Namaste: Bendy, but Not Broken

I definitely cannot do this... yet?
(image via Google)

If you read one of my most recent posts, you'll know that I struggle with incorporating a workout into my everyday routine. I'm always looking for some sort of workout that I will enjoy doing and that offers not just benefits for my body, but for my mind and soul as well, as it helps me to release a lot of stress. 

For years, I had read about the benefits of yoga: great for strengthening, balance, flexibility, finding inner-peace, etc, but was always a skeptic. You're talking to a girl who is a self-proclaimed weakling, lucky if she can balance when holding onto something for support, as bendy as dry concrete and, most importantly, constantly running an inner-dialogue in her head 24/7. I also found it hard to believe that yoga could be considered a "work-out," especially not in the traditional sense. To me, it looked like all stretching, breathing and tree-hugging: how was someone expected to be relaxed and quiet for an hour while you contorted your body into awkward positions? None of it made sense to me, but the fact that plenty of graceful and slender celebrities swore by its benefits did not escape me. If Gisele regularly did yoga and looked the way she did, then maybe I could give it a shot. Maybe.

With the dawn of 2013, I decided that it was finally time to give yoga a chance. Did I think I could be that girl in Lululemon, toting her yoga mat around with her toothpick legs, high ponytail and perfectly pedicured feet? No. I mean, I'll be honest, part of me aspires to be that girl, but I don't think I could actually be that girl. For one thing, Lululemon is expensive and second of all, I don't know if you will ever be able to pry that extra slice of pizza away from me long enough to be able to finally sculpt some toothpick legs. However, I did think that I could be someone who could greatly benefit from yoga. I need to relax. I need to find a way to quiet the incessant over-thinking and chatter that always seem to cloud my thoughts. I need to learn to be more flexible, not just physically, but mentally as well. Yoga held the promise of that. I was bright-eyed, curious, and armed with a very expensive yoga mat, thanks to a generous Christmas gift from my brother.

My dad was also considering getting into yoga. He has experienced a lot of back problems over the years, and yoga was suggested as a way to prevent future back issues and help ease his current ones.  So now, not only did I have a yoga buddy, but I had someone to encourage me and help me follow-through on my plans to do it... if I could just get over the initial stereotypes and pre-judgments I had already formed.

My dad and I decided that we would have a private lesson first in order to get acclimated to yoga. We were (and are) complete newbies. Downward facing what? I need to bend like that for how long? Now, I may be well-versed in the English language, somewhat-well-versed in the Italian language, but nothing has ever sounded so foreign to me as the terminology used in yoga (except for maybe Chinese.) It was a vocabulary lesson paired with a set of physical demands that my body just was unable to stretch into. I realized that a bendy pretzel I certainly was NOT.

After that first lesson, I was somewhat overwhelmed, but my instructor was so nice and encouraging that I was -- dare I say it -- actually, excited about our next lesson. I didn't realize how physically demanding yoga  could be and although my body screamed and hollered for the next day in soreness, I felt really good after that lesson. 

The next week, I decided I would go to a class. My next personal lesson with my dad was postponed for another week due to scheduling issues, but I didn't want to leave such a big gap between my first class and the next. I was extremely nervous -- my first experience with yoga had only two witnesses: someone who would be continually compensated if I liked yoga and my dad, who is basically contractually obligated as my father to love me no matter how much I embarrass myself. Was I ready for this? Did I want to venture outside of the safety and comfort of a two person yoga class and display my yoga shortcomings to strangers?

Maybe not, but I decided to do it anyway. I went to a yoga flow class alone-- mat, water bottle, and what little courage I had in tow. I found a spot in the corner of the classroom, hoping that, in the event I got stuck in or tumbled out of a pose, I could quietly disappear with the last remnants of dignity I had remaining. Everyone around me was stretching and preparing. I sat there wishing that I had got a pedicure.

