Bikram Yoga

I'm standing in my 4^th Bikram yoga class in 9 days. Bikram yoga is 28 yoga postures in a room that is at least 104 degrees. Hot is an understatement. You walk into the class and your your lungs fill with this extremely thick, sticky air causing your breathing to immediately become forced.

There are about 40 people in a class, each with an area of about 4 feet by 7 feet to call their own. It's enough space to do all the positions, but not enough space to avoid getting hit with the occasional splash of sweat from your fellow masochists. At least 2/3 of the class is women, most of them wearing brief cut bikini bottoms, and depending on their level of comfort with their body, tops that expose various amounts of belly and cleavage. Most men are topless with bathing suit trunks on, except for the one super skinny guy that can't work up the nerve to take off his t-shirt. One woman is wearing yoga pants and a tank top. Rookie mistake, this is obviously her first class. She will never make it through the entire 90 minutes in the room. I've have yet been to a single class where the entire group did make it through. I look around the room and try to guess who else is likely to bail. Maybe I will mature enough in this activity to be more encouraging of others but the spiritual side of it has yet to take affect on me. I struggle so much just getting through it that my only solace is knowing I'm doing better than the people that need to bail.

The class starts with an exercise that focuses on breathing. Breathe in for a slow count of six and exhale for a slow count of six, all the while stretching out your shoulders, holding in your stomach, and clenching your thighs and butt muscles. The walls of the room are covered with mirrors so you are forced to look at your own body. At 5 foot 10 and 140 lbs I fall into the slender category although on close inspection I am definitely skinny fat. By skinny fat I mean that I have spent the better part of the last 10 years on my ass. After years of competitive swimming through college and working out 20 hours a week, my response to graduating and entering the real world was to stop cold turkey. I go for an occasional run or hike, sometimes make it to an aerobics class, occasionally ski, but for the most part without the pressure of team practice or getting a best time my motivation was gone. Maybe I have the lazy gene that has been all over the news this week. Scientists have pinpointed a specific gene in mice. The ones that have it are constantly running in circles on their wheel, the ones that don't turn their wheels into beds. I don't doubt which mouse I would be.

By the end of the 10^th position my entire body is drenched in sweat. I am stretching my arms backwards behind my body with my back arched as far as it can go. When we release, the girl with the yoga pants on picks up her stuff to leave. The guy directly in front of me takes off his swimming trunks. He has on gray Hanes boxes briefs underneath, with a darker gray outline of his butt crack from perspiration. It's worse than seeing a plumbers crack. After the 14^th position we've gotten through the most difficult poses. From here on in we will take a short break between each set of poses, lying down on our backs letting the blood flow through our bodies. I originally thought this was the easy part of the work out, but the constant up and down when your heart rate is elevated in the room that is hotter than hell causes an extreme feeling of dizziness. We finish with 2 minutes of taking quick breathes in an out. It feels like we are trying to force hyperventilation. Complete nausea sinks in, but also a feeling of satisfaction for having completed the class.

As I lay on my matt trying to work up the energy to actually leave the room I wonder why I continue to come. I've recently realized that age is creeping up on me and I want to be one of those old ladies that can still get down a ski slope. Somehow the sheer torture of the class makes me believe it has to be working. Also the heat and difficulty make it impossible to think about anything besides how hot and difficult it is. In the state of delirium that hits me as soon as I enter the room I am incapable of thinking about work deadlines, troubled relationships, or planning my mother's surprise 60^th birthday party. Thinking about not passing out has somehow become the most fun activity I do….although I still think it would be fun to sip a cocktail and read a good book stretched out on a big giant wheel. Certainly more fun than running in circles.

Period

I remember dreading going to the bathroom in junior high school. Every time I went in there, a gaggle of girls were discussing the new inductee to womanhood. Someone had gotten their first period, and it was never me. The term “Late Bloomer” did not comfort me and I thought not having my period was the most embarrassing thing in the world.

15+ years since Flo started coming to town I’ve realized there are many things about your period that seem embarrassing. From realizing that your mother was actually going to tell everyone she knew that it had finally happened to giving a presentation in a corporate board room, and getting that “warning drip” indicating your tampon is about to fail. You need to be able to professionally exit the room without shifting in your facial muscles or causing any kind of awkward commotion.

