Prolific Immigrant

I box twice a week and do my absolute best to make every single class. Short of there being a natural disaster like a flat tire or exhaustion from the donation of blood, I get to class as a nod of respect to my word and to my coaches.

Approximately three weeks back, I was lazy and considered not attending class. Lucky that I went because that evening was the first one in a week that I slept like a (bad ass boxing) baby.

After finishing class, I had to walk through the weight area (hia, fellas!) to reach the change room. The first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. I’m not sure of the specifics of his paralysis, but by the atrophy of his arms, I think perhaps that he was once a partial quadriplegic who slowly regained the use of his arms. He was strapping one arm into the weight machine very slowly.

I didn’t catch anything beyond that because I’m not a complete idiot and didn’t wish to stare. Only people who smoke hashish would have stared. Or so I hear. Also, because over the course of the two seconds I used when I glanced at him, something caught in my chest, made its way to my throat and then exploded. I had started to cry.

As I am drenched in sweat by the end of class and usually look as though I forgot to take my clothes off before stepping into the shower, no one could see tears streaming down my face. I quickly bowed my head and ducked into the closest washroom. And I cried. And cried. And kept crying, weeping actually, because I had lost all control.

Boxing for me is a luxury I love to indulge. Truth be told, I don’t think about the healthy dimension it adds to my life – most important for me are that it attacks all of the stress in my life, kicking the shit out of it, and as equally important, vanity. Boxing makes my arms pretty and keeps my bottom fitting neatly into a size six jean.

(And on that note,

Dear Anna Wintour,

You recently plastered across an issue When Size 4 is too big: a curvy model’s struggle to fit in. You, without your carbs, are a sad and unhealthy creature, and I pray that you will soon be force-fed hamburgers, fries and much chocolate cake for your support and spread of such a devastating body image for the sisterhood.

Bite me,
Maha)

All I could think was how I had nearly not showed up because I had been tired. I had been tired and had considered not attending class, and instead taking my lazy self home and relaxing, while there is this amazing and incredible man who can barely move, who can barely make the smallest of movements, fighting and struggling to do just that, at the gym, busting his ass because he has to. Neither for vanity nor stress, but out of necessity.

He did it.
Repeatedly, he does it.
He makes it to the gym and fights his own body in order to rise above the paralysis one millimetre at a time.

I am still struggling to understand why it affected me as much as it did – even writing this has me near tears. I think, partly it’s because I am beyond expression moved by his strength, which outweighs my own, and also because somehow that little window that opened and let me look into his life was one filled with hope.

Before walking out of the washroom, I knew that I had to start getting to class for a different reason; out of respect for this man’s personal fight, because where he does not have the luxury of lazy, then nor should I.

I try my best not to take for granted anything, but mobility wasn’t something I had noticed before this day.

Now when I move and walk, and I am impatient walking behind the elderly (not to be confused with a slowpoke who still needs to MOVE IT), I check my impatient b!tch self and remember to respect all aspects of what I have, including the luxury to move freely and quickly on my own two feet, Alhamdulilah.

Consider doing the same.

**********
Photo courtesy of one amazing Antitude.

Originally published 09/12/16.

In addition to my obvious and possibly extreme competitive nature, please add to that a need to be the teacher’s pet. (Baby Jane, why do I automatically assume that you too are the same?)

I could attempt to pop-psychologise and say it’s because the ultimate in competition would be against the instructor – the acme of performance – but that disrespects my own sensibilities as I am extremely respectful of the role of any teacher.

Mama was a teacher; maybe that’s it?

No matter. Point is, competitiveness means I work hard to excel. Ultimate validation of excellent performance comes primarily from myself, and then as equally important, it must come from the individual teaching me.

In this case, her name is Amber (she of my two favourite yogic guides). A beautiful blonde Amazon with legs for miles; legs which could out-stand, out-bend, out-run any man or woman any of us know, unless some of us know professional athletes. Even then, I would say that depends on the nature of the game.

Exhibit A; she performed the following pose for 10 minutes and nearly cried at the end, but did not come out of the pose.

A Runner’s Lunge, with shoulders to the inside of the knee of the forward leg, and fingers then intertwined in front of that same forward leg’s ankle.

TEN. MINUTES.