Once the class start, I became painfully aware of the fact that I am probably unnaturally-not-flexible for a twenty-something. Every muscle ached as I attempted to keep up, twisting and turning, bending and snapping, for over an hour. Half of the struggle was simply trying to connect pose names to the actual action required of me. I looked to my left, hoping to follow along with my fellow yogi, and realized I was next to an unsalted human pretzel. Clearly, I would not be attempting to do whatever the heck it was she was doing. I'd be in downward facing dog, thinking to myself, "I'm going to die if we have to stay in this pose any longer", and then when we'd shift to another pose, again, I'd think, "Yes, this is it. I'm going to die" (probably not the sort of thinking you're supposed to be doing in yoga class...) However, in a haze of writhing movements, incense and a whole lot of heavy breathing, I somehow managed to complete another yoga class. And boy, was that a workout.

I was sweaty, gross and already sore, but I did it. Unbelievably, I actually felt relaxed. It might be a stretch, but part of me even felt a bit inspired. My body was capable (sort of) and resilient! I could do this. On the yoga horizon, I saw myself a little bit more lean, graceful and looking damn good in those super-tight yoga pants. Now, I just had to make sure I went consistently.

I went to another class last night, and although I can't say I necessarily thought it was easier, I think, in an borderline masochistic way, I enjoyed the challenge and struggle. I could feel my body working overtime, but in a good way. Yoga is, to date, one of the most difficult workouts I've done, and I've never been one to back down to a challenge.

A Brother Abroad

I went to Italy once (okay, twice).
But because my brother just left and hasn't posted any pictures, I had to improvise. I tried.

In between the rigorous months of college course-work and party-marathons for those living in their wonder years, my roommates and I add a fourth roommate to the mix (or fifth, if you count my dog as the fourth roommate.) It is obvious when this fourth roommate returns home: there are empty cereal bowls left on the floor beside the couch, every single light in the house is turned out, the washer/dryers have to run every day to accommodate the massive influx of dirty clothing, and all of the snacks in our house miraculously disappear in a matter of hours. I suppose if this semi-permanent house-guest were not my brother, it would be exponentially more intolerable to deal with his seemingly lackadaisical (borderline inconsiderate) habits.

But alas, during the winter months, he crawls back home, forced to relinquish the inflated sense of independence that so many college students revel in while living at school, and not-so-seamlessly assimilates back into parent-supervised suburban life. The roomies and I live a quiet life, used to going to bed early (we're all old people), keeping TV volume at an all-time low and content with low-maintenance dinners. But when #4 returns, the house somehow goes from quiet to loud and empty to full -- even though we're only housing an extra body. Although the roomies and I are generally drama-free (for the most part), the return of #4 brings with it a bit of a tumultuous transition as we can no longer expect to go to bed at 9:30PM without someone still being up and about in the house. Despite this minor commotion, within a week or two, our trio becomes a regular quartet and it's as if my dearest brother never left. 

Until now. My brother is embarking on what nowadays seems like a regular rite-of-passage for most privileged college folk -- he is studying abroad. After a bit of negotiating with the parents, they agreed that it would be a great opportunity and he was off to Rome for the semester. But we had just started to get used to him being home! What will now happen to our little, dysfunctional family unit sans our semi-permanent house guest?

Well, we'll do what we always do, except this time, it is different. Before, my brother was a mere twenty minutes away -- easily accessible whenever my mom had a hankering for doing some extra laundry or when my brother needed to spend some quality time with everyone's favorite roommate (my dog, naturally).Now, we're battling a six-hour time difference in order to communicate and I'm left to deal with my mother's reverse homesickness (she misses him. A lot already). A semester ago, we could check in with him with a quick text or just tune in to the ol' college gossip mill (I know people). My spy-system does not stretch all the way to Italy. Instead, we have to rely on his anecdotal emails and infrequent tweets from afar in order to gain a little insight into what is arguably one of the most important, life-changing and exciting experiences he'll have as a young adult. Strange, right?