Which leads me to one of my most embarrassing memories of yet. First some context…I work at a software company. It’s almost all men. One day, 45 minutes after returning to my desk from changing my tampon I left with the Vice President of Engineering to walk to the cafeteria in an adjacent building. It’s a beautiful day and I’m wearing khaki pants and a blue shirt. Then it happens. I notice a small drip as we are crossing the street. There is no bathroom in the immediate vicinity so I hope it’s a onetime abnormality. Not pleasant, but I wouldn’t be the first woman to proceed with her day with a drop of blood in her underwear….A few steps latter…a much larger drip. Pending crisis sirens went off in my head. I awkwardly excused myself and tried walking with my legs squeezed together from the knees up, praying to the god I don’t normally believe in for the gushing to slow down in time to recover from the situation. No luck. By the time I reached the bathroom my pants were covered in blood almost to my knees…and I’m tall. I took them off and pulled out the tampon to reveal unsaturated cotton coated by a blood clot, which I have been told by doctors is not abnormal from time to time. Lovely. I started to contemplate my escape plan. I tried washing my pants in the sink to no avail. And now to top it off I have wet pants and no electric hand dryer in the room. A woman from my office that I barely know walks in and freezes seeing tiny splashes of pink water on the tan granite countertop and a tall blond woman standing there in her stained underwear. After a moment of shock, her face softened and a look of recognition to came over as she said “You poor thing”. She was able to retrieve my sweater at my desk and I exited the situation gracefully…okay I was already way beyond graceful, but at least I was able to leave the bathroom during business hours.

I guess it’s comforting that all of these stories that were once so embarrassing to me are now just funny stories. Thank goodness for being able to mature past that. Or maybe I’ve gained perspective knowing that one day I will feel what it feels like to have this cycle come to an end…and I think that will be more intense of an experience than all the others. Being woman is interesting. I'm going to try my best not to be embarrassed by it. I hope future generations find it easier.

My Ford Escort

For 10 years I proudly drove my Ford Escort, and to be perfectly frank, sometimes it was a struggle to hold my head high. I trust you are aware that this is not considered a "status" car. Friends, colleagues, and strangers alike have reveled in lecturing me for continuing to drive her. "What do you think you are saying about yourself driving that?"…"You deserve better"…"You'll be taken more seriously"…”Isn’t it time you get a real car?”…. "You should treat yourself"…"You'll be more successful at work if you drive something better."…."That isn't a car, it's a toy"…and my very favorite "Aren't you embarrassed to be driving this?"...um no....I find it strange that driving a car that gets 30+ mpg for 10 years reads as immature while spending an exorbitant amount on something that wastes energy is considered responsible. I guess that is corporate america for you.

I first got my Escort in 1998 after moving to DC. I made the typical mistake of moving far from work in order to afford a nice apartment. It would only mean commuting 100 miles a day. Easy Peasy. Except it wasn’t. I cried regularly during my morning commutes because I could not believe that this was the adult world. Almost everyone I knew had similar commutes and they all seemed to be handing it better. They bought cars they "loved" and "enjoyed being in". I admit that I sometimes buy into conspiracy theories, but obviously there is serious brain washing in play if you think you enjoy commuting 100 miles every day! The “ultimate driving experience” is getting out of the car, and if you’re experiencing “sheer driving pleasure” I suspect your car must be vibrating more than mine.

The Short Bus

I’m waiting at my bus stop with Rob in the fall of 1990. I’m taking the bus because I’m not allowed to take the train by myself. Every time I have been in the subway station, my mother makes me stand with my back up against the wall so no one can get behind me and shove. I have no idea how many times this happens in a given year, but if it equates to her fear level there must be about 1 person a week shoved in front of a train.

It’s been over 3 months since school started and Rob and I have yet to exchange a single word with each other. Rob is definitely way cooler than me, the akward girl who wears a back brace to prevent her spine from curving because she's growing to fast. I don’t even think he knows my name. He’s really cute and I imagine different things I could say every day but nothing ever comes out.

We see the bus coming down Madison Avenue, but it just flies by us. It doesn’t even slow down. As I stand there in complete shock Rob looks at me and nonchalantly says "Time to take the train"...the Train!...I’m not allowed on the subway...that is why I’m taking the freaking bus. "Um I have to call my mother first". Rob rolls his eyes. I can tell I have just lived up to his lame expectations of me. “Okay whatever” and he walks away.

Great...well at the very least I should get the day off from school for this. I walk over to the pay phone, pull out my emergency quarter and call my mom. The "oh well, just go home" I was hoping for does not come. “What do you mean the bus didn’t stop?” she yelled. “It just didn’t stop, I guess they forgot. Should I take the train?” I know full well that the train is not an option and I’m still hoping for a get out of school free pass.

“Give me your number and wait there.” After 10 minutes the phone rings. “They’re coming back for you”. Her voice sounds very satisfied with the way she has managed the situation.

While waiting I wonder if everyone is going to be annoyed they had to turn around after they were already half way up to school, but after 10 minutes I see a small bus pull up and a man named George opens the door.

"Don’t worry Carol, we’ll have you up to school in a jiffy."

"I’m the only one on the bus?"

"Yep" said George.

I stare out the window during the drive up to school becoming more and more nervous of reality ahead of me. George drives right up to Bronx Sciences main entrance and I can see Rob there hanging out with his friends. I awkwardly walk down the stairs and I know I am now and forever the girl that rides the short bus.

Personal Political History

I am a Democrat.