I completed that pose for approximately 45 seconds; a slice of heaven for the first 15 seconds, at which point the reality gnome stepped in and punched me squarely in the bottom (such a b-stard, he is). I nearly collapsed in to a sobbing heap, looking for my mother, this a little awkward as I was in the yoga studio with 54 other adults.

Right. Enough about her, back to me.

For the last few days, I have been performing Power Flow yoga rather than Moksha; thought it only appropriate to up the ante this last week. During Power Flow, Amber recommends that we perform Bridge Pose, at which time two or three individuals would then majically swoop up on to their hands and land in Wheel Pose.

Cue my competitiveness and I was left offended that others were outperforming me.

And so three days ago, I began forcing myself to do a wonky half-assed Wheel Pose, legs poised properly and arms in the right place, only I couldn’t force the rest of my body up properly and so had five points on the ground (including the top of my head, hands and feet), rather than four (only feet and hands) which is the proper way to perform this Pose.

Yesterday, Amber came over, stood at the top of my head, and told me to grab her ankles hard and then push my body up towards her, while she placed her hands beneath my back to brace me. I did just that and there I was in Bridge Pose, with the help of this amazing Amazon person…my head hanging back and I staring at the wall behind me.

Today, she did the same thing. We had three goes at it, and she helped me through the first two, at the end of which I said to her: “One day, I’ll be able to do this without your help”, and she said: “I know!”

She walked across the room for the third one, in order to help another individual in the class.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how my body did it, but I am not asking questions. Suddenly, I was doing this on my own…

…and I nearly screamed out AMBER!! because I was so worried she wouldn’t see me. I didn’t, though, because the reality gnome (you b-stard!) screamed inside my head: “Shut up! This is a QUIET room!”

But she did; she said that she couldn’t miss me. She said I had the biggest smile on my face and I was so highly arched and ‘open’. I don’t know what ‘open’ means, but it’s a term used by both Amber and my other favourite instructor when something is good. So it was something good.

When it was time to come out of the pose, I was terrified I would fall over and break my neck. But I didn’t. I listened to Amber and tucked my chin in and rolled down like a sane person. Then I laid on my mat and cried quietly out of sheer euphoria. (A sucker is born every minute, ladies and gentlemen.). I DID IT!!!! I did what had just been impossible!!!!

Amber came over and patted me excitedly on the head, like I was a little puppy who had just performed the most awesome trick, and as I was leaving the studio, told me I made her day.

She also made mine, and even as I type, I am still a little overwhelmed by this little breakthrough.

Thank you thank you thank you for and to every thing, most of all the Amazon.

Three days left. Amazing.

==========
Image courtesy of Yoga(dot)am

Apart from the obvious “don’t step on someone else’s frikin’ mat”, “don’t talk in the frikin’ quiet room”, “keep the frikin’ door of the HOT room closed, so the heat doesn’t escape”, and “pretty toe-nails a must”, the past 5 plus weeks have taught me that the possibility of time slowing, is in fact real.

In a rushed and otherwise ‘time is money’ environment, yoga brings things to center and focus quietly whispering you have all the time in the world.(1)

Often, I am the last sleeping on my mat, enjoying the additional few moments of complete and total focus, thanking my body for giving itself to one more class in such a long and often exhausting but everyday rewarding almost six weeks.

More than most, I have a crazy busy social schedule for which I am grateful (and about which my friends will attest, they must book me usually two weeks in advance…and that sometimes, I may be the ass who double-books because she forgot that she previously had plans with another).

Like, earlier this evening, I sent out party invitations for January 8th, 2011. Seriously.

Had you previously asked me whether a daily two hours was available, I would have said ‘some times, but definitely not every day’. Yet somehow, every single day for 37 days, there have been an additional 2, sometimes 2.5 hours surrendered to nothing more than well-being, health, and me meeting this challenge.

See? Majic.
Time is slowed, elongated, stretched and deepened to make room for the necessary. All adjectives transferable to the physical change that yoga has brought to my body.

What’s on the inside suddenly translated on to the surrounding exterior environment.

So amazing that it makes me giddy.(2)

++++++++++
(1) This is written with the full knowledge that I am not a single parent, that I do not have a husband and child whom I am breast-feeding, that I am not in University, that I am not forced to hold two or three jobs, that I do not swing from trees (often), that I am not a cobbler, that I am not residing in Austin (boo!) but rather, I am single and healthy, without obligation and currently my time is entirely my own to control.

