Taking a Tranquil-izer

I just finished my third week of yoga and I really love it. It has been a pretty life changing experience for me so far. One of the life lessons I never learned was how to relax, so the prospect of getting to the point of being “at one” with myself and the universe seemed nearly impossible for this crazy girl.

I owe a lot of my positive feelings about yoga to my yogi, my teacher. Before I met her, my only knowledge of a yogi was the one who was a bear and had a sidekick named Boo Boo. She is an older woman who speaks in poetry and never hesitates or falters. Her words are seamless and flow in continuous perfection every minute of class time.

On my first night, I got there what I thought was right on time. It was 10 minutes before the start of class. I was surprised when I found the room and there were already 15-20 pairs of assorted Birkenstocks, sandals and flip flops all lined up. I knew I was in the right place until I removed my shoes and added them to the rows of discarded footwear. When I looked at their shoes and then looked at mine, I thought for a moment that I might not belong.

“When I looked at their shoes and then looked at mine, I thought for a moment that I might not belong.”

I entered the dark-ish room and everyone was sitting in what I now recognize as the lotus position. The teacher welcomed me and beckoned me to find a place for my mat. Easier said than done, I want to tell you. I have had more luck finding a parking place at Macy’s on Christmas Eve day than finding a space in the makeshift yoga studio. It seems that the room is normally used as the playroom for child care. It’s carpeted, but all those places were taken. All that was left for me was a space in the linoleum lined “kitchenette” alcove behind the teacher. At least I was alone and wouldn’t be bumping arms and legs with anyone. Even the cushy new yoga mat I had just purchased at Marshall’s couldn’t protect my old body from the hard floor. As she began her melodious instructions, I had a hard time paying attention at first because the man in front of me was taking up two spaces on the carpeted area and it pissed me off. I quickly got a hold of myself and paid attention, although I was finding great pleasure in plotting the carpet hog's death.

The hard floor made everything hurt but I listened attentively to her direction. “Cultivate stillness in your life”, she purred. “With yoga you have the power to break through that which holds you back”. I liked the sound of that and did everything I could to emulate what everyone else was doing. She had us lie down and asked us to “flower” our toes. It didn’t take me long to realize that there was a yoga-speak that went along with the yoga routines. I had to listen really closely because the sweet yogi lady spoke very softly and the boom box with the accompanying yoga music was right over my head on the kitchen counter. She then asked us to raise our knees towards heaven with feet planted on the floor. “Establish a friendship with the floor”, she prompted. She then took us from the tops of our heads, down the back, hips and to the feet with feeling our relationship with the floor. I kept thinking that the floor and I could have gotten off to a better start if I were on carpet, but I did as she asked for the next hour. I muddled my way through the first class and she had only praise for all of us and thanked us all profusely for allowing her to teach us. Thank goodness she couldn’t see my sprattle-legged attempts to follow along. I may not have made friends with the floor, but the kitchenette cupboards and fridge and I are very well acquainted.

The next week was so much better. I got there 20 minutes early and got the best mat space in the room. I close enough to the teacher to see and hear her. Even though this was described as a class appropriate for beginners, most of the participants were obviously yoga veterans. When it came time to do the pigeon pose, my teacher promised it would be a gift to the hips. My hips probably won’t write her a thank you note, but I did feel things I have never felt before and I liked it. By the middle of the second night, I had thrown my heart and soul into trying to do yoga. I was feeling pretty good about it when all of a sudden the teacher rose to her feet and started to roam around the class room watching us. Who do you think she sought out first? Me. Oh crap, I thought. She is coming to personally escort me to Special Ed Yoga. But no, she just wanted to “align” my movements. As she looked directly, but very nurturingly at me, she told the class to draw attention to the core of our bodies, the epicenter of all movement. She smiled at me like she understood that my core had quite a little tummy that went with it and not to worry.

I will tell you that when you get into to doing yoga you cannot be shy. You spend a great deal of time with your ass in the air and your legs fully apart like a human wishbone. None of my gynecological appointments ever made me feel as exposed or vulnerable. My biggest revelation is that even though I am a damn good dancer, I cannot coordinate yoga moves with breathing in and out. If we are supposed to be lowering our arms and legs on the exhale, you can be sure that I am on the inhale. But I am getting better and I must be really honest. Even though I am awkward and stupid when it comes to yoga, I feel fantastic afterwards.

Right now my favorite pose is Savasana, or the corpse pose. You lie down at the end of the session, close your eyes, hands at the side with palms up. You let your bones sink into the earth, allow your whole body to melt like ice on a sunny day and think to yourself “welcome into the world of bliss”. You get to stay like this and enjoy the peace until she gently rings little brass bells. It’s fantastic.

We all rise up into lotus, put our hands together prayer style pointed towards the sky and say Namaste. When I went home, I looked up the word and it translates as follows: Nama means bow; as means I; and te means you. I bow to you.

Your Miss Fifi is becoming “at one” with the world and it feels so good. Talk to you next week. Namaste, my dear readers, Namaste.

Peevish As A Second Language

I never want to become one of those cranky, old people who have no patience and find fault with everything and everybody. I am a big fan of the saying live and let live. As part of the over-50 population, I try to be an example to my age group and not be judgmental, especially of the young. I pride myself in being a free spirit with a positive outlook and a kind heart. Despite my zeal for being completely fair and open-minded, I must admit that I have my limits. Some things in life are just WRONG. As hard as I try to reconcile certain situations and try to see the other side, there are a group of subjects that have no explanation or reason for being and, to me, are just stupid. I suppose you could call these things my pet peeves, but that term is a bit strong for my taste. I prefer to think of myself as being a bit peevish.

