Awkward Times At The Yoga Studio

As a response to my last tirade about nudity (read here) my friend Mij, an avid yoga practitioner and instructor, informed me that there is such a thing as naked yoga. Naked yoga is exactly what it sounds like. Interestingly, repulsion was not my first reaction to this piece of news, rather it was curiousity.

As in: How does one practice naked yoga without extreme chaffing? There are many misadventures I foresee with naked yoga, but chaffing is at the top of the list. This problem would also be aggrevated by the fact that, well at least I and probably most people, would have to be involved in some extreme feats of shaving/waxing/threading/lasering/chemically burning and/or any combination of the above before getting into the studio.

Now I enjoy yoga, but that doesn't mean yoga isn't weird. It's gotten much more mainstream, but there are plenty of kooks out there and I've experienced my fair share. Like Yuki, the instructor of an aerial yoga class I took for several months. It's not fair to call Yuki kooky. She was actually an excellent instructor. Aerial or aero yoga is a practice that involves a lot of partner work. It's best to go with a friend because you'll be lifting and tossing people in the air.

At it's best it looks like this. That's actually a picture of Yuki on the bottom.

One day Yuki decided to get a bit creative during our class.  I always attended with my roommate, a 5'2'' petite asian girl named Miyoko. This created many a problem when Miyoko would base (that's what Yuki's doing) our moves, because it was a bit like an orange on a toothpick to borrow a phrase from Mike Meyers. Basically we were far too top-heavy.

On this fateful day Yuki split Miyoko and I up because all of the partners needed to be of equal size and strength. Turns out this meant I got matched with two dudes. Yuki then proceeded to show us the move we'd be working on. One partner got into a crab walk position...

...and the other partner did a headstand with their head tucked between the other person's legs. This is how I ended up with my head between a guys legs while he thigh-squeezed my neck for "support" and nearly suffocated me. In case you were wondering my eyes were FIRMLY SHUT the entire time.

It's hard to believe that this is not my worst yoga experience. That honor goes to Cynthia of the YMCA yoga hour. Cynthia, a skinny black woman with blond spiral curls and buggy eyes, gathered all of us in a circle before the stretching began. She began a long speech about how we should write LOVE on the bottom of our water bottles because water can feel the vibrations and ended with a lesson on the power of chanting.

"I want everyone to say their name, color, and purpose," Cynthia said. "Then the circle will chant it back to them. Our names have a marvelous power when people say them. Okay, I'll start. Cynthia. Radiant Gold. Unconditional Love."

Then we all chanted "Cynthia. Radiant Gold. Unconditional Love. Cynthia, Cynthia, Cynthia, Cynthia, Cynthia."

Note: I am not making this up or even embellishing. 

I think the worst part of yoga is when something is inadvertantly hilarious, but of course laughing is taboo. I already have a tendency to laugh at inappropriate times. For instance, one time, while I was riding an elevator with an older friend of my parents and a few other teenage girls, the family friend related the story of her aunt's untimely demise. It seems the aunt had pressed the button for the elevator and stepped inside when the doors opened. However no there was no elevator car and she fell down the empty shaft and died. In the silence of elevator my snicker was deafening.

"Lauren!" My sister hissed. I mumbled an apology which was accepted with an air of wounded dignity, but I still maintain YOU CANNOT TELL ME A STORY LIKE THAT WHILE WE'RE IN AN ELEVATOR!

Yoga  brings out the inappropriate laughter in me, even without Cynthia Radiant Gold. I forced myself to stare at the ground because if I made eye contact with a single other person I would have to escort myself from the class. Perhaps this would have been for the best. When it came around to my turn it was all I could do to stammer out: Lauren. Blue. Love?

After the chanting portion we moved into balancing our chakras. This involved placing our hand on the appropriate chakra and mimicking Cynthia's deep grunting noises. I proceeded, if awkwardly, until we came to the pelvic chakra. Cheeks burning, I placed my hand on the very topmost of what could still be considered my pelvis. Cynthia gave a loud, low grunt and I half-heartedly repeated wondering if this was legal as I was still a minor.

