Jealous

I just was on Miranda July's blog (she wrote No One Belongs Here More Than You and she rocks my socks) and found yet another reason for me to envy her coolness. She has pictures of pillows with lines and lines of poetry stitched across the tops. I want those pillows - maybe if I had pillows with poetry and gorgeous images etched onto them, they would seep into my brain through osmosis and I would never have another nightmare again. Send your try to my condo in the sky immediately, and you'll have admirers everywhere you go.

Split In My Brain

Wired and sitting by myself. Wired and wondering if anyone is reading this blog at all. The profile view count is going up, so either people are reading, or I'm showing up in search engines. I'm afraid people are getting here, not finding the pussy they thought they would, and turning back around. I just hope they remember to signal before they re-enter the highway to internet porn.

This blog is the most I've written in a month and a half, outside of a cover letter, or a tweak to my resume. The little bit of poetry that resided in my brain for the past two years of graduate school abandoned ship sometime ago. I suppose I should do something with the beast of a thesis I cried over for months, but I can't bring myself to send it anywhere. I have no money for the entry fees, and little inspiration to even print out the fifty-plus page beast.

I get to the gym at least four times a week, at least. I'm still doing yoga, though I have more of an inclination towards the Tai Chi, Pilates and yoga fusion class lately. It's faster, more aggressive - when everything else in my life is stagnant, it's satisfying that my body isn't. Sometimes I find myself thinking if I get through a brutal hour of cardio or put in another set of bicycle crunches everything will work out - that somehow challenging myself physically will result in payment in other factions of my life. The delusions we pitch in our brains to get ourselves through.

Maybe I should turn this into a celebrity-following blog, or a beauty blog - I read people like those kinds of blogs. Hmm. I read a couple of weeks ago Lady GaGa was on a yacht sucking face with a brunette with long legs. I'm sure everyone knows that already. I'm bad at the celeb blog thing, I guess.

I quit.

Her Hands on My Head

After the combination Tai Chi, Pilates, and yoga class today at my gym, we all lay on the floor, our breaths slowing in the cooling studio. The instructor went around to each student, and placed her hands on their forehead.

When she knelt behind me, I could smell the eucalyptus wafting from her fingers. She laid her palms on my temples, fingers splayed across my face. I inhaled, the scent catching somewhere deep in my body.

The acts of kindness we stumble upon, every day.

Closer

Each time I go to yoga, I feel I'm actually getting closer to where I need to be. Granted, usually I'm the youngest person in class - I go during the day (my unemployment allows me to do so) and am usually surrounded by women my mother's age and above. As horrible this is, I find myself checking out everyone's bodies...if I'm surrounded by flab, then why continue to practice something that makes me hurt and I'm not all that good at yet?

I'm sure I'll be berated by anyone who seriously practices yoga by claiming that I'm "not good yet". I realize yoga is a practice to better yourself, not something to master and move on. This is the same way to approach writing, I think - limber yourself up, but you can always stretch just a little bit further, tone your muscles a bit more. But I'm still hoping to be a buff bitch by the time I have to wiggle into my bikini in a couple of weeks.

When I say where I need to be, I suppose it's the feeling I get during and after practicing yoga. During my sessions, I try to focus only on the yogi leading the class and my own body. Keeping my body neat seems to be the goal of yoga. Tucking my hips underneath my rib cage, keeping my elbows to my side, my feet underneath my hips, my shoulders relaxed...it sounds confusing when I read it back. But after a couple of classes, it doesn't feel confusing to my body.

Besides yoga class, I've been going to classes that combine yoga, Pilates, and Tai Chi. I also have been hitting the cardio machines and free weights before or after the classes I attend as often as I can. At this point in my life, my graduate career behind me, and not many prospects ahead, I feel overwhelmed by lack of focus. For the past two years, I've been sprinting towards the end - always another due date, another book to read, another poem to revise. I don't have that now. It's hard not to be disappointed in myself, although I have many people in my life who remind me daily of what I've accomplished. I would like to be farther than I am right now, if that makes any sense to you, dear reader.

So this yoga and the gym are ways I'm achieving a goal now, because I have little to work towards right now that seems to be a reachable goal. Applying for jobs online is a time filler and little else, and tapping into my small pool of "connections" hasn't gotten me very far yet. I have a full-length poetry collection I could start submitting to contests, but I can't afford to start blow money on the reading fees for these contests until I have a more solid income. I know mine isn't an original tale, but this emptiness is new for me.

More Succesful

After the sweaty yoga horror, I rethought my plan. Working out blows. There are always a million things to do besides workout (including blogging about working out instead of actually working out). The last thing I needed was to absolutely dread a workout - this would only be yet another excuse to not get my swell on. I let my seven day trial period expire at the Bikram studio, and I admit, I feel a bit guilty. After only one try, maybe I wasn't giving this practice a chance. But the thought of going back to that sauna is enough to bring tears of anxiety to my eyes.

So, new plan: keep the yoga and lose the 112 degree part. I was part of a great gym a couple of years back, but had to cancel my membership due to my financial situation. Though that situation hasn't improved much (again, hire me!), I'm determined to make it work. With membership, the gym I'm part of offers a whole array of classes. Zumba, Pilates, and - drum roll - yoga. I decided this was a better route than Bikram - the gym membership is cheaper per month, and the fee includes full use of the gym.

I entered my first non-sweaty class with a mat I bought from Target; the boot camp instructor of a yogi lent me one at the Bikram studio. The class took place in the sun-filled loft studio on the top floor of the gym, with about fifteen people in attendance.

As class began, I became grateful for my past experience. Vinyasa yoga, a practice based on the in and out motion of breath, is similar to the poses in Bikram. I found myself being able to follow along with the instructor, albeit clumsily.