(2) To those asking: no, I have not stopped boxing, but have had to place that on hold as I am traveling far too much until the end of March.

Image from Tree Hugger(dot)com.

I have received an unusual amount of messages from you, Readers, enquiring about the aforementioned “Maha’s Six Week Hot Yoga Challenge“. You are seeking both the how, and more sincerely the why, as I guess my initial explanation does not your curious minds satiate.

In other words, and as the lovely C investigated today: Why the hell are you doing this? Why? And when you say ‘every day’, do you also mean Saturday and Sunday?

Getting the easy out of the way first, let me say that yes, I do this on Saturdays and Sundays as well. The formula is simply one hour of hot yoga, per day, for six weeks (= 42 days = 42 hours). If, under any circumstance, you are not able to go on one given day, then make up for that missed hour within the coming seven days. (i.e., If forced to miss a Monday, then attend two classes at 1.5 hours each or attend two one hour classes on the same day.)

It’s really that simple.

Now. As per the why. On the surface, it is because I tend to exist and live in extremes. I am either all or nothing, and so I couldn’t merely start doing yoga whenever I felt like it and without clear structure. That would have made me a normal person, and seeing as how I am in fact a figment of (the best of) your collective imaginations, I went full throttle.

Someone asked “why not 30 days? Or just four weeks?”, and the simplest response to that is two-fold: (1) Moksha already has a 30 day challenge, completed by many (and so it’s not really and truly a challenge if hundreds of people are easily making their way through said sitch); and, (2) I fast for that long yearly, and so already implicitly understand that I can do anything – pertaining to mind & body appetite control – for a minimum of 30 days. Leaving me, once again, with no real personal challenge.

And I required a challenge.

More importantly, I required something which would force upon my life a healthy state of being, inside of which my focus and end-game was both healthy body (visually and internally) and strong mind.

Let me tell you that it has not been easy, though always an absolute pleasure once class over. There was one day when all I wanted to do was lay on my mat and cry while everyone else saluted the sun en route to sticking their bums in to the air as a way to downward-dog…but by the end of that particular class, after having sucked it up and pushed my way through my own walls, I felt refreshed, thankful and stronger.

Case(s) in point; I can now Plank, Pigeon Pose, Camel Pose, Dancer’s Pose, Sleeping Hero and low push-up like no one’s business.

Some of you have written and stated that you too would like to face this challenge, and I would – only 13 days away from meeting my own – strongly support any and all of your adventures in to this particular world.

**********

(1) This is a direct reference to the brilliance that is “Modern Family”.

Photo courtesy of the amazing B Tal.

Finally: I have not written much only because I have had an overwhelming social calendar, nothing more. (Thank you for your concerned and loving messages. xo)

Dear Warrior Pose,

F*#? YOU, you are a raging psychopath.

Flipping you the bird and hoping you topple,
M

Dear Pigeon Pose,

You are the worst named pose in the history of all poses. When was the last time a pigeon did this…

Breathing in to my hips,
M

So it appears I am super competitive, and yoga – with all its mirrors – is not helping.

Constantly, I find myself wanting to either fist-pump (alone), or chest-bump (my yoga master) when I squeeze and come down three more inches than anyone else.

Please. Don’t pretend this surprises you. If you have been reading me long enough, you know that beneath the layer of velvet nice is at least two centimetres of tough steel. A tough I have to control when the girl next to me is so busy staring at herself in the mirror and fixing her bangs through three full poses that I imagine a solid right hook forcing her in to Savasana, so that she doesn’t throw my game. (See? So competitive that I want the person next to me to be equally so, just to up my ‘game’. Know anyone else who calls yoga ‘game’? ‘Nuff said.)

Look: I am the first to acknowledge that hair is extremely important. Exhibit A, this following email sent by yours truly to Baby Jane a couple of days ago:

Dude. If I dye my hair right after yoga, and then go back to yoga the following day, do you think the dye will drip down my face? I am a little worried. Should I wear a bandana? I need to find fashionable ways to wrap a bandana around my forehead.

I am scared.

I could hear her laughing from Halifax, while she responded with ‘I’m laughing so hard right now!! I really doubt that, but please take pictures and send them to me if it drips’.

I promise to post them here as well.

(Today is day 12 of Maha’s Six Week Challenge. Fist pump.)

