kind of understand. It requires the WOMAN to take her temperature each day, the WOMAN to observe and document each time she pees, and the WOMAN to let the man know the 30 minute window as the primetime to conceive before 11 o'clock in the morning.

I've never been one to pay close attention to detail and it really bothered me that Casey was understanding it well and I was still stuck at the 3 spiked temperature marks.

"I don't get it," I would whisper to him during the whole 2 hours. He would roll his eyes, as if telling me that he knew the secret to conceiving with all of the rest of the women in the room. How did he figure it out? I despised him for understanding something that he didn't even have to understand; it was my job to let him know when it was time. I could barely read the digital thermometer; this was truly hopeless. Thank goodness there wasn't a test at the end and they still let us get married.

Perhaps this is just another way to weed out those of us who are not ready to have kids right away and remind us to enjoy these quiet years. It is rather nice to just have the two of us, a cat, and a soon-to-be niece or nephew to practice on. I think we just have to remember that it doesn't take weird things with lots of accessories to be good parents, just doing it the normal way will suffice...as in parenting styles...get your minds out of the gutter!

Gentle Cycle with Like Colors, No Wife

So, I like to think that I'm the perfect wife. I've only been one for a tiny bit under a year, but after a few bumps in the road, I really think that I'm quite good. I eat all of the meals my husband cooks without complaint, I pull up rugs for him so he can sweep and point out each crumb he happens to miss, and if I'm at Target, I'm sure to pick up a cute top so I can look nice for him. It's really a win-win situation for both of us and has taken a little under year to perfect this arrangement.

One of the bumps early on in our marriage was the laundry. I had volunteered to do our laundry, rather unwillingly, but I would rather not have my husband try to fold my underwear. I'm also really specific about the socks that go together based on there level of elasticity. It's one of the very few things that I am persnickety about, but he agreed.

One of the first times I had done our laundry, he was watching as I pulled out clothes from the hamper that we shared. I put them in my own little piles of clothes that I thought went together and would be washed in the same water temperature. This was NOT the way that he would have sorted the laundry, he informed me. I told him tough, get over it, this is the new way that it was going to be done. He reluctantly backed off and let me finish the laundry in peace.

About a month later, I decided that I wanted to wash rugs and just put them all together in the washing machine. I threw the red kitchen rug in with the sky blue bathroom rugs. Perhaps you might have flashbacks to kindergarten finger painting and realize this may not be the best idea. I personally like the "new" purple rugs. Whoops. A shake of his head, I had another mistrust in my laundry skills. It could happen to anyone that forgot the basics of color combining!

To top that off, the following laundry cycle, I was watching TV, waiting to change the wash into the dryer. My husband came in wondering if I had seen his cell phone. Hmmm...couldn't recall seeing it on the kitchen counter. Would I please call it, he sweetly asked. After 4 phone calls to no vibration, we realized that he had left his phone in a pair of jeans that happen to be finishing the rinse and spin cycle.

"Are you kidding me?!?!" he bellowed when he realized that no amount of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would bring his phone back to life. I offered my old phone to him, since I had just gotten a brand new one very recently. He took the phone and told me not to touch his clothes and he would do his own laundry from here on out. He found his old hamper and made a nice little set up in his closet to only put his clothes in. "OMG, c u l8tr, I think my bf thinks I'm of child brain level when it comes to laundry," I texted a friend on my new phone.

Everything has been hunky-dory and I have made no real mistakes besides the occasional piece of paper inside a pocket washed in a dark load. But that happens to everyone, I think.

After a vacation a few weeks ago, we had so much laundry to get done that I offered to do his and I promised to be very careful. He agreed only because he wanted his favorite dress socks clean to wear that week. The first 3 loads were great. Then I put a gray/green load in and let the good times roll, feeling pretty proud of myself. After it was time to take out the clothes, I opened the lid to the sickest smell. I thought it might have been the garbage, but when I brought the hanging clothes in to air dry, the smell was still there. How could these clothes smell so much like fish?

And then I saw it, a green shirt of mine that has two small pockets in the front. During the vacation I had put my usual artillery of vitamins and supplements in my pocket to eat with breakfast, but I had forgotten to take them...including the 2 fish oil tablets! I washed those clothes several times until I was sure the smell was gone, but seriously?? What kind of black cloud follows me around where something like that happens EVERYTIME I do my husband's laundry??

Or is it all part of my master perfect wife plan?

Competitive Yoga

So, about two years ago, I was back in Minnesota for a little stay. My good friend had driven up from St. Paul to spend time with me over the weekend. She looked absolutely phenomenal! She had started practicing yoga and said that it had really made a difference in her life. It was very apparent that I needed to bring in some yoga to my work-out rut.



When I got back to Arizona I quickly drove the 2 blocks to L.A. Fitness (it was 115 degrees outside, I wasn't going to walk anywhere!) and picked up the class schedules. Since I was still on summer break, I was able to start the very next morning with my new favorite activity. It was off to a great start!



The first class went pretty well, besides the fact that I made the mistake of wearing a baseball cap and couldn't properly lay my head down, and that I didn't bring a towel with, so the downward facing dogs were straining my shoulders under the slipping of my sweaty palms. I kept the image of my friend and remembered how beautiful she looked and wanted that so badly for myself that I knew I couldn't give up so easily.



My next class I didn't make those rookie mistakes. I was sure to wear my hair in a high ponytail, bring a towel, and for extra measure I painted my chipped toenails, because it seemed like we were staring at them pretty often.



