Ow! Ow! Ow!

You would think that, knowing about this yoga class for the past week, I would have made sure I had my yoga clothes ready.  Was I wrong to assume that since I haven’t been to a yoga class since Paris Hilton was a virgin, I would have some clean, folded, and well-fitting yoga clothes just waiting for me?  Yes, I was.  With only twenty minutes to get to class, I grabbed what I thought were my gray yoga pants only to discover that it was actually my gray long sleeved T-shirt.  I eventually found a pair of amorphous black pants in Mr. Dingo’s drawer.  These were not the trendy sleek pants I envisioned for my first yoga class in almost a century, but if an opportunity for ninja-like stealth or martial arts combat arose on the way to the studio, I would be appropriately dressed. 

Sports bra?  By the time I contorted my upper body to get into the vise-like spandex and polyester torture device I found in the back of my drawer, I probably did not need to go to the yoga class after all.

Cute yoga top?  I found it behind the dresser covered in multiple layers of Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo hair.  I wore it anyway.  After a few swipes of the lint brush, it was a good as new it was going to get. 

I consoled myself with the thought that I wasn’t going to yoga dressed like a poser (although I wanted to).  Instead, I would sport the casual, relaxed attire I often admire in the tabloid photos of Reese Witherspoon and Jennifer Love Hewitt as they zip off to the gym in nothing more than track pants and a white T-shirt.  That hope was quickly dashed once I left the magical force field that surrounds my apartment.  Leaving that magical force field transforms items that appeared acceptable in my bedroom mirror into outfits that look as if I allowed circus clowns to dress me prior to dousing myself in honey and rolling around in dust bunnies and pet hair.  There were people snapping pictures of me as I walked down the street. I am sure those photos will find their way to some Yeti website.  I almost called it a day then and there and then I realized that yoga people are all New Age-y and non-judgmental, right?  So off to class I went.

The class was in a beautiful studio on Madison Avenue.  For those of you who know New York, Madison Avenue will conjure images of Upper East Side matrons with too much time and money on their hands.  I fit none of those categories.  When I stepped into the studio, I encountered other categories outside my usual realm of experience.  Botox, for one.  Hey, I said yoga people are non-judgmental.  I never said that I wasn’t judgmental. 

My class consisted of the instructor, a lithe charming brunette with pink toenails at the end of slender toes that she could clearly use to put her earrings on; a woman who fit all the categories previously mentioned; and me, in my pet-hair ninja costume.  Class was a blur of pleasure and pain.  I was more out of shape than I had thought.  My “straight” back rivaled Quasimodo and my hamstrings were constantly at war with my quads resulting in spasmodic twitching and grotesque muscular contractions.  At one point, surely mistaking my flailing for an epileptic seizure, my instructor asked if everything was okay.  I wanted to respond in the negative but my mouth was too full of pet hair dislodged by my desperate gasps for breath.  Sensing my distress, the instructor would gently correct my posture and positioning.  By “gently,” I mean that she would wrench my body into contortions formerly reserved for roller coasters and Gumby.  Meanwhile, my classmate moved with fluidity and grace.  I couldn’t tell if she was experiencing any discomfort because her Botox left her expressionless.  I also had a feeling that the wide-eyed surprised look on her face was less a result of the physical exertion than eyelid surgery and a rather vigorous brow lift.

By the end of the hour-long class I was getting into the groove of things.  My body was starting to relax and I was able to enjoy a level of looseness in my limbs that I hadn’t felt for some time. My muscles are slightly sore — but it’s a good soreness.  I signed up for another session for next Tuesday.  Sometime between now and then, I have to find workout clothes that do not make me look like an extra from Planet of the Apes.

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Finding My Chi

I am going to a yoga class this morning.  I’ve been doing yoga off and on for the past several years — more off than on due to time constraints, but I love how regular practice makes me feel.  I also love the non-competitiveness of yoga.  A competitive person by nature, yoga is not a level playing field in which I can one day hope to “win.” I am not, and will never be, one of those women who can put her leg behind her head — Mr. Dingo has made peace with that — but in the classes I’ve attended, it’s feeling good in your own skin that is cause for celebration and not whether you can braid your hair with your toes.

I am looking forward to starting yoga again.  The years and calcification are catching up to me.  I move with all the stiffness of a zombie; not one of those new fangled George Romero Dawn of the Dead (2004) fast-moving zombies but one of the Night of the Living Dead (1976) ghouls — arms fully extended, knees locked.  I’m too young for this stiffness but I’ve always been this way.  At five years old, while other girls were aspiring to be the next Nadia Comaneci (yes, I’m that old) or starring in Swan Lake, my dance instructor told my mom that, “Dingo’s talents lie in other areas.” She did not specify exactly what those other areas were.  Although Mom tried to hide it, I could tell she was crushed.  Not because she had the stage mother aspirations of the other moms at my dance studio, but because she loved making the costumes for my dance recitals.  She truly missed her calling.  Mom belongs in NYC making costumes for Broadway.  Still, there were days in grade school when I thought that going to school dressed as a pirate right down to the eye patch was a bit much.  And, in retrospect, my mom standing in the hall for costume changes — going, for instance, from the Cat in the Hat for English to a pilgrim for History — now does seem excessive.