Because I am a firm believer in getting things off of my DD chest, I thought if I shared these particular annoyances with you I might be able to move on. Maybe it’s just me. I know my loyal readers will let me know. Venting is good for the soul. So here goes...

Let’s start with Donald Trump’s hair. Here is a seriously successful, high-profile man, yet his hair-do defies both reason and gravity. His hair is often spoken of as the ultimate comb-over. I have no idea how he accomplishes this coiffure because I can’t even tell how much hair he actually has. I’m not sure if it’s just one long piece twirled around or knitted together like an afghan, but I do suspect that it takes an entire staff to create the dips and swoops and peaks that I have seen previously only coming out of a soft serve ice cream machine. I have tried to figure Mr. Trump's hair out for years, to no avail. He lacquers it so a hurricane couldn’t move it and you can’t really see where it starts and where it ends. I don’t think his tresses would disturb me so much if I saw other men copying The Donald’s 'do. You’d think a man as smart as he is would wonder why his hairstyle hasn’t caught on. I know why... it’s just WRONG.

I am not ganging up on men, but I did want to mention that I find bald men with ponytails a bit irritating. (Incidentally, one of my readers called me sexist last week when I was saying how amazing it is that most men can barbeque on a grill, yet they can barely heat up a Pop Tart in the kitchen. I stuck to my guns. Yes, there are lots of men who can cook, but there are millions of women who cook dinner every night for a family and hold down a job, too.) Ok, back to the bald guys with ponytails. Fellows, I understand that losing the hair of your youth is not a happy thing, but taking the remaining seven strands, growing them long, and pulling them back into a wimpy ponytail is not sexy. Totally bald is much sexier.

No pun intended, but now let’s next jump right into dog poop, or the subject of, more exactly. I am a dog lover, but I am a hater of people who don’t clean up after their dogs. When I am out for a walk and see someone with a dog and no visible plastic bag in their hands or tied to the leash, I follow them like a stalker. I live in a gated community and most everyone has a dog. I clean up after my two babies and would never think to leave a mess. When I suspect that someone is letting their dog poop willy-nilly on the common area grass, I watch them and call them on it when I see a mess that I know their dog made. It’s amazing how these people are never guilty and even more amazing how many dog owners can distinguish their dog's pooping style and deny that their animal was responsible even if I watched it happen. Wrong... so wrong.

No rant would ever be complete without talking about my sister. I am not beneath being a bit annoying myself, according to her. I am her pet peeve. I hate to drive, and because she loves me, she will often offer to drive my car when we are going somewhere. She is taller than I am and every time she gets into the driver’s seat of my car, as soon as she plops her butt in the space that fit my body and legs perfectly, she goes nuts. In mock pain, she pulls her knees up to her chin and squishes her arms together to illustrate that it would have been nice if I had adjusted the seat since she agreed to drive. As she exaggerates her compressed state, she searches frenetically for the levers to release her from her agony, all the time rudely reminding me that I am short. She makes a huge deal of all this until she has released herself from the confines of the seat that was adjusted for me. Trust me... Houdini’s Suspended Straight Jacket Escape was done with less drama. I tell you this story only because I must be fair. I am not just the peevee, sometimes I am the peevor. My sister thinks this whole scenario should never happen and that I am WRONG. Could be...

I would now like to call your attention to my angst over children who are allowed to fuss and cry in restaurants. Many young parents never think to take these wailing kids outside as not to impede the dining enjoyment of others. This is WRONG beyond words. I never did it to others with six kids. The minute I heard a peep out of one of my young ones, I grabbed them, with my hand over their mouth, and ran to a place where they couldn’t be heard until they calmed down. A lot of parents don’t find it necessary to do this nowadays. If I am sitting close enough to these offenders to bother my party, I give the mother and father the Stare of Death until they do something. Sometimes they get it and sometimes they don’t. If they let their kids continue to shriek, I just smile inside... they will pay later when those children, who are being allowed to act up with no consequences, get older. Those parents will wonder what went wrong in 15 years when their teenagers are out of control. By the way, I am thinking of teaching the mother’s Stare of Death to these new parents. It used to be passed down from mother to daughter. My mother could give me one look and I knew my life was over as I knew it. What has happened with this world? Wrong... just wrong.

We can touch briefly on the morons who leave their Christmas lights up all year. No one has a harder time of letting go of the Yuletide season than I do, but it makes the whole neighborhood look shabby by not taking down your lights. It's just WRONG. If you had the strength to put them up, then take them down. Enough said. I feel better.

Okay, here comes a biggie. Why do women with nasty feet insist on wearing sandals? I cannot stand to see a woman with ugly feet wearing strappy open-toed shoes. There are two categories of ugly feet, by the way. First, there are the unkempt and un-pedicured feet. There is no excuse for this. Pedicures are very affordable or you can just do it yourself. Don’t put feet with cracked heels and chipped polish in pretty sandals. Not attractive and very unsexy. And then there are women who just have wicked-ugly feet. No amount of maintenance will help. If your toes cross over one another, are oddly configured or are longer than a chimpanzees, no one needs to see that. It is so odd to me that a woman will go to great lengths to cover the bad parts of her body and shy away from clothing that doesn’t flatter, yet she will not think twice about showing off her gnarly feet. Listen, if you had huge thighs and a fat gut, would you wear hot pants and a crop top? I know, I know. I’ve seen Jerry Springer, too. But, you get my point.

So, what are you peevish about? I can’t be the only one who gets annoyed. Write to me, my darlings. I want to know what irritates the crap out of you. Let’s dish!