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!

I have a crunch on something. Note that it is not a ‘one’, but rather a ‘thing’. That ‘thing’ is in fact WhiteBrook Boxing. I have a crunch on the whole concept and delivery of WhiteBrook Boxing.

I get my ass to class two times a week, excitedly. I look forward to the challenge and my mantra has become ‘mind over body’; often times, I find myself whispering it repeatedly when in class in order to conquer the feeling of either nausea or passing out. It works.

More importantly, I admire and respect my coaches and want them to be proud of how far I’ve come – because trust me when I tell you that I’ve come far. (And I’m only at the beginning of my game and plan on going a lot further.)

When the above is combined with the fact that I am a geek, I immediately want to have everything affiliated with WBK. I want one of all of their paraphernalia and I want to wear it proudly…like, for example, all of their t-shirts.

This inherent geek need has brought me to a cross roads.

See, the reality is that I own two of their three t-shirts; one is the perfect shade of blue-based red (worn to Krav Maga) while the other is a perfect shade of heather grey.

That’s two.
When there are three.
The third is the one to which I have no access.
It is the one which haunts my dreams. The one which drove me to an OK Corral stand off in the girls’ change room on Tuesday evening.
It is WBK’s: Sexy black t, the back of which declares rather proudly something like “boxing for enhanced sport performance because I’m an ‘athlete’ and you’re not nyah-nyah, LOSER!“.

The only people allowed to have this t-shirt are: Athletes.

I am not an Athlete, ergo: I can not have the sexy black t.

My wardrobe will forever be wanting because my family didn’t put me into competitive futbol.
Are you fumbling through this injustice with me?

For clarity, let me offer:

ath·lete, [ath-leet]
–noun
a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill.

WBK trains the NFL boys who slide a puck across frozen water, and they also train Gee-Gees (what is a Gee Gee, anyway? GO CARLETON!) who trip and bump into each other ON PURPOSE while they run short girly distances (you call it ‘football’. Tomehto. Tomawto.).

When I was told the t was only for athletes, I accepted this reality and openly acknowledged that I would pursue the only option available to me: I would date either a Gee-Gee or an NFL person in a covert effort to “borrow” their black WBK t-shirt and then never give it back. Simple, yes?

Well. Simple until Tuesday evening came to pass when I was in the girls’ change room because they threw me out of the boys’ change room after class and lo-and-behold, in walked a girl wearing a black t-shirt meant only for “athletes”. I considered Krav Maga’ing her into submission and stealing the t-shirt, but figured that she’d come after me. Instead, I stared at her wide eyed wondering what sort of athlete she was before finally asking:

“Are you an ‘athlete’?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You? You’re an athlete?”
“Well. I play a lot of sports…”
“I don’t care about that. Are you an athlete?”
“Are you oh-kay?”
“I just. You know. I’m wondering because you’re wearing a t-shirt that only athletes are supposed to wear so I’m wondering what kind of athlete you are and if you’re not one then who are you dating and does he have a friend that is also an ‘athlete’ and who I can date and I’m a little hungry and dehydrated right now after class I see pink dots are you? I want your t-shirt but I’m not an athlete. I’m just a Palestinian and although I can probably throw a rock better than you, I don’t think that qualifies me as an athlete and SO I am not really technically allowed to OWN the black t-shirt and because I’ve been told I need to meet a certain criteria to have it I see that as a challenge and so now I WANT THE T-SHIRT SO HOW DID YOU GET IT WATER! WATER! WATER! SOS! PLEASE!”
“Wow.”
“You don’t want to tell me!”
“WOW.”
“All you ‘athletes’ are the same. Be gone with you and your elitist tight assed perspective on life. ENOUGH!”

…only it was actually: “Uhm. Hi. I like your shirt. What do you do? Did I mention I really like your shirt. A lot. It’s a nice shade of black.” (Really creepy since I was wearing a towel and standing too close for comfort to the nice lady.)

So there you have it. I don’t really know what “it” is, but that sounds like the appropriate thing to say after the hysterical ‘conversation’ I had in my own mind.

THERE. YOU. HAVE. IT.