"Lower!" Cynthia shouted. I whimpered and lowered my hand an inch. Finally, Cynthia decided we ought to do a few poses and the class became something recognizable.

It was a long time before I returned to yoga, and my chakras have remained happily  imbalanced ever since.

Hilarious video courtesy of Mij:
http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-3179/Every-Bad-Yoga-Teacher-Stereotype-in-7-Minutes-Video.html

Let's All Keep Our Clothes On

This morning I stumbled across an article on msn.com about a group of old men  who decided to pose naked in a calendar in an effort to raise much needed funds for their church (see link below). The first thought that ran through my mind was: "Again?" It seems like every year since "Calendar Girls" came out some group of senior citizens decides to get naked for a good cause.

One of these geritols who bare it all was quoted as saying: "I felt very comfortable. I removed my clothing, and it felt natural to me."

Well there's a shocker. Anybody who's ever been to a gym knows that old people feel no compunction about prancing around in the buff, parts flapping and swinging,  that once remained more or less stationary. I've been personally mortified in the ladies room.


Really? I can't unsee that you know.

 And from what I understand the men's room is even worse. At least women don't unabashedly blow dry their reproductive organs.

I've got a novel suggestion. What if we all just kept our clothes on? It used to be called modesty, but that seems like an old-fashioned concept, so let's call it emulating Annie Edison. This character from the NBC sitcom Community sums it up perfectly in an episode where the school puts on an STD fair in an effort to raise awareness among college students about how to prevent sexually transmitted diseases.

She says: "I like being repressed. I am totally comfortable being uncomfortable with my sexuality. And maybe, just maybe, if everyone were a little bit more like me, we wouldn't have to have an STD fair."

Amen to that. Another question: Who is buying these things? Either it's friends and family...


Hey kids, let's all look at this picture of grandpa hiding his business behind a trashcan lid! 

...or it's random strangers with a fetish for naked old people. I'm not sure which is more frightening.

I like walking around sans pants as much as anyone, but, and this is important, only in the privacy of my own home. So grandpa please, for the love, put on some suspenders so those trousers stay securely in place.

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/44778024/ns/today-today_people/t/full-monty-geritol-men---doff-duds-church/?gt1=43001#.TpHT85sUpts

-Shadow

What I Would Really Like to Say Part 1: Tell Me About a Time you Failed

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Job interviews are all about selling yourself, massaging the truth in your resume and interview questions to present yourself as the perfect candidate. We’ve already established that I’m pretty terrible at this. I’m too blunt and honest, self-detrimentally so, and it irritates me to play these mind games. In that spirit, I’ve decided to start a series on how I would actually answer interview questions if I could be totally honest.

Tell me about a time you failed.  

Well sir, let me answer that question with a question. Do you mean fail as in an experience in which I didn’t complete an assigned task or goal and learned a valuable lifelong lesson in the process OR do you mean FAIL in the common internet meme usage?

Because I have an excellent example for the second. Let me set the scene for you. It was a crisp September day and my mother, sister, and I decided to go for a bike ride. We were pedaling along, full of joie de vivre...

 ...when suddenly The Baity Instinct kicked in.

 Let me take a moment to explain The Baity Instinct. This is the spirit of fierce competitiveness that lies dormant in every member of the Baity family, waiting to be aroused by the slightest provocation.  It’s the spirit that incited my mother to march across the gym and ball out some parents complaining about the amount of play time I was getting in a first grade basketball game. As she so poignantly and loudly explained: the rule states that every kid has to play two quarters and we were not technically cheating by leaving our best player in for all four quarters. It’s the spirit that led my uncle to give the old Italian hello (read: the bird) to the entire student section of Kent Denver High School during a rowdy district championship game, and the same thing that causes my grandmother to cheat at every single board game, from Dominoes to Monopoly, and fall back on the old age excuse when caught. It’s as much a part of our makeup as dark hair and sarcasm.

This bright September day was not immune to the Baity Instinct. The bike ride started out pleasantly enough. We rode merrily along, chatting and enjoying the weather. Then someone started pedaling a little bit faster than the others. Of course the other two had to keep up, and not only that, we had to go even faster. Soon the three of us were in a full blown bike race down the Highline Canal trail.