As an older sister, it seems as though whenever I'm stuck under the same roof as my brother we constantly bicker and butt-heads, but as soon as we're separated and given the choice to interact with each other, we develop a new-found, mutual appreciation and respect for each other. I will admit this though (and since he doesn't read my blog, I think I'm safe): the house will be a lot less fun, lively and colorful without him around for the next four months. We won't be able to have a surprise visit from him (accompanied by the depletion of our liquor cabinet and supply of Wheat Thins) anytime soon. But we'll be the ones sitting around bored and missing this tornado of tenacity and spontaneity, while he gets to explore the world. I'm hoping that my brother will return at the end of the semester with great memories, valuable experiences and hopefully, a better understanding of the world around him. Fingers crossed that he will also learn to consistently put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and maybe even gain a better appreciation for his other three roommates.

Let's Get Physical

I am not going to pretend to be one of those girls who runs around in cute sneakers all the time, regularly travelling to and from the gym, high on life and the rubber fumes coming from her yoga mat. In fact, for a long time, I didn't really work out at all. Eventually I realized, after gaining the dreaded freshman fifteen (courtesy of double stuffed Oreos and chocolate ice cream), that maybe I should try this whole "exercise" thing -- other people seemed to like it, it was healthy and I certainly couldn't deny that I wasn't longing for a more lithe and slender body. 

Since then, I have been trying to find some sort of fitness regimen that meshed with my whole on-again-off-again relationship with working out. I love the feeling I get after a good workout, but have a difficult time cramming it in before or after work. You know how it is, it takes forever to get to and from work, then you're at work, and the last thing you want to do when you get home is an activity that claims to be another form of "work." In lieu of working out, you could be going to bar trivia, getting a haircut, watching trashy reality TV -- SO many other things you could be doing that could make you equally happy, even if it won't get rid of your beer belly. True, some people would classify these things as "excuses" (just ask Tufts Health Plan), but gosh darnit, you're just trying to find a way to manage it all!

I understand your problems. I fight this same fight. I am you. Obviously, when I was between graduation and my job, I had plenty of time for working out. I had too much free time to even have an excuse. But now? All work, some play, and little time for lifting things up and putting them down. The Christmas cookies have done their damage and I must do penance.

Like I said, I do enjoy working out, but where does the time go?! I've been trying to integrate it into my routine and find ways to make it more convenient. For starters, I have cancelled my gym membership. I know, this seems counter-productive, but I hadn't used it in three months. At $10 a month, that's $30 I could have used towards something cute and sparkly (or, more productively, towards a car loan payment.) I decided that I needed to stick to a fitness regimen that made sense for me. Driving to the gym after work seemed so cumbersome to me that I started to dread just getting there, so I eliminated the driving aspect. After all, I have a treadmill, dumbbells, medicine balls, etc. at home. If your home becomes your gym, then that leaves little room for ways out of exercising.

I've found that since doing more of my workouts at home, I can manage to fit in at least 30 minutes of exercise a few times a week easily. Instead of quickly flipping through Cosmo's fitness section, I've been ripping out workout suggestions. Suddenly, the TV is no longer an enabler to my propensity for lounging and laziness, but instead, home to a myriad of personal fitness instructors (thanks OnDemand!). I got a bit creative, saved a few bucks, and have found a way to make my fitness regimen more convenient.

Sure, there is certainly something to be said about separating where you workout from where you relax and spend your personal time. If you're at the gym, there is really little else to do other than work out and with everyone else exercising, I suppose there is pressure to be doing the same thing. However, if you're at home, who's going to call you out for eating an entire box of Cap'n Crunch on the couch while watching a Harry Potter TV marathon? Unless you have a talking pet (which would be awesome), I doubt you'll be answering to anyone except the indigestion you potentially have later. You are the only person able to hold yourself accountable, but I suppose that is true of most things in life.

So how goes my quest for health and a bikini bod? So far, not so bad. Luckily, I have a sort of neighborhood "fitness support group," if you will, with whom I try new workouts and have just recently started getting into yoga (more on both in later posts), which help me to follow-through on working out. As always, it's a work in progress, but being able to have an extra piece of chocolate cake always acts as a great motivator...