Over the next several months, I became a yoga practitioner. I gave myself that label, because I read it in the Yoga magazine that I was now recieving in the mail from my fellow yoga practicing sister. I could hold my tree pose against my inner thigh, I had great form with my triangle pose, and a full plow was nothing to be scared of anymore. I was getting good.



At that time, I started a new sport within my yoga class. No one knew they were playing, yet all of them were players. I was going to compete with the other people in the class to see if I had the best pose, especially those really skinny girls that always seemed to be good at everything. Our teacher would remind us continually that we were only to focus on our own bodies and stop when it started to hurt. I couldn't stop myself from squatting a little lower, holding the Sphynx pose a little higher, and curling my body backwards the best I could for the wheel pose. I pretended to close my eyes, but couldn't help to peek an eye open and compare myself to the brunette in the front. "How is she keeping her heels down while bent over like that?" I would think to myself. "Must push harder to win this pose."



I would leave class dripping with sweat, while others would still be wearing the hooded sweatshirt that they came in. How could that be? Didn't they even try?! Pfft, mere peons in my attempt to master the yoga circuit.



My friend was very excited for my newfound love with yoga and we discussed it often. I kept my game to myself because it totally erased the truly wonderful reasons why people practice. For a wedding gift, she found an amazing yoga studio for me to try out. I was overjoyed to start at this place and quickly put myself into the medium level class. The class was filled with mostly middle-aged to older women. Ha! This was going to be easy. Are you kidding me? I eat women like them for breakfast.



The very first part of the class was breathing...simple enough until we started having to breathe out for a really long time. I could barely make it halfway as the rest of them just kept blowing. How did they have that much air to blow out? They also were able to recite a mantra that I had never heard, but sounded very similar to "The Circle of Life" from the Lion King. I was completely lost. Thankfully, everyone really did keep their eyes shut in this class or they would have seen my lips make the motion of "doo-dee, doo-dee." We started with some poses that I was familiar and comfortable with and then she said we were going to stand on our heads. "Ha!" I loudly shreiked.



Wouldn't you know, it wasn't a joke, nor were any of the other women as appalled as I was at this crazy proposition. Sure enough, a woman in her sixties was on her head in a matter of seconds and the rest of the class followed. I sat in confusion and humbly asked the instructor for help. She gladly pushed my legs to the sky where I was able to stay for a few seconds before tumbling down. The sixty-year-old lady was still standing on her head.



Game over. Nomaste.

An Intervention from Intervention

So, I have a new love. It's our DVR. The DVR is the recording device, similar to TiVo, that records TV shows when you are not able to be there to watch them live. This was a wonderful piece of technology during the school year. I thought I was missing many shows during the day and since I needed to be in bed by 9, I slept in peace knowing that the adult shows that come on during those prime TV hours was being digitally recorded. The Hills, Dirt, Real World Hollywood, you know all the REALLY important adult shows were now ready and waiting for me to view when I came home from work.

During the summer there has been a TV show that I just can't get enough of and I record it non-stop, even when I am watching it live. I had watched the program on A&E called "Intervention" just a couple of times the last couple of years, but now I've become a bit of an expert on the show.

Let me give you an synopsis of this show. A television crew follows around a person who has agreed to be in a documentary about their addiction. These people have had addictions to drugs, alcohol, gambling, sex, shopping or prescription pills. At the end of the show, the family and friends come together with an interventionist and ask the person to accept the gift of sobriety and go to rehabilitation to get better. At this point during the show, I am usually bawling as they accept this gift and can't wait to find out if they have remained sober after getting help. I'm truly disappointed when I find out that they have relapsed, but am overjoyed when they have seen the error of their ways and joined the rest of us as we soberly face the misery of real life.

After pressing "Stop" on the DVR remote, I turn to my poor husband who has patiently watched the entire show with me. I start on with my wonderful armchair psychobabble, because I've seen the show so many times, I've begun to think that I could do Jeff VanVonderan's job, even WITHOUT a pyschology degree. He, by the way, is the most popular interventionist the show uses with his no-nonsense approach to the person.

"Oh, you know that he turned to methamphetamines because of the childhood trauma he suffered from his abusive father. This is a very cyclical cycle he has put himself into--wait, was I being redundant? Anyway, having an addiction is a very selfish disease because everyone around you suffers while you are able to drown it in whatever vice you choose."

Blah, blah, blah...judge, judge, judge. I hardly notice when the channel is changed to ESPN Sports Center. The previous, "Whoa," was probably not for my insight on the enabler's role, but for the Twins win over the D'backs.

The problem is, I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF INTERVENTION!!! I look furiously for the next episode to play, frustrated when I press the Info button, only to find out that it's one that I've already seen. "Come on! Whatever! This is crap! I need to watch this show, like right now!" Previously viewed shows will not put me on the same level of empathy as watching a brand new episode. I'm disappointed when the storyline isn't as strong as others that I have seen; it just doesn't get me fired up like usual---

Hey! It sounds like I might have an addiction to Intervention. Huh. What would rehab from a television show about rehab be like? Would we be doing yoga, eating healthy foods, and would someone have to listen to all my problems as I weep into a tissue? Would they ween me off of the show or would they take me off of TV altogether? I don't know if I would be able to accept that gift of sobriety and I would be certain to relapse, if not on "Intervention," then definitely on "What Not to Wear." I'm going to have to keep my recordings a secret from my husband who doesn't know how to use the DVR anyway and all talk of it must be kept to myself.

Excuse me while I browse the lineup of A&E for uh, er, a good Biography.