I have to become an athlete. And I will – whatever that actually means, I WILL. Because no one loves a challenge more than me…and I want the black t-shirt. I will have the black t-shirt even if it takes me 10 years to get it. I will have it; trust me. And I won’t even date a weirdly labelled boy to do it – I’m just going to become an ‘athlete’. Somehow, and by any means necessary, I will become: “a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength”.

If McBush can be a presidential hopeful, I can be an athlete.
OLYMPICS HERE I COME. Or…at least…like, the local high school track.
Team sports I LOATHE YOU but I will conquer you if I must.

I will do this even though I don’t have a clue where to begin!

I will have the black t-shirt and my wardrobe will be complete.
I heart WBK paraphernalia!

(Will keep you posted on my endeavours.)

Hi all – okay…

(1) For those of you new to me, please understand that the mobile is perhaps the bane of my existence. I rarely have it on and check my voicemail perhaps once every two weeks. Last year, and for reasons beyond my control, I had to make myself accessible as best as possible.

Now that I no longer have to do that, it also means that my response time has slowed.

Please don’t feel ignored…it’s not you, it is most definitely me…

(2) I’ve not been blogging much because I’ve had a super crazy schedule and I am planning a super busy summer. Trips to NYC, Vermont, Toronto, Montreal, Washington, (perhaps) Thailand, and the Azores, all forthcoming.

Now that curling is over, I am back to boxing once a week. In five weeks’ time, boxing will be upped to twice a week. (Please note: this is not faerie boxing, nor is it kick nor muay. It. Is. Boxing. And it beats the shit out of your body.)

I try to have dinner with only one friend a week, but that’s turning a little impossible, so now it’s two a week.

I will also be taking care of a very specific region in mama’s garden. (More on this in the future months as it is a very big deal for me.)

I am maybe going to try rowing, depending on whether the schedule fits my own. Neither for competition nor dragon boating, but simply rowing. I hear it’s excellent for your arms and shoulders…and those are two key muscle groups for girls.

So all this to say that I am currently a little busy. Not to mention that I still have books to read.

If I am out of touch, please know that I’m not ignoring you; it’s only that I’m living a perhaps-to-you-but-not-to-me hectic schedule. There are only 27 hours in my day and I enjoy making the most of them. “Idle” = “lazy” and though that’s an excellent way to pass maybe two days a month, it is no way to live a life. (At least not mine.)

(3) Please visit following album sets to see what’s been happening.

As promised previously, photos of Sophia and I have been uploaded (simply click on the picture):

Aalya / Sophia’s baby shower photos linked here:

Muslims, They’re Just Like You! They Shovel Snow! (Click the picture to see what has buried Ottawa this past winter, and also to check out my stellar shoveling outfit that consists of pyjamas, mama’s panda bear coat, her boots and her headband.)

More to come (including the images from my trip to the Middle East this past December).
xox to each…

Being at Bikram Yoga once a weekend allows me to focus my energy and my mind. It forces me to be still and really pull everything together for a minimum of 90 minutes a week. To some of you, that may not seem like a lot, but to someone like your WebMistress, that is an excruciating amount of stand-still time.

Unfortunately, that allowance has recently been raped by The Man Who Wears A Speedo To Class.

That’s right, ladies & gentlemen, he actually wears a Speedo to Bikram Yoga.

Look. I get it. I get that it’s insanely hot and that you sweat your a** off. I also ‘get’ that Speedos are made for water, but so are ducks and fish and last I checked no one was wearing either to my yoga class.

I’ve managed to ignore the idiot men who think it’s acceptable for them to display their hairy backs and chests, their big bloated bellies and unnaturally large nipples. BUT THE SPEEDO IS KILLING ME.

IT’S KILLING ME. And not even softly.

This past weekend, I was next to The Man Who Wears A Speedo To Class…and when we had to bend over, I didn’t really much appreciate the free-flow of information provided by his Speedo. Imagine if I’d slipped and went tumbling forward? I’d have had to scrape my face off to recover.

(It took every ounce of self control for me to not start sobbing WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR SENSE OF SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOUR AND WEAR, MAN? I’m not even entirely certain I know how I made it through that class without strangling him in his own little hammock or forcing the teacher who didn’t say anything to bend over behind The Man Who Wears A Speedo To Class.)