My mom, firmly in the grip of the Baity Instinct, was in the lead with me close at her pedals and Laine pulling up the rear. It was at this point that I made a tactical error. I attempted a move outside the realm of my biking experience. I tried to pass my mom but ended up hitting her back tire with my front one. The result: I catapulted off my bike and ended up spread eagle on the trail, woozily staring at the sky. This wouldn't have been so bad, if Laine hadn’t been directly behind me. The next thing I saw was a bike tire at an uncomfortably close range. Two actually. Laine rode over my face with both tires.

Her story is a bit suspicious. She claims she had no time to think and instinctively swerved INTO MY FACE.

“That was the choice? Swerve into my face? Why wouldn’t you turn the other direction?“ I demanded.

She then proceeded to tell me I had been a jerk to her all day and she didn’t feel the least bit sorry. Like I said, suspicious. She didn’t even feel sorry when the emergency room nurse took one look at me and laughed because of the pronounced tire tread across my nose. I ended up with five stitches where Laine’s sprocket cut my head open and a nasty case of road rash. Laine didn’t even fall off her bike. I’m going to give her an EPIC WIN on this one.

So I think I nailed that question. What’s next?

A few more just for fun...

Jobbing Part 3: Mental Preparation

Here we go again...
Mentally preparing for an interview: a stream of consciousness

Wake up. Shake the sleep out of my eyes. Look at my dog. She's not happy to be up this early. Neither am I. Where are my power underwear? I don't have a pair of power underwear. Let's add that to the job hunting checklist. Buy/Assign power underwear. These will have to work. Oh Lord I'm going to go down in flames! No you're not. Positive thinking! Let's repeat our mantra. I am better than the plasma donation center. I am better than the plasma donation center.

Right, okay. I'm not going to self-sabotage. (Looking in the mirror) Dear God! Why didn't I blow dry my hair last night? I'm definitely sabotaging myself. Ugh, Mom told me to dry it too. Now she's got another thing to say 'I told you so' about. It's okay. We'll use Laine's Chi (fancy, high-powered hair straightener). Believe in the Chi. Okay the hair now vaguely resembles something humanoid. I wonder if I can dip into Laine's makeup bag without her noticing. She gets unreasonably upset about me sharing all of her things. Better not risk it. She's wandering around and I don't know how much coffee she's had yet. I'll borrow Mom's.

Wow, when was the last time I put on mascara? I hope I don't stab myself in the eye. That's why I stopped wearing mascara. Too many eye stabbings. It doesn't even look like I'm wearing makeup. Maybe I'm doing this wrong. Or maybe my face absorbs makeup like a giant sponge. God knows my pores are big enough. Did I brush my teeth? Yes. No. I'll do it again. Where are all of my bras? How is it possible for every single regular bra to make a biblical-style exodus from the house? Why didn't I lay this out last night? Yep, this is definitely self-sabotage. I'm going down. Hard. Focus! Ok, there's one in Mom's drawer. Man these blazers are heavy. And sweaty. At least it's thick enough that he won't be able to see the sweat. Hopefully. I look like a kid playing dress up. This guy is going to see right through me. Come on! You got this! Remember confidence is sexy.

Holy crap look at my eyebrows! Mrs. Sasquatch would judge me for those. Will my eyebrows be too red if I pluck now? No, I can't go in there looking like Frida Kahlo, even if my eyebrows are splotchy.

 

Careful. Careful. Okay I'm ready.

Alright getting in the van. Nothing inspires confidence like the battered, cracked, big red van. Wow the back window is dirty. That's what I call a ghetto tint job. Hmmm I need to find a power jam to get psyched up. Bad Romance. Meh. Wait, oh ya, here we go.

I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. 

True, but let's find something  more uplifting. Oooh I got the moves like Jagger. I'll make sure to mention that when he asks about my strengths. No, probably I'll only remember Laine’s suggestion for how to interview at a bank: "I have a long line of customers. They like to leave deposits in my vault and they always leave satisfied." That's definitely the only thing I'm going to remember.

