Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Strange denizens of the yoga studio.

I love yoga. I love my yoga studio. I do not, however, love all my fellow students. Allow me to introduce.... strange denizens of the yoga studio. 

The Jingler. 
This woman wears more jewelry than Mr. T. And every necklace and bracelet has various charms. It only takes the tiniest shift in body positioning to sound like a bell choir. Thank you, Jingler, for adding your personal soundtrack to the class.

The Porno-breather.
Yes, yoga is all about breath. I work hard to make my inhales and exhales sound like a mockery of Darth Vador. But, Mr. Porno-breather, you scare me. The HVAC noises that you emit nearly block out the instructor's commentary. Frankly, I think you're just showing off.

Anti-antiperspirant Man.
Ah, geez. Does this even need mentioning? We're in a heated studio. In the summer. Doing an activity that requires deep breathing. I don't care if you're Matthew McConaughey, do us all a favor and throw on some Speedstick.

The Gadget Gal. 
I'm not talking about yoga props. Her mat is surrounded by towels, keys, a cup of water, cell phone, extra t-shirt, a watch, hair accessories and socks. See the wall at the back of the room? Those are shelves. Give 'em a shot.

The Preemptive Poser.
The PP likes to anticipate the next pose. She's always one step ahead, unless she's wrong. Which is almost all the time. PP's aren't really bothersome unless they're on the mat next to you. Then you spend the class fascinated by how many times they screw up. (Maybe that's just me. I've always been competitive.)

Ms. Madonna Arms.
I have no complaints about you except that I am jealous. Seriously, all you do is yoga? No weights? No swimming? No P90X? Because I covet your arm definition. You are an inspiration. Or a freak of nature.

Feel like I should end on a positive note, but just don't have one today. Namaste. 

Friday, June 12, 2009

Water girl...

There are those that like being on the water and those that love being in it. I'm of the second camp. Always have been.

The smell of chlorine. Shoulders like a linebacker. Goggle marks that stick around for hours. Love it all.

I have been a swimmer for 30 years. Three decades after mom dropped me off for swim practice, my alarm still goes off at 5:30 a.m. three times a week, telling me to get my butt to the pool. So I do. (The pic is circa 1981 of me before the start of a race.)

People question my sanity. How far do you swim? (3,500-5,000 meters) That has to be incredibly boring. (Not boring. Peaceful.) You must be training for something. (Not currently.) How hard is it to get out of a warm bed and into a cold pool? (Okay, sometimes that is hard.)

Other swimmers get it. The same way runners brag of a high, swimmers operate at a hum. The rhythm, mechanics and breathe work together to achieve an efficiency not found in other sports. After a workout I feel the good exhaustion, without my joints shouting obscenities at me.

I'll continue to run as long as my knees hold up. My bike will see the road for as long as I feel comfortable in lycra shorts. But speedos will hang from my bedroom doorknob, well, until I no longer have a doorknob to hang them from.

Happy 30th anniversary, pool.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

I can do it myself...help.

I'm fretting. It's what women do. Worry and metaphorically wring their hands. 

As a single gal homeowner, there is plenty to fret about. Today's concern is water in the basement. I'm at work and fear what's waiting for me at home. Maybe a closet full of towels can contain any damage, but some sort of shop vac may be required. I don’t own a shop vac.

Fortunately, my new beau does. Along with Craftsman tools, a stainless steel grill, Costco membership and the ability to perform car maintenance in his garage. It’s all very impressive. And completely out of my realm of talent.

So goes the modern girl’s dilemma. We have careers, manage finances, juggle social lives, take care of family and sometimes raise children on our own. We can do it all. But do we have to? Is it pathetic to let someone else install a faucet?

Last Sunday the wheel came off the lawnmower mid-mow and my floral tool set (thanks, Dad) couldn’t make the repair. Feminist convictions wavered. Go to Home Depot and spend two hours fixing it. Or call David.

It took him four minutes. Good as new.

We’ve had this debate before. As I bemoaned not owning a cordless drill and tall ladder, David informed me what I really needed was a man. I bristled. I can clean gutters/replace well windows/plant landscaping myself, I told him. And he agreed. But it would be so much easier if I accepted help. So I did.

And now a thank you dinner is in order. Where’s my apron?