I sent the centre an email asking if they’ll consider having an ‘at minimum shorts’ policy. I don’t think they’ll take me seriously and I expect they’ll send me a “the body is beautiful” email. If they do, I’m donning a fat and hairy suit and going in with a tanga and a string bikini top. As a man.

I rue the day Speedo was born.

I am having difficulty expressing my extreme excitement re CURLING!. Luckily, I am capable of sitting long enough to write my first review of this fabulous sporting activity. Check back in the coming couple of days to read all about me standing on ice with a slider and a broom. And then me falling on ice with a slider and a broom and the thing that is a STONE NOT A ROCK.

I will be posting in this spot immediately below the line of MA-tildas (I know they’re called ‘Tilda’s but I deem MA-tilda more appropriate because this is my blog).

OH! I tried to make CURLING! an Extreme Sport and was lovingly called a “big Goof”.

LOVE CURLING! I LOVE IT! I WANT TO BE ON THE COVER OF A CURLING MAGAZINE DECLARING MY LOVE OF HER!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are three things you need to know about me:
(1) When I say ‘curl’, I am usually referring to the state of my hair at rest.
(2) When I utter the words ‘sweep’ and / or ‘broom’ it is only to indicate that I don’t.
(3) My body takes to athletics extremely quickly though no one who knows me well would ever consider me ‘athletic’.

Odd this because until my late teens, I figure skated and swam four times a week. In my early twenties, I lifted six times a week at three hours each turn (I didn’t have much else going on and having a six-pack was addictive).

As an adult, I box, swim, shop for Crack, walk almost everywhere, do bikram yoga on Saturday mornings (avoiding thinking of the heat, the dripping sweat, the bacteria and the men who, unfortunately, assume it’s necessary for them to remove their shirts and show their disturbing bodies) and as you all know, I purchased LULU last summer. Even with all of this, no one who knows me considers me ‘athletic’ by any stretch of the imagination. UNTIL NOW!

Well, maybe not, BUT, but when I make it on to the cover of SWEEP!, then my friends will consider me ‘athletic’. (I’ve already been called ‘a new convert’ at Curl News blogspot, based on which the voices in my head and I concur that SWEEP! is a true and real possibility.)

The lead up
At the end of December, the Super Head Biggest Cheese at my workplace asked me if I would be interested in joining her curling team. I’d always been under the impression that curling was for folks over the age of eleventy million and so was a little shocked to learn that people I considered young were doing and digging it.

Because the women on this team are luminous and magical creatures, but short of unicorns and faeries, I accepted the invitation to CURL!, thinking I could always hang back and chat rather than get my ice on. Curling was as appealing as golf, and the closest I ever came to coveting it was in terms of the hilarity of “Men With Brooms”.

The follow through
I joined!

As is the norm, that meant I was also extremely over-eager, over-excited and over-layered. Over-layered because when I went into the washroom, I thought I had undone all of the layers only to discover that the one nearest my skin was still clinging on for dear life. When I asked The Panty about it later, she cried and explained this because she was being smothered by three layers of pant, six layers of top, one puma zip-up and a very large woolen jacket. (The Panty was calmed only when I promised to never ever again take my dressing cues from Paddington Bear.)

As I wobbled into the arena, I quickly realized that CURLING! appreciates and encourages The Pretty. Clothes clinging to the body help your flexibility, form and mobility. You can even wear your hair down and bouncy. Hurrah for CURLING!

The delivery
A wonderful woman named Fleure showed me how to serve / volley / throw / launch the stone / rock / ball down the lane / sheet / ice / arena / rink / field.

Please pay very close attention to the following illustration:
(1) As I’m right handed, I place my right foot on this angled at 45degrees plastic thing-a-ma-bob.
(2) My right leg is bent at the knee and I am positioned as though preparing to shoot off and wobble a race in my over-layered excitement.
(3) My left leg is also bent and positioned behind my right leg.
(4) On the bottom of my left foot is a ‘slider’, or rather, a piece of plastic that allows one to slide forward at breakneck speed. (Thank you, B.)
(5) My right hand is holding the small handle of the stone / rock / ball which weighs an approximate 7000 pounds (this I discovered while attempting to pick it up, lost a war against gravity and instead tripped forward. Because I maintained a firm grip on the stone / rock / ball as I tripped forward, I was snapped back and so I experienced my first ever full-bodied bobbling motion.)
(6) Using the stone / rock / ball to generate momentum, I was sliding her back and forth and back and forth and then propelling her forward as I held on and went along for the ride.
(7) In tri-dem were the propelling forward motion, the pushing off from the plastic thing-a-ma-bob and the bringing forward of the left leg so as to slide all the way forward, aiming and then letting go of the stone / rock / ball.