I'm an hour early. Should I go to McDonalds? I only ate a handful of Frosted Miniwheats for breakfast. What was I thinking? I'll be picking those little wheat bits out of my teeth all day. No McDonalds. I'll smell like grease and that could have real gaseous repercussions. I'm already feeling the rumblings of a little anxiety gas. Should I hold it in or let it go now? What if it lingers? That would be disastrous.  Better play it safe.
What am I going to do for an hour? I guess I'll write. This pen is leaving my fingers blue. Brilliant. Whoops there goes the playing it safe plan. At least I have a half hour for it to dissapate. How early should I go in? I don't want to seem too desperate, but also don't want to seem like I don't care. Is ten minutes too early? Should I leave the car with ten minutes to spare or get inside ten minutes early. Oh God, here I go.

There is a long gap where I barely remember anything he asks. Then:

"What is your dream job? "

I hem and haw. It's not to be a bank teller. I can tell you that. I've been too vague. He asks again.

"Being a bestselling author."

Apparently this is the wrong answer. But it would have been too obvious if I'd said I want to be the CEO of the bank, right?

Blarg. This one is going down in flames too, but at least no one has asked me to relate a story about tomato sauce. Maybe I'm too honest. I blame my pastor parents for all those spankings. Although even my dad tells me to lie when I relate the experience later. Or be creative with the truth. I usually save that for blogging, but I guess I'll have to apply it in interviews from now on.

-Shadow

The Hunt Part 2: Desperate Times

When I received my seventeenth copy of "Oh The Places You'll Go" upon graduating from college, one of the places Dr. Suess failed to mention was back to my parent's house. I am a stereotype. An out of work college grad living in my old room and selling my plasma as a means of financial support. I am the dregs of humanity, the swirly brown stuff at the bottom of society's teacup. I realized this while sitting for four hours in the waiting room at the plasma donation center, tucked between a handsy young couple of high school dropouts and a woman who looked like she'd murdered her dog and glued it to her head (I nicknamed them the Poodle and the Canoodles). Together we watched Gone In Sixty Seconds, The Mummy 3: Curse of the Dragon Emperor, and Gone In Sixty Seconds for a second time. One a side note: Transformers 2 has now been replaced by the Mummy 3 as the Number 1 worst movie I've ever seen. Although I feel like the Canoodles weren't really paying attention.

I clutched my copy of The Brothers Karamzov in a petulant attempt to retain some small shred of my dignity. However that was shattered when I asked the phlebotomist why they wore the clear plastic face shields.

“For blood splatters.”

Great. I really needed that image of my blood spraying this poor woman like a Jackson Pollack painting.
My friend Mij keeps me encouraged at moments like this. She was the one who instigated the plasma adventure and who remarks with good cheer on how we’re saving lives with our donation.  While I am morosely quoting Romeo and Juliet to myself “My poverty but not my will consents” she will happily chat and make friends with every one around us. She doesn't refer to our endeavors as “whoring out our blood cells” and I doubt she would see the irony in me watching The Biggest Loser. Although, I must say The Biggest Loser is an upgrade from my earlier days watching Millionaire Matchmaker. At least it’s inspirational, and provides me with a variety of opportunities for sarcasm. I’m sorry but you cannot say phrases like “I wish I was half the man he was” or “I had to jump over a lot of hurdles to get here” and not expect a snarky response.

Mij also probably would have managed more than polite disinterest in the bleary-eyed Radison doorman with his high-demand O negative blood. Especially as he questioned me:

"Didn't you go to college to figure out what you wanted to do?"

Well yes I did. And no I still have no idea. And yes, I am an English major and realize some of these sentences are technically incomplete, but bear with me for the sake of this lovely conversational rapport we‘re developing. I don't know what I want to do with my life. If I did I'd like to think I'd be well on my way to achieving it, because I'm an absolute bear when I get it into my head that I can do something. But I can't see the path. All I can see at this moment is my dog Roxie who has pulled her head under the blanket and is completely hidden underneath. I understand the sentiment. Most days I would like to do the same. However, I have an 8 a.m. appointment at the plasma center, so I have to get out of bed.