Years later I discovered yoga.  At that point it wasn’t that I wanted to look like a Degas portrait as much as I wanted to be able to bend over and tie my shoes without pulling a muscle.  Yoga was incredible.  It took me months to gain flexibility but my body felt good.  I felt good.  So I’m off to the yoga studio this morning.  If I haven’t sprained my fingers or torn a ligament, I will give you an update later this evening or tomorrow.

For now, meditate on the peaceful expression of the Yoga Frog gracefully executing Tree Pose on my terrace.

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It’s All Happening at the Zoo

Several times a week, Dingo Girl and I walk past the entrance to the Central Park Children’s Zoo.  When she was little, she’d paw at the wall on Fifth Avenue that overlooks the Children’s Zoo.  I would hoist her up so that she could see the animals, particularly the goats.  She was fascinated with the goats.  When I think of a zoo, I think of penguins, polar bears, lions.  Not goats.  I guess it’s not a good public relations move to let children run around a lion enclosure.  It’s not that goats are any less dangerous; not by a long shot.  In fact, at the entrance to the Central Park Children’s Zoo there is a statue of a child being mauled by two goats!  Somehow the goats tearing the clothes off of this child fails to deter parents from buying their overpriced tickets to the “petting zoo.” I have only seen one child balk at entering the Children’s Zoo.  This marvelously prescient child must have realized that the “children’s zoo” was a ruse to get cheap human fodder for the goats and other animals behind the enclosure.  The parents of this child ignored her tears and, as they dragged her through the entrance, I swore I could hear her shout, “Soylent green is people!”

Update:  It is with irony and sadness that I need to update this post to let you know that Charlton Heston, one of the old school actors of the big screen died on Saturday, April 5, 2008.  He was 83.

Heston had a prolific film and television career spanning more than six decades.  Although in his later years Heston became better known as the face of the NRA, at one time the silver screen icon was the king of blockbusters.  He often portrayed the gritty, rough around the edges leading man in blockbusters such as Ben Hur (1959), Planet of the Apes (1968), and one of my favorites as evidenced by the film clip that is linked above, Soylent Green (1973).

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I CNT RITE - 4 REALZ

I’m amazed, just amazed, at what passes for writing at the university level these days. I am so sick of reading bad papers.  I think my eyes are bleeding.  I can understand that, as freshmen, my students have not yet developed critical reading and writing skills.  To not have mastered basic sentence construction, however, is unforgivable. How, how, how did these kids get into college?  Is my Institution of Higher Learning so desperate for tuition that we take anyone who can string together, “The dog ran after the ball,” in her writing sample?  Because, really, so many of my students have not advanced past that level.  Although it may just be my age showing, please tell me when it became acceptable to write an entire paper in LolCats?  Should I look the other way when I receive an email like the following?

Hi Prof.,

HRU?*
WH5 U HV HRS?

OOH,

Student

There is only one response to such an inquiry,

WTF?


Who is at fault for this crapola?  According the faculty member who gave me my review today (it went splendidly, thank you), most of our students are from New York City public schools.  Really.  That’s what he said.  Most of our students are from New York City public schools.  End.  Stop.  Period.  This, to him, was a wholly satisfactory explanation for their crappy papers.  When pressed, he did give me a more detailed explanation.  The finality and resignation with which he made this announcement prepared me for a rationalization involving some sort of Emerald Nuts shenanigans.  You know, something like the Swiss Family Robinson or the Addicted to Love Girls descending at 3:00pm to steal the young, vital brains of NYC youth.  But no, his explanation was far more bizarre. 

He claims that the reason I receive incoherent papers that make Dr. Seuss look like Dr. Zhivago is because NYC schools are overwhelmed, overworked, and understaffed.  There isn’t enough feedback on writing assignments and English homework to teach students the correct way to write a sentence, form a thesis statement, or write a conclusion.  So, the students are passed along to the next level without mastering basic skills.  To this, I say, Bullshit.  To the teachers who don’t do their jobs. Bullshit.  To parents that are not involved in their child’s learning.  Bullshit.  To the students who accept mediocrity, hell, less than mediocrity, when it comes to their education.  Bullshit.  To the schools that are letting us down.  Bullshit.  To all this, I say, “Here’s a big, steaming pile of doo-doo!”

IMO,

WOMBAT.

Oh well.  IGTR.

L8R,

Dingo


Translation:

HRU? = How are you?
WH5 U HV HRS? = When are your office hours?
OOH = Out of here
WTF? = Oh, come on, you know what this means.
IMO = In my opinion
WOMBAT = Waste of money, brains, and time
IGTR = I got to run
L8R = Later

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