Surprisingly, my body froze up (ha! ha!) during my first two serves because I envisioned falling on my face and breaking it. First this happened, I lost my Cool Demeanor & Focus, tipped over and smashed my right knee relatively hard against the ice.

Second this happened, I fell backward on to my bum and remained seated for a good two minutes, pouting and watching others serve / deliver / volley / launch / propel in perfect form. (As is my weirdo nature, I was having trouble understanding why I wasn’t already perfect at it; it was, after all, my second turn already.)

I spent the duration of that particular game watching the technique of others and so when it was my turn to play again, I added the following three steps:

(8) As soon as my left leg came forward, I dropped my right knee to the ice and extended my right leg back, bent low and pretended to aim.
(9) I ran to my team-mates and asked if they had witnessed MY ‘FORM’! MY ‘FORM’! MY KNEE WAS ON THE ICE AND I CAN CURL!
(10) My team-mates patting me on the head as their eyes glazed over and I kept chattering on about MY FORM! (Really.)

What not to do
First. As the other team ‘delivered’, I was in the end zone and knew we could broom their rock out of the point area if we broomed a little faster. So, in my over excitement and due to my over-layering, I over-heated, started laughing to myself while a voice in my head screamed “WE’RE GOING TO GET THEIR BALL OUT! BROOM, MAHA! BROOM!” and began to broom alongside my other teammate who was already brooming.

Apparently, you can only have one person brooming the stone / rock / ball of the delivering team. It doesn’t matter how happy and excited the second broomer may be, they are not allowed to broom. (I shake my fist at this rule.)

Second: Do not “I’m just going to push your rock out of the way for a moment”. Ever.

Third: Recall that this is not an Extreme Sport, and so when at the end of the game, you are sliding all of the rocks / balls / stones to one end, do not ‘let it rip’ and start smashing them all against one another and laughing at the fact that “they don’t break” or else you risk being called (lovingly, and with the biggest laugh and smile) “ya big goof” by the aforementioned Super Head Biggest Cheese at your workplace.

Fourth: Don’t smash your team-mate’s broom as you are brooming together. Most definitely, don’t do this and then ask them why they kept hitting you…

Fifth: Don’t wear a long scarf, no matter how pretty and colourful she may be.

Finally, don’t broom with the wooden portion of the broom. Use the straw end…though this may go without saying for all normal folk, it was something I needed to have pointed out after I scraped all of the ice and stood wondering WHY THE ICE KEPT PEELING AND SLOWING ME DOWN

What to do
Join a recreational CURLING! team today. Enjoy an extremely fun sport and smile because you could be the next to grace the cover of SWEEP!

As promised earlier, here you go…

The Store

Don’t let the daunting exterior of Joe Mamma’s dissuade you from entry. Although it appears skateboarder meets snowboarder meets bmxer (the three of whom are dudes) they are very patient with Those Who Know Nothing Of The Cycling Riding Gliding Bumping-Off-Balconies World.

Their experience and ‘riding is living’ attitude rendered them very gracious and kind when I walked in and said: “I don’t know anything about bicycles, just that I want something pretty.”

Apart from Joe, there is Denver, Cameron (a sponsored snowboarder), and another sponsored bmx-er who is currently en route to someplace in the US to pick up his portable thing on which he rides his bmx and spins into the air and does not crash into the ground. Also, there was another young man (I recently turned 87) who had just been to Lansdowne with the King Cheeses of the bmx world from all over North America, one of whom did something very impressive that had to do with a jump and a balcony.