The Hunt

Job Hunting.

That phrase is such a misnomer. It conjures up images of stalking through the forest with a rifle, and blasting the doe-eyed little job, tossing its mangled little carcas on my back and reveling in the bloodlust . I'm sorry is that not what happens? I've never been hunting. Anyways it doesn't look anything like what I do. Everyday  I sit in Starbucks and send out endless resumes until my eyes are bleary and my fingers numb. I always sort of scorned the idea of going corporate, of working for the man, and then I experienced unemployment and now I can't give away enough resumes.

Employed people are very helpful when it comes to searching. Take my mother for instance. I've transcribed a recent conversation.

MOM: Lauren did you see that job link I sent you?
ME: The sewing one?
MOM: Ya didn't that look like a great opportunity? You could write for a sewing magazine.
ME: Mom, it says you need to know how to sew. I've got three half-knitted scarves up in the attic but that's it.
MOM: Oh, you could learn how to sew in an hour. Just apply.
ME: You have to be an EXPERIENCED sewer. What am I supposed to tell them? I always pick the thimble in Monopoly?

I'm not going to lie. The prospects have been so disheartening that I've been tempted to sell my eggs, if only the thought of several little half-children running around wasn't so frightening. And I'm not the only one. I pulled up my unemployed friend's computer to discover the following article "Selling your Health: Sperm, Eggs, Plasma, and Hair Booming". Instead of laughing we set up an appointmnet at a plasma donation center and I contemplated how much of my hair I could cut off and still remain a viable job candidate.

Of course some of this desperation was due to the fact that just the previous day I had been suckered into a job hunting scam. Apparently there are some unscrupulous companies that use job seekers as a means of free labor. The scam works like this: An advertising company posts a listing on a job board (in my case Careerbuilder) for a few immediate openings in their management training program. They bring in a bunch of people and when you get there they tell you it's a prescreening interview. The lobby is filled with a bunch of nervous-looking young graduates in their suits and skirts. They tell you they'll be selecting a few individuals out of the group for the next round of interviews which is a job shadow. You'll follow one of their upper level managers around so you can "understand the company from the ground level". Translation: you will be handing out fliers/coupons either in stores or sketchy neighborhoods and because it's an "interview" they don't have to pay you.

Fortunately my sister and best friend had also been duped in the past and warned me off before I went to the second interview, but that was after I plastered my facebook with the joyous news of my second interview, and didn't do much to allieve the anger or embarrassment.

The process of job hunting seems to be an inherently mortifying one, making a person intensely aware of their shortcomings. For another job I had to take a pre-interview assessment test that included 9 pages of math problems in a thirty minute period WITHOUT A CALCULATOR. Now perhaps they just wanted to see which goons would actually follow the instructions and fail miserably and who would take the iniative to cheat. As I stared at the screen in pure terror all I could think was, "They said this would never be applicable in real life. Dear God what's the formula finding the diameter? 2 pi times something. Is there a quadrangle in here? Why do I need to know this to work at Starbucks?"

Needless to say I didn't recieve a call back. I did however sweat off several pounds from anxiety which I promptly regained with Spaghettios and vodka. Just kidding, I can't afford the vodka.

Interviews have this way of making you feel like a complete moron. For instance in a phone interview I was asked if there were any times when I was unable to meet a customer's expectations and what did I do about it. I related an experienced when I was catering and couldn't provide something because it was against policy. A silence followed. Was there another situation where you were able to compromise with a customer? Well you just asked me to tell you about when I had to say no. So I told you a story about how I said no. If you wanted me to give you a motivational story about how it was against policy to give a customer some extra tomato sauce, but on my lunch break I went out to the garden, hand picked some tomatoes and whipped up a quick bisque then maybe you should change the phrasing of the question.

I really don't know how people remember so many examples from their work experiences. I remember the time the whole staff got busted for drinking out of the open wine bottles. I remember standing on my feet for 10 hours, sneaking appetizers off of trays, watching teens dance awkwardly at prom, getting covered in food particles after scraping a hundred plates, hauling linens up and down in a six story building, getting upset that smokers got extra breaks to feed their addiction. But do I remember a time when I had to multitask? I don't remember what you said five minutes ago. More to the point I don't remember what I said five minutes ago. Did I use the word motivationalize? Is that a thing?