Note: Thanks to you all for the emails. Sorry I have not written back – I haven’t had much energy.

I have been in a funk of late and have not been able to think of anything worth writing. I am still in this weird little place of weak sunshine and am being gently pushed and pulled and nudged by BB to simply deal. One of the ways she gently prodded was by sending me a video that basically said “you’re alright kid – at least you have both arms and legs” and which had the desired effect of getting me to write again.

Several situations led to this funk, none of which are worth mentioning in detail. I wandered off for a bit, choosing to travel rather than deal; weird this because I have never been one not engaging in a necessary conversation. But this time? This time I was both too tired and too indignant to be bothered. (Sidebar: The sentiment “not bothered” does not have a long standing history in my world. As I am a Libra in Scorpio, I am equal parts asshole and kind, wrapped up in a whole lot of passionate. Ergo, I have a hyper-sense of justice and so when feeling wronged, my response is nine times out of ten extremely fierce.)

As expected, the travel provided a sense of ibuprofen relief and made for some excellent times away with folks I love.

I figured that I needed a way to strengthen just a teeny tiny bit the character of me that I loathe; the one who is affected all too deeply and painfully by the waves created from such above-mentioned situations. I don’t wish to be thrown for a loop as often as I am, like a weird little kid trying to put on her red lipstick, constantly being bumped from behind and smudging herself instead, turning around saucer-teary-eyed looking for the bumping culprit who is dressed as the Hamburglar.

So. How do I regain control over the saucer-teary-eyes?
Do something which forces me to reposition and swing in to ‘it’s all sensation’. (As I type, there’s a faerie sitting on my nose, clapping with glee.)

Ultimately, we have some control over how we react to outside situations – I may be a hard-ass, but I am not enough of one to bootcamp human emotion and flail about declaring we control ALL of our emotional responses, because we don’t (and I’m not entirely certain they would be called ‘emotions’ if they were 100% controllable). We can dull our reactions, we can manage them and we can understand them, but sometimes pain is pain and we don’t know where it comes from or how to turn away from it. I think the trick here is to ensure that we don’t let that pain take over for extended periods of time or else some greater asshole will try to stick your lesser asshole self on happy-times-until-you-committ-suicide medication.

What was this something, then, that I chose?
I have chosen to do hot yoga every single day for six weeks.
I call it Maha’s Six Week Challenge because I lack imagination.

I am on day four and I am – thus far – loving it intensely. Strangely, at the end of every class, I find myself crying like a little pansie-person, and just discovered that this is not unheard of. Figuring that my body was starved for that kind of release, it was that class and that reaction which solidified my commitment to The Challenge. (Quite likely, I would have made it 8 weeks, but I am outside of Canada later in November and for most of December.)

I understand I sound a little peace-pipe-y here, and so will close by providing you with the following imagery. When in class, I am often flanked by Slippy, Snoozy, Grunty, Farty, Make-Up Is My Friend-y and I Like Brazilian Waxes-y. Slippy is the (undoubtedly lovely) individual who slips and either falls alone or takes down another; Snoozy snores every time we are either in Savasana, Child’s Pose or Cobra; Grunty can’t get through the Savasana without mimicing ‘I am moving a boulder with my bare hands’ in noise; Farty is full of escaping gas either of the slow & long embarrased or fast & poppy embarrased variety, followed by an “oh. oops.”; Make-Up Is My Friend-y shows up to hot yoga with a full face of make-up on, and walks out of class looking like the Character Clown known as Namaste (I just made that up); and, I Like Brazilian Waxes-y wears her shorts small enough that we all know just how she likes to party down there, and is partially responsible for Slippy.

xo kids, and thank you for your extended patience re my long break from posting
———-
Image from The Seattle Times

Remember this entry about The Black T-Shirt?

My coaches read it and consequently reconsidered their ‘athletes only’ stipulation for the (perfect shade of) black tee.

Since, they have created a black tee for all to enjoy – the ‘athletes’, such as the weirdly named ‘Gee Gees’, have on their black tee that they are training for enhancing sport performance, whereas the new non-’athlete’ specific black tee – worn by the likes of me – proudly informs the reader that the individual wearing it is in fact a WBK athlete, and I am very happy about this. Happy enough to have screamed really loudly in my head when my coach told me the good news and its direct relation to something I had written.