Vinyasa yoga incorporates downward facing dog into many sequences. This pose consists of having both hands and both feet on the mat, head hanging between shoulder blades with the butt lifted to the ceiling. If done correctly, the practicer looks like an upside down V.

I push into the first down dog successfully. The second one, I managed to lift my hips even further, creating a solid stretch in my hamstrings. During the third dog, I felt my hands start to slip. As the class progressed, the studio heated up a bit, causing me to sweat. My hands slid on the shiny plastic of the mat, as my down dog collapsed. I fell to the side, grunting loud enough to interrupt the elderly gentleman next to me. He turned his head in surprise, but was kind enough to say anything and carry on with his successful stretch.

The class couldn't be over fast enough, each of the poses becoming more difficult as my hands and feet slipped this way, then that way. I couldn't wait for the class to be over so I could powder my hands and return the mat to Target for a refund.

Let's Enter the Studio

So here I am, in a 112 degree heated room with the thermostat at 80 outside. I hiked up my yoga pants as advised, and lost the tank top. So here I am, half-nude in a room with six other half-nude women, with my obviously un-yogaed body exposed. It's much less sexy than you'd think.

Marissa comes into the studio, sporting a headset with a microphone. She looks at us newbies and tells us to stick through it. She tells us no matter what, don't leave in the middle of class. Her saying this makes me want to leave before the class even starts.

The actual details of the class are a blur to me now - kinda like a war veteran with PTSD. My brain blocked out the more traumatizing parts of the experience for the overall state of my mental health. The heat induced feelings of claustrophobia, that I needed to leave before I choked to death. I remember Marissa constantly correcting someone named Jennifer over her headphone. It took about forty minutes into the class to realize she was talking to me. I interrupted her mid-correction of my feet position, even though we weren't supposed to talk once class began. "It's Stefanie, not Jenn-iiii-fer," I spit through my teeth. In my irritation, I think I might have mocked the nice yogi's accent. And she was nice, before and after the class. Once in the studio, she became a boot camp instructor.

I struggled to square my hips towards the front of the room and plant one foot on the ground with the other leg stretched straight ahead of me. As I swayed in the heat, I felt my stomach fall to where my foot met the ground. My mouth filled with saliva. I tried to excuse myself without interrupting the other women.

"Jenn-iiiiiiii-fer, you can't leave."

I pantomime throwing up on the yoga mat she let me borrow. I mouth, I'm sorry.

"Jenn-iiiiiii-fer, stay. You'll be fine." I feel the first heave.

I hear, "Jenn-iiiiii-fer..." as I run through the studio door.

I managed to make it to the bathroom. After I get sick, I immediately feel better and wonder if I can go back into class. The yogi busts into the fitting room where I sat contemplating my next move, and tells me to get back in the room. I apologize again and again, and follow her back into the studio.

I manage to finish the class without further incident. I almost break down in tears at least three times as the yogi berates me, sometimes as Jenn-iii-fer, sometimes as Stefanie. The overall practice leaves me feeling so vulnerable that every time Marissa corrects me, I feel as if I'm being verbally attacked. My friend S. ended up leaving fifteen minutes before the class was over. She was an interesting shade of purple when she finally gave up. Marissa kept telling S. to try again, that she'd be fine, she wasn't about to pass out because Marissa knew the telltale signs of when people were about to pass out. I'm proud of S. for not telling Marissa to go f*ck herself, as S. tends to do when she's frustrated and/or mad. This is one of the reasons her and I get along so well.

As the class drew to a close, Marissa dims the lights and invites us all to lay on the floor and enjoy the hard work we finished. It's rare to be encouraged to only focus on yourself, and let all the thoughts be released from your mind. I do my best, as I'm worried about S., and worried about the date I have after the class is finished, and worried about my thesis due in three weeks...Relaxing seems to be the most difficult part of all that was expected of my body during this class.

It made me throw up

What did?

Bikram yoga, that's what.

Bikram is a form of yoga that moves through 26 poses in either a 60 or 90-minute period. The room where Bikram students practice is heated between 105 to 115 degrees. Students are advised to drink 32 ounces of water before entering a class, bring a bottle of water to drink at designated times during the class, and drink 32 ounces when the class has finished.

It was all my friend's idea. My good buddy S. is a faithful workout partner whenever her and I become simultaneously motivated to get our swell on. Her mother is an avid exerciser, and told S. Bikram yoga is a fantastic way to burn calories. I was told in the dressing room at the yoga studio that this practice actually burns 1,000 calories per hour. Phenomenal.

S. and I, along with a third friend, walked into the Bikram studio together. Solidarity in sisterhood, brother. The woman behind the desk radiated a welcoming calmness. I was happy to be there, despite the slight reek of body odor I experienced walking through the front door. The woman introduced herself as Marissa - pronounced Mar-eeee-sa. Her accent comforted me as she asked us our names, repeating them so she would remember them. I told her how nervous I was, and she laughed warmly in response. "You will be fine, child, just remember to breathe...just make sure to breathe through your nose the whole time unless instructed differently. Breathing through your mouth in the studio could cause you to hyperventilate and faint." She laughed again. I didn't.

She told us where we could change after she ran our credit cards - $25.00 for a trial session of seven days. "Make sure you come back after today. You'll be glad when you do."

S., other friend and I went to the changing area, where three other women were preparing for class. The trio of ladies said hello, and one looked me over. She asked if I had shorts. I wore long yoga pants and a black tank top over a blue sports bra. When I told her I didn’t, she suggested I roll up my pants. “Feel free to take off your shirt in the studio. All of us are half-naked by the end of class.” I’m okay with nudity in most situations, so I was glad to hear that everyone I’d be practicing with was, too.

This post is getting long, huh? I'll leave you hanging here...see the next blog to read what happened in the actual class.