Maybe I could describe my most impressive accomplishment in the last two months which was using all my letters in Scrabble for a 77 point score. Thank you "invokers".

And possibly worst: I don't have a solution. Blogs, like Disney movies, are supposed to have a nice tidy ending about the things you've learned and how everything made sense in the end. Like I got a better job after failing that  phone interview. But I didn't, and I haven't, and here we are back at square one. The only silver lining is a seemingly never ending supply of humiliating experiences to blog about. So hey, I'll keep you posted.

Project Predator: A Proposal to End Obesity in America

I once wrote a paper entitled “Ending the Squirrel Obesity Epidemic”. In this epic three page paper I detailed how squirrels had become obese, aggressive, entitled little creatures that had personally menaced me for a package of Oreos. These squirrels are not unlike today’s youth. Michelle Obama may be going on a crusade to acquaint our school systems with things such as gym class and fresh vegetables, but the reason those loathsome tree rats have grown to the size of fuzzy softballs is not because they lack miniature squirrel treadmills and don’t follow the ever-changing FDA food pyramid. It’s because we humans have driven off all of their natural predators and the only thing stopping them from raiding the trashcan in our mudroom is my broom-wielding mother. And while this does generally frighten the cheeky little devils they soon come sneaking back when she’s not around.

If the federal government started a program to reintroduce predators to the urban landscape we could effectively get rid of squirrels as well as the obesity plaguing America. Imagine if you walked out of a McDonald's, your breath reeking of half-digested animal flesh, oil and salt coating your fingers, and you were suddenly met by a pack of ravenous wolves. Next time you might choose to go next door to Mad Greens. If there was a next time. Doing pull-ups at the gym wouldn’t be such a chore if you regularly had to pull yourself into a tree to avoid coyotes. If a hive of angry wasps was released into an unsuspecting classroom I guarantee that the kid who dogged it on his timed mile would be the first one out the door. It’s simply a problem of motivation. The media has done a commendable job of encouraging exercise through the use of body image shame, but clearly it’s not enough. We need wild jungle cats.

Now before I hear all sorts of protests about how this proposal would favor the brawny over the brainy let me just say that nerds would have a primary function in this society. First, they would be smart enough not to go out vandalising things after dark, not only because they have no friends, but because they’re intelligent enough to realize that vampire bats are nocturnal. And who wouldn’t idolize the person who invented body armor for defense against genetically mutated killer apes? This project would not only provide motivation for the obese but actively cull the stupid from our midst.

Other benefits of the Project Predator Proposal to End Obesity in America:

Fashion Evolution:

Now the fatties wouldn’t always be the first to go. When a rabid grisly came charging at a group the hefty fellow would book right past the girl in six inch stiletto heels. I’ve always been against heels on the principle that one day, when a virus transforms humans into flesh-eating zombies, women in pumps will not be able to get away. I don’t plan to have my brains devoured and neither should any sensible woman. Project Predator will have the auxiliary effect of transforming women's footwear to be stylish and substantive.

Global Competitiveness:

If we want to remain the greatest nation on this planet then we need to be competitive in the global market. I’m sure the Chinese wouldn’t object to such an efficient training device as Project Predator. In fact I’m fairly certain there’s a secret government training facility that regularly releases sharks in the pool to improve Olympic swimming times. We’re already at a disadvantage to South Africa who has produced such citizens as Kerryn Munro. When a crocodile snatched up her baby daddy, she dove in after him and pulled her husband from the literal jaws of death even though she was five months pregnant. I ask you, how can we compete with people like that without introducing fresh water piranhas?

and finally...

World Peace:

It’s a well known fact that the perfect way to unite a group is to provide them with a common enemy. After all who cares if you’re a Crip or a Blood if tomorrow your face could be gnawed off by a raccoon that’s developed a taste for human? Enough said.

-Shadow