Why? Because the grueling training that we love and show up for twice weekly should make us some sort of ‘athlete’ and a WBK athlete can kick your athlete’s ass.

Bravo WBK!

**********

Copyright of image belongs to WBK Boxing; I am merely stealing it for illustrative purposes.

.1. This is where I live during the week; watch the videos to understand. I’ve just graduated to level iii, and received 7.5 / 10 across the board, which according to my coach, are the highest marks assigned.

That was me gloating. WBK boxing training is hard work and I am proud of my marks. Just so you understand how hard it is, I’ll share a sexy secret with you: if I don’t take my last bite of food a full three hours before I start my training, I will puke within the first ten minutes. Nice.

Recall this little article here, please.
And then this follow up piece, for which I channelled my inner Valley-Girl.

I love my coaches.
I love WBK.

.2. Books I am currently reading:

A Tale of Two Sisters
-Anna Maxtead

Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures
- Vincent Lam

The Conscious Universe: Parts and Wholes in Physical Reality
- Menas Kafatos

Lives of Girls and Women
- Alice Munro

On The Pleasure of Hating
- William Hazlitt

St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves
- Karen Russell

The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction
- Walter Benjamin

Where I Lived, and What I Lived For
- Henry David Thoreau

(As always, some of these are being re-read.)

.1. Christian Bale in The Dark Knight.
When he’s in the interrogation room alone with The Joker.
And he looses his sh*t on The Joker’s ass over Rachel’s whereabouts.

I’m pretty sure there was a collective sigh from all female members (& The Gays) in the audience.

MY GOD.

What is it about a man’s ferocity and ability to teeter on the edge of madness (but only over you and his family) that makes women hot? Or maybe it’s just me and if that’s the case then let’s pretend I never said anything to that effect…

.2. I see fat pregnant women.

The other day, I stood up to hand my seat over to the fat pregnant lady. When she asked me why and I told her it was because she was pregnant, she was offended and really very mean about it.

I am rarely speechless, but the violence of her response left me speechless and so it was great of the girl next to me to block the barrage of words by saying: “She was just trying to be nice. If you don’t like it, just keep movin’…and maybe stop eating so many twinkies…”, which she did.

.3. ATTENTION ALL MEN!

When a woman is headed toward the same door that you’re going through right now, please don’t keep holding it open for her if she is more than 3.5 meters away. Otherwise, she’ll be obligated to run at the door and then maybe even smash into you because she was running a little too fast in her heels because she didn’t want to put you out andjustfeltreallyawkwardthatyouwereholdingthedooropenwhenshewassodamnfarawayalready.

I’m just sayin’.

.4. Remember The Black T and my foray into the world of Athletes?

My Coaches read my entry because I sent it to them to make them smile. Because it was funny. And endearing. And because I love them so…

But then Chris, yesterday? He told me that they took my post into consideration because they had already been thinking about this likely because every class I ask if I can buy The Black T NOW? and that…are you ready for it…? THAT!

THAT I AM A WBK ATHLETE!!!!!!

AND THAT I WILL GET MY BLACK T SHIRT!!!!!

BECAUSE I’M AN ATHLETE!!!!!!

Because our training sessions are worthy of making us ATHLETES!

Because when the Gee Gees train and when the NFL or CFL or NBA or WhateverTF acronym they are and they train? They’re only usually training at a level one or two – whereas WE. WE? WE WBK ATHLETES, WE train up to level 6 and some of us even level 7.

Suck on that Acronym Boys!

I’M GETTING A BLACK T SHIRT!

I very nearly hugged Chris when he told me, but he’s sort of a Giant and I thought he would mistake the hug for a possible grapple and then throw me over the edge and into the pool.

(I heart WBK.
I heart WBK Chris & Dana.)

“Shredded”.

I am using it at random times for fun and to freak people out. The most fantastic usage to date is: “My arms are shredded because of boxing” because they’re not. They’re merely toned and yet saying that they’re “shredded” elicits the same facial expression as the one brought forth when a size 22 tells you they’re a size 10.

It’s the gigantic elephant in the room and people are scared to go near it lest it crush them with its big bum. It’s fun to watch.

“Shredded”, as in: My arms.

P.S. YAZO – I am going to create an “ATHLETE” category just for your beautiful self. HiGHFiVE!