I managed a strong ‘Woooow’ before I started playing with Maillot Jaune and hoping none of the men would notice my complete cluelessness. This last man from the staff helped me choose a helmet – and although technically, he is young enough to be my child, I couldn’t help but notice his beautiful face. He’s still relatively shy and he may be Denver’s brother, because they look so much alike and I was thinking he would make an excellent boyfriend to Marah of Videoflicks, mentioned here.

I wish to make one final note for those of you considering heading over to Joe Mamma’s. Don’t let the name fool you for it is not Joe who runs the joint, but rather Maillot Jaune who takes care of the books, liaises with the partners and pleases the customers. Joe is nothing more than her front-man and she is very good to him.

The Purchase

At precisely 5.31pm on the 26th of July, 2007, your blogMistress became the very proud new owner of one Electra Hawaii Cruiser. This is the latest colour: Really bright and pearly orange. It’s so new that Joe had to take her out of the box and assemble her for me so that I would then be able to cycle her out of the store.

I had originally wanted to name her Lucy, but Lulu kept popping into my head and mama confirmed that as a very small fat child, I used to call all of my dolls by the name of: Lulu. And so ‘Lulu’ she is.

Lulu’s seat is black, painted with white flowers. Her tires are etched with flowers and all over her orange body are more white flowers. I purchased for her a wicker basket and a little ringing bell (but only because they did not sell honky horns). I now need to purchase a gel seat cover – because OUCH! – and a rear view mirror.

While Joe was assembling Lulu, the rest of the men filled me in on the logistics of sponsorship in the world of snowboarding, skateboarding and bmxing. It was actually quite fascinating to understand how the intricate details of these three worlds collided and also…blablabla because I have no idea what I’m talking about and so I am going to stop. And maybe take a nap.

Right. So, Joe finished assembling Lulu and carried her outside for me where Maillot Jaune joined us. I was so excited that I forgot to remove the massive tag from my helmet – made for those prone to multi-impact – as I walked out the front doors of Joe Mamma’s. Lucky that I noticed something scraping the side of my neck, or else I would have looked completely stupid riding around Ottawa with the tag that measures approximately 4″ x 6″.

The Ride

Lulu still has an aversion to cars. She is scared of them and in order to assuage her fears, I walked her away from Joe’s for the first few blocks. When I could sense she was a little more comfortable, I let her ride around on the side streets leading to the walk/run/bike only pathway along the canal.

For two hours, I rode her all over the parkway and the experimental farm on that first evening. (I had to pay very close attention to the speed limit as I am certain I was madly cycling well above the 10 km/ hour allowance with my thighs of steel.)

There were cows (the blobs on the left):

I even took a streaming video of my very first ride so that I may share it with you (likely not the best of ideas as it meant I had to steer with one hand and I nearly crashed into a tree…but I didn’t). Look at how terrified happy I am:

The following morning, I awoke with a very sore bum and abs that were screaming. BUT THAT DIDN’T STOP ME. I put on a skirt, a shirt, flip flops, and my helmet. I placed my lunch in Lulu’s basket and CYCLED TO WORK along the parkway. People waved and honked. I received several thumbs ups and two people cycled by and yelled a variation of ‘AWESOME BIKE!’

Because I was too busy concentrating on the ride itself, all I could do to respond was ring Lulu’s bell as a sign of thanks. I continue to do this often. I sometimes even ring Lulu’s bell randomly when I am alone because it makes me smile.

I am considering placing a miniature boombox in her basket for the times I feel like dancing.

I am very proud of Lulu and wish you could all meet her. If you are in the city, look for the girl on the orange bicycle ringing her bell randomly, smiling and looping a little all over the place in search of the straight path.

The Inaugural Fall

Since Thursday, I have been taking Lulu out for a minimum of two hours a day. Yesterday my friend and I went out for a relatively long ride and a picnic. Nearing the end of that ride, I was tired and sort of didn’t turn Lulu’s wheel properly causing me to tumble off of Lulu. We were immediately picked up and hugged; neither one of us has scrapes or fractures and so we are okay. A little shaken up at the time, but immediately Rode Again (Hurrah!) to avoid fear and confusion.

Complete photo set may be found here. To come: Streaming video!