That has technically not always been the case. My first political memories are from back in 1984 when I was 8. I'm a nerdy kid living on the upper east side of Manhattan. Kids make fun of me a lot for being really skinny and for picking my nose in public (okay that is gross). I'm insecure but also somewhat defiant. I bring on the name calling as as I can by purposefully being contrary. When kids make fun of me for not knowing who Michael Jackson is I claim I'm too busy listening to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton (in NYC 1984 this was equivalent of social suicide). I am proud to say this same logic saved me from ever listening to New Kids on the Block. It is however the same 8 year old logic that made me a vocal supporter of Ronald Reagan. I obviously donot understand politics at age 8, but I wanted to say I liked what no one else around me said they liked (upper east side Manhattan/1984 was a predominately liberal town).

I don’t remember any of my arguments because I’m sure I didn't really have any but I do remember sticking to my guns about it. My parents (well father imposes on mother) are republican so I’m sure that was part of it as well. There was definitely trash talk in my house about Mondale and the “woman vice president”.

I don’t remember if my dad voted but my mother took me with her to Hunter College to vote. They let me go in the booth with her and she let me pick. I voted Reagan. Regardless of the fact that I don’t agree with that vote today, I love my mother for creating that memory for me.

In 1992 (Clinton vs. Bush) I was 16. I honestly don’t remember if I associated myself as a republican or democrat. There is a chance that I could be potentially blocking traumatic memories of being a Bush supporter...perhaps...yesh, I was misguided. I do remember thinking that it was important that people vote. Granted I had ulterior motives (college application extracurricular activity), but I spent many hours by myself around Grand Central station with forms and pens getting people to register to vote. I approached anyone and everyone. I passionately implored them to fill out the form. After much persistence with one gentleman, it was explained to me that ex convicts couldn’t vote...that seemed wrong to me. Still does.

In 1996 (Clinton vs. Dole) I was 20 and away at college…I was wrapped up in college life in an engineering school that did not have a political edge to it. I barely remember that election. I know I associated myself to Clinton at this time but really was a typical college student and disconnected from the entire process. It was the first time I could vote and I didn’t. I know...I was a hypocrite. I was 20.

I have to admit that in 2000 (Al Gore vs. George W) I liked Al Gore but I also was into the idea of Nader.....I lived in DC so I was surrounded by talk of politics. It faned the fire that was created in my youth and has turned into a something that I’m sure others would describe as a passion of mine .....I was also 24 and I moved every year (not just changing apartments, but actually moving from state to state from NY to MD to DC). I never even changed my New York license let alone registered to vote. I remember I pretended like I voted that day because I was really embarrassed by my in ability to get my shit organized. When George W won I felt guilty. It wasn't the complete devastation I felt in 2004, but it's the exact moment that I also knew the ‘being too busy to participate’ excuse was really lame and that wasn’t going to be me anymore.

9/11/2001 – I was living in Arlington, VA, super close to the Pentagon, and like I’ve said I’m originally from NYC and had a lot of family and friends that worked and were at or near both sites. I lost no one that was in my first degree of separation list, but did lose people that were friends/family of friends/family. I was actually in neither of these places at the time. I was on my way to the airport in Las Vegas after meeting up with my parents for a long weekend. We went into panic mode and pretty much immediately got in the rental car and drove cross country to be home. Everywhere we stopped strangers throughout the country were giving us support. I felt American unity and I felt a rage directed and nothing I understood. As mentioned previously I went to an engineering school and you could literally graduate without having ever taken a history class. I was completely ignorant of the Middle East to say the least. I had no idea of war. I remembered wearing yellow ribbons in the first Iraq war but that is really my only memory of that. I knew that Vietnam and the Korean War were fucked, and WWI and WWII were noble. I say all this because 9/11 shocked me and I was not someone on a soap box that was against going to war in Iraq. I never questioned mainstream media...let’s call this a naive stage in my life.

By 2004 (George W vs. Kerry) I was 3 years into a 4 year road warrior life. I spent a good deal of that time out of the US as an ex-pat in South America and Mexico. I was, by this point, what most people would consider to be a passionate Liberal and very anti George Bush and the war. I was devastated when the democrats lost.

This was actually the first time I ever voted since my mom took me into the booth with her in 1982. This election made me slightly jaded, and I admit to this day I have a chip on my shoulder against people that voted for Bush the second time...by the second time, you should have known better.

I’m trying to get over that and to strengthen my abilities of public debate without expressing the levels of intensity I actually feel. I am aware that it scares a lot of people off the subject completely if any kind of passion is expressed. I refuse to buy into any set of defined rules of etiquette that state you should not talk about politics. It’s bullshit. It’s your job as a citizen and as an adult to talk about it. The country is falling apart because people are glued to mind numbing programming on TV and because people no longer have the skills necessary to debate.

I voted for Obama in the MA primaries although I will support Hilory if she is our candidate. I held out hope for a while that Al Gore would run and I really liked Edwards since 2003. I feel confident that a democrat will win, and I’m not jaded enough to think that things cannot get better. I don’t want to begin to think that I might be wrong. It’s winter in New England and I’m struggling enough to avoid falling prey to seasonal depression.