Author of Breasts Don't Lie

Posts tagged ‘crazy’

Express to Crazyland

angry-woman

Two weekends ago, the red oil pressure light flashed on in my Fiat, a Barbie Doll of a car. Trying to get the car off a major avenue swarming with traffic before it stopped. The car said, “Arrivederci.” Too late. Ugh. I rolled to a stop fighting the urge to push the car into an intersection putting everyone out of their misery but good sense prevailed. I had “my miserable dung heap of metal” towed to the only dealership for miles around.

Thinking that I would call the next day, I walked to my office to have a friend pick me up. Not a hardship but not exactly love in the afternoon with my limp. Double ugh.

Thinking maybe some kind soul would have sent me a funny email to divert my mind from what I was calling “a cluster of magnificent proportions,” I opened up my inbox. My sister had sent me a message. Her email was short and pointed. She had tested positive for BRCA1. Crap. She told me to get tested STAT. Double crap.

Unable to get up with my sister, I searched the internet for information trying to avoid the doom and gloom predominant on the web.

My Russian Peasant Fatalism, first step to HuffyPuffyCrankyPerson, took over my being. If I am positive for the gene mutation, my chance of developing breast cancer by the age of 70 goes from the national 12% to 55-65%. Fuck. BRCA1 increases my chance of ovarian and peritoneal cancer too. I do need to get tested. Double Fuck.

How do you tell people about this? Did my sister sit on this for a while before telling me? No she sent the email after she found out that morning. Spunky gal.

I didn’t have that kind of fortitude. I sat on the secret for a week until I had tied my intestines into such knots that they went on strike. No intestinal movement until I told my doctor and my friends.

The doc’s return note said, “Make an appointment this week.”

In the mean time, I was dealing the Fiat fiasco. Renting a car in a snow storm. Calling the service department and getting nowhere. I wondered if their silence meant they had lost my car. I left a message asking if they had lost the car. No return phone calls except for a vague message of your car needs a “major engine overhaul.” How can a car need a major engine overhaul with only three years and 36,000 miles on it? Were they covering up losing a big appliance with the silence and vague message? Now, HuffyPuffyCrankyPerson was driving down the expressway to Crazyland.

Last weekend, I bit the bullet and told a friend about my sister’s note and the doc’s terse command. We worked through the possibilities to come to the conclusion – I get to decide what and when to do tests and procedures. I am driving the car in Medical Decision Land.

With my mojo back, I focused on having fun with the MIA Fiat. I covered all Fiat FaceBook pages and a couple of car internet forums with an ode to my car, Todd Rungren’s:

“Hello, it’s me

I’ve thought about us for a long, long time

Maybe I think too much but something’s wrong

There’s something here that doesn’t last too long

Maybe I shouldn’t think of you as mine … “

Before 9am on Monday, I had messages from a SOCIAL CARE SPECIALIST (what’s that?) at Fiat USA and a call from the service department. I like the SC Specialist and will use her as a go-between with the Fiat service department. Parts are ordered. I am driving a rental car from Surreal Customer Service Land.

I am working on the “gracious” indignation. Good grief. It has not been easy. But it is empowering.

On issues of cars, computers, and health, I feel like my only choices are HuffyPuffyCrankyPerson or caving in to other people’s opinions. “Gracious indignation” flies out the window. I forget who is driving the car or calling the shots.

Gotta go …

 

“Lululemon-Wearing Yoga … “

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A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on a bar stool drinking a lovely cheap Chardonnay waiting for my friends to arrive.

The three of us had survived yoga teacher training together. Getting up at the ungodly hour of 5:45 to make a 7am three-hour yoga class one hated Sunday each month. Yogis emoting all over the place. Wishing I could squeeze out some tears when everyone else was snot and tear-covered. The therapist in me wanted to say, “Boundaries, everyone, boundaries.” But I mentally strangled myself to withhold the words.

Almost five years later, I have taught many yoga classes including a number that have choked me up. Yes, I cried, without the drama of teeth gnashing, wiping away the tears unashamedly in front of the class. I have watched and cared for class participants as they have cried. But it seemed natural and organic and spontaneous. Our tears came from struggle and victory and community.

During my second glass of wine, my friends showed up to sit on either side of me. We caught up on the goings-on in our lives. One friend was enjoying, for the most part, being a mother. The other friend was living on the west coast, creating a new life. I was trying to get back into life after four or five foot surgeries and one arm surgical reconstruction. Each of us was wrestling with how to fit a yoga practice into our daily lives. Lives that were crazy full and a tad disjointed and to some degree fulfilling.

We began talking about going back to our old studio. Each of us had some misgivings about returning. My friend on the other coast had a distance problem, east coast-west coast. I had the issue of being un-bendy and less than fit creating the real, already done that, terror of falling over, taking out people on either side of and in front/back of my mat. My other friend was pondering if she could cram yoga into a full family and work reality.

yoga

Finally my fertile friend said, “Damn Lululemon-wearing yoga bitches.” She was descriptive, wry, and accurate.

Well, we died laughing.

“Bat shit crazy,” I said.

We laughed so much I thought we would fall off our bar stools.

“Crazy,” said my other friend. I’m not sure if the remark’s target was the yoginis or us.

Yoga has developed a culture of elitism. We have forgotten some basic concepts. So here are my thoughts about the distressingly hilarious world of “Lululemon-wearing yoga bitches” –

  • Yoga developed a long ass time ago. Its aim was to keep 14 and 15 year old boys, living in dormitories, out of trouble. We can only pretend to be 14 for so long in our practice before we hurt ourselves
  • Yoga is a method to enhance your life – live yoga off the mat by developing a life
  • Yoga has nothing to do with Kombucha tea gulping, gluten-free bondage, or juice fasting self-abnegation. Yoga has to do with living with the purity and thoughtfulness that aligns with your body and soul
  • Yoga is not all about the poses – the poses are methods to experience yourself
  • Yoga is not about what you wear to class – keep your fucking eyes on your own mat
  • It’s fine if you cry in class and it’s fine if you don’t – who are you to judge the tears or non-tears of others? REALLY

So get a glass of your favorite beverage then think about using yoga to enhance your life, moving yourself out of the “Lululemon-wearing Yoga Bitches” category.

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