Had an interesting last 48 hours filled with many surprises, some of which took their toll. Instead of sitting before this what can so quickly become a ball and chain machine, T pulled me out to the gym. For those of you who live here, you know that this is my coach, Chris. I know: He’s hot. So is his wife, Dana, so back off. (She’s also the kind of woman you want to have among your roster of ‘the girls’.)

They taught me how to throw a punch, properly shadow box, cross skip and do ‘burpies’ (a form of push up that will kill you, if you’re not careful). I was a quick study and I own my own speed-bag because that’s how much I love the workout. For the record, this is not a variation of boxing, but rather the real thing. Watch their workout videos and you’ll understand this isn’t for pansies.

Because of the amount of traveling I’ve done this past year, I wasn’t capable of completing even one session, and so simply stopped. My body is still pissed off with me for making such a decision. With school, I will not be traveling and so I am back at WBK come January.

Tonight was a night I needed the heavy weight bag and it is amazing what can happen to your mind when your body pushes itself to a point of extreme. I will pay it forward for the next three or four days, but I had to do it or risk implosion. By the time I stepped back, a near two hours later, it looked as though I’d stepped into the shower with my clothes on. It’s excellent and a little surprising that I lasted two hours, but had to listen when my body told me it was about to give out; I would have thrown up had I pushed myself one millimeter more. It was exactly what I needed; ringing the sweat from my clothes my reward. T stood back and let me ‘run with it’ and then made me hot chocolate.

If you’ve never visited with a punching bag or a skipping rope or a speed bag, I strongly recommend it. It may very well be the best thing your mind and body will meet. Not to mention the fact that it will rip your abs, ass, back and arms to shreds. As a woman, it develops curves in your body the likes of which you’ve never seen. And Chris and Dana would want me to also mention that it heightens your focus and confidence (which it really does…).

.1. Out with the old and in with the new.

.2. I’ve booked myself a full-body massage for tomorrow. Yippee!

.3. Inshallah, when I have children, I’m going to sing them this song:

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high are the dreams that you dream of, once in a lullaby. Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly and the dreams that you dream of, dreams really do come true.
Someday you’ll wish upon a star. Wake up where the clouds are far behind. Where trouble melts like lemon drops. High above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me.
I see trees of green and red roses too. I’ll watch them bloom for me and you, and I’ll think to myself, What a wonderful world. Well I see skys of blue and I see clouds of white and the brightness of day light the dark and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
The colors f the rainbow so pretty in the sky are also on the faces of people passing by. I see friends shaking hands saying ‘how do you do?’ they’re really saying ‘I love you’.
I hear babies cry and I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than we’ll know and I think to myself What a wonderful world.

.3. Had my first Level II boxing class today. The main difference between Level I and Level II is that you have to now: (1) do push-ups; (2) learn upper left cut; and, (3) change your normal stance from left foot forward to right foot forward.

The class is only 1 hour long, but I always walk out completely drenched in sweat. And that’s not just a figure of speech, I mean it literally. There isn’t one item of clothing on me that I don’t ring out after class.

Today was a day that I needed to face a punching bag. I pushed my body so hard that half way through the class I had to stop and take a breath or risk vomiting.

It felt absolutely incredible, and I mean that in the best way possible.

Here are the funny things about this night’s class (apart from me nearly vomiting, naturally).

(a) Am not ambidextrous. I don’t really even know my right from my left. When you’re used to standing with your left foot forward and then are forced to switch your entire body around in order to place your right foot forward, you quickly realize that not only are you not ambidextrous, but you’re also not coordinated. I started chattering with the punching bag while no one was looking. I was saying things like “left?” ,“right?”, “but?” ,“the hell?”, “christ”, “god damn it” & “ohmygod I’m retarded”.

(b) Skipping rope is nothing like riding a bicycle. If you haven’t done it in a while, it’s not that easy to jump right back in there and if you’re not careful, you will most likely whip yourself in to a state of shock and maybe even get so tangled up in the rope that you won’t be able to see parts of it.

And man can those ropes really whip your ass. Again: literally. I have welts. But I can’t see them. They’re back there.

(c) The push ups we do in class are not your normal back breaking push up (that’s not good enough for my coach because he wants you to die).

Here are the steps (I strongly urge you to print this up and try it…):
.1. Spread your legs as far apart as possible & keep your heels on the ground.
.2. Throw yourself forward. Better yet, propel yourself forward and attempt to land square on your palms. Your palms should be as far away from your legs as possible, and square with your shoulders.
.3. Stick your ass way up in the air, while keeping your heels and palms on the floor.

Now you’re ready for the hard part!
.4. As you exhale,
bring your chest down to the floor
and slowly move it forward toward your arms
and much like the famed breakdance move known as ‘the worm’
start to bring the rest of your torso down
so that by the time your groin is touching the ground
your chest and face are facing the wall opposite you
and you’re looking up at the ceiling.

Now. Inhale and get back in the starter position FOR THE CRAZY WORM/PUSH UP. And to quote Chris, my coach and the man I adore and worship and think is the bomb even though he’ll bust your ass, “25 is good. Anything below that isn’t good enough. If you have to stop, stop only when you’re shaking and can’t DO anymore.”

I managed 8 right before I passed out and cracked my nose on the floor. Not really. I did manage 8, but didn’t crack anything. I just laid there and cried. Heh.

My body will be magnificent when he’s done with me. I love that.

.4. Should I tell you about my shower experience?

.1. I’m back and at level II. I can do a pretty mean speed bag.

And “no”, my wraps aren’t red.

.2. Eep! This will be held against me, I know. I LOVE PAUL WALKER. Is there rehab for this?

I watched Into the Blue twice. That’s how much I actually loved this film.

And for the record: Jessica Alba has a great bum. So too does Paul, though. And lucky for them that their bodies are so accomplished because their acting talent is so not.

You should still see the movie. Paul looks fabulous without a shirt on.

.3. Jack Black is Nacho Libre and he may just rival Gerry Butler in this girl’s books. The trailer for Nacho Libre actually nearly made me wet myself.

Uncertain as to whether this is because of Jack Black’s hair, his accent, the ‘training’ pants you see below or the white pants…you have to see it to believe it.

You’ll snort. Because it’s that funny.

.4. I was eating pizza during a lunch meeting the other day. On this pizza were onions. I was wearing my black velvet blazer.

Beginning to speak was the fellow Manager seated next to me. Because am unfamiliar with my own history, I chose that moment to take a bite from my pizza.

And that’s when several (& only) pieces of onion decided to make the great escape (Vive la Liberte!), via the sleeve of my velvet jacket. I was a little shocked by the feeling of the onions against my skin and so chances are, I may have potentially did some sort of a dance in my seat. Because everyone – including the aforementioned Speaker Of The Moment – stopped and stared.

I tried to explain. As I fished for the onions out of my sleeve. Which I couldn’t get at, because my jacket is lined with satin and so the onions kept slipping away farther and farther. That I was vertical meant they couldn’t hide in my armpit…but they probably didn’t know that because they’re onions and onions don’t think like humans.

So. There I am fumbling when I finally have no choice but to take off my jacket in search of the vagrant onions. Only to find nothing. Anywhere. Not in my sleeve, or in my pocket, or in my hair, or on the ground, or even in my mouth. Everyone in the meeting was searching for the missing onions, until someone said “But. There were no onions on the pizza.” like a Valley Girl and so it really sounded like “Uhm, duuuh? Like, there were noooo onions on the pizza? Oh my god?”

And so to her tone of voice I responded with “Listen Bitch, there were onions on my slice of pizza. I’m not hallucinating, you cow. I didn’t just make up the fact that some god damn pieces of onion FLEW INTO my sleeve through the NON EXISTENT window. Retard.” But it sounded more like “Uhm, ok. Maybe I made a mistake. Thanks.”

There were onions. For real. They’ll turn up sooner or later.

.1. There is new front desk staff at my yoga centre. I believe he belongs in a Saturday Night Live skit (or perhaps: he has just stepped out of one).

There is a sound made when something big is about to happen. Spelled out, it is this: Dun dun dun daaaaan. Do you know it? Say it out loud…

Like, you’re about to find out who the killer in the movie is. Right before they tell you his / her name, the music sings: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Ok. So. The new front desk staff, this boy, he keeps doing that. He asked my name, and I said: Maha, to which he responded: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Moments later, another woman handed him a form she’d just finished filling out…and he responded with: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Are you laughing? I was. All through yoga class, too. Every time my mind would wander, it would be all: Dun dun dun daaaaan.

Imagine him in the grocery store: “The cereal aisle. Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

What about at the gas station: “I owe 18.75? Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

And when his girlfriend breaks up with him: “Did you just dump me? Dun dun dun daaaaan.”

Or worse still…when he’s being intimate…: DUN DUN DUN DAAAAN!!!!.

This world is full of weirdos (firstly, yours truly).

.2. Have you ever had to break an addiction either to someone, or to some thing? Maybe even an addiction to an idea, or to a dream? Let me know about it if you have…I will eventually write about this, and wanted to receive your thoughts re the matter first.

Okay. Have recently had the pleasure of doing ‘hot yoga’, more commonly known as yoga-in-a-sauna-with-other-really-sweaty-people-some-of-whom-are-really-hairy.

Having gone with my workout partner J, we decided to see if it was ‘our thing’ – turned out to be that and so much more (& most definitely more gratifying than squash). By the time we had completed our 1.5 hour hot yoga class, not only were we capable of walking backwards while facing forward, but we had also soaked through our tanks and pants, from the tops of our heads to the tips of our toes, we were completely drenched in sweat…so much so that our fingers were like little prunes. That may not sound too sexy, but it made us both feel like a million dollars.

The following Random Personal Notes are based on this hot yoga experience…

.1. Yoga Etiquette: I understand that yoga is all about relaxing and finding a place of inner peace. That place of happiness is one that all of your colleagues in yoga class are also in search of…a search that is greatly hampered whenever you decide to fart. Please stop farting.

What might be more disturbing than the actual farting is the lack of reaction to the fart. No blushing, no giggling, not even a heartfelt ‘oops’; just a symphony of other odd body sounds as response.

.2. When you decide to go to yoga class, please understand that not all attendees are as excited about seeing your sweaty hairy body as your wife of 12 years may be. Frankly, it’s bad enough that we are sweating through every part of our bodies, we don’t need to share in that experience with your hairy sweaty self.

Many a woman is as hairy as some men, and they have to keep that hair tucked underneath their shirts. Know that were you to see that, you would be mortified; a place we currently sit when staring at you in the 100+ mirrors of class.

Note: Wear a shirt (and please stop farting).

.3. Please don’t eat blue cheese if you are heading to hot yoga class. The rest of us can smell you and no, we’re not hungry enough to eat a horse, let alone smell blue cheese off you.

Note: I love blue cheese, it’s my favourite on my tongue but not up my nose, off of your body.

.4. Really. Really, please stop moaning and groaning. It’s distracting and takes away from the flow of whatever zen might be trying to make its way into our hearts during the 1.5 hours.

.5. Note to boys: Please stop asking me if yoga is: (1) full of hot sexy girls, who are (2) doing “really interesting” poses. Most of the time, they are farting…and hairy. I refuse to keep your dream alive, sorry (there are internet sites that do that…but not this blog).

.6. Make certain to take one very large towel with you, which you should place on top of your mat. If you do not take this towel, you will slip and slide off said mat and smash into adjacent sweaty folks (who are, most likely hairy and without shirts).

.7. In your sweaty bliss after class, do not sign anything. Before you know it, a van will pull up to your home, armed with really nice folks who are taking you on a retreat. Somewhere. In the woods. Where you’ll all be barefoot.

Please feel free to peruse Female Canuck’s most current problem at yoga….

At the gym today, I was looking down at the pool area and saw a really sweet old man coming out of the washroom. He had forgotten to pull up the back side of his swim shorts. Perhaps they were just too tight, and he couldn’t be bothered with exerting the necessary energy to tug. He was a little confused…dear old soul. At least he still has it in him to hit the pool.

Also, there’s another guy who may as well forget to pull up his swim shorts. He wears these peach things …I’m pretty certain they’re someone else’s panties because they’re really tiny, and they’re all see-through when they’re wet. I work out in the upper part of the gym, overlooking the pool, and this guy is one of the Water Hockey team members (who always play on Wednesdays). He has to keep diving for the puck that sits on the bottom of the pool, so we all get a perfect shot of his peach clad behind. It’s so mesmerizing, for all the wrong reasons.