New Year's Eve Revelries

someecards - always accurately commenting on my life

When I was younger, New Year's Eve was one of my favorite holidays. After all for most kids, there are few days when you're encouraged to stay up into the wee hours of the morning, eat lots of snacks and be surrounded by lots of intoxicated adults. However, as I became "of age," the sparkle and pizzazz that seemed to associate itself with New Year's Eve dulled, and I was left with a burgeoning sense of dread over paying for sky-rocketing cover charges and partying with my obnoxious peers. Last year, I had ventured into Boston, sequin-clad and naive. I didn't have enough vodka cranberries to render the evening enjoyable and my six-inch platforms prevented me from wearing anything other than my Uggs for the next few days after that night. 

This year, I knew I couldn't do that again. All I wanted to do was curl up on my couch and watch movies, despite the fact that I had already purchased myself a black sequin romper (yes, that's a real thing) for this year's holiday. My brother promptly informed me that I was basically disgracing my age group and that these were my only years for care-free partying and reckless behavior as I indulged in overpriced soirees (maybe not so eloquently...) So I had to decide: go out or stay in?

As much as every inch of me wanted to put on my onesie PJs and cuddle up with my dog, my sequin-romper was already purchased and hanging neatly in my closet, beckoning me to go out and play. Luckily, my closest friend had a suggestion that silenced "lazy me" -- we would go to a local bar that I have frequented on many prior occasions and spend the night at my boyfriend's, dodging the inconvenience and expense of a late night in the city, but still allowing us to get dressed up. We could avoid the $75 cover charge, $20 drinks, $50+ cab ride AND not be squeezed shoulder to shoulder in a bar, making friends with the sweaty bodies we would be forced to rub up against. It was a very good compromise and the old miser in me could agree to it.

These much more casual plans seemed fool-proof: meet up with friends, walk to the bar, have some good, old-fashioned, adult fun, then walk back to the apartment later in the evening -- hopefully, with the promise of laughs and dancing in between. But as with many carefully laid-out plans, something was likely to go awry.  

I suppose I shouldn't let this whole post be too misleading -- 90% of the night was SO much fun. I was surrounded by some great people, getting to know some new friends better while spending time with some old, familiar faces. But, like any night at a bar, the more alcohol consumed, the more likely for people to make some questionable decisions and act a bit more foolishly. I tend to giggle excessively, get really tired and eventually, get over-dramatic when drinking, but I was only at the point where I was giggling and everything was awesome for the majority of the night. However, once we rang in the New Year with hugs and kisses, the night went from carefree to annoying.

It was pretty standard as far as intoxicated girls go, minus the hair-holding. Someone drinks a bit too much and the other, slightly less drunk, is left to tend to her. This becomes borderline babysitting and can really put a damper on whatever buzz you have going on. In this case, I became the babysitter. My friend, who has since apologized (and been forgiven), was one such object of babysitting, as she is teeny-tiny and thus, incapable of having as many drinks as some of us other folk (myself NOT included). Nevertheless, at one point, I found myself outside, coatless, trying to coax my dear friend off of the ground. I clearly was not persuasive, as my friend decided to grab the hand I was offering to her and chomp down on one of my fingers -- think "Charlie Bit Me," except with two overdressed, tipsy girls. My boyfriend had come outside to give me my coat and witnessed this whole debacle, and after we finally ushered my friend off the ground and back into the bar, I then proceeded to cry. Yes, I was that girl, crying outside of a bar on New Year's Eve. The year before may have been a bit anti-climatic and not as fun, but this year, I was crying.

Things just went downhill after that. I was trying to make sure my friend got home safely via cab, after her first attempt at getting into a cab home was unsuccessful, while trying to make sure that my other friends weren't getting annoyed by having to deal with this situation. There was some falling off of stools, and then there was crying from my friend (we can all relate to being lonely and nostalgic for an ex-boyfriend on holidays, am I right? Hence, the tears), and then there was the added complication of trying to get a cab... Just to name a few issues towards the end of the night. Eventually, once I got my friend safely en route back to her apartment, I met up with my boyfriend and other friend, and proceeded to cry all the way back to his apartment. I was tired. I was a bit irritated. And even more so, I felt bad because I just wanted my friend to appreciate my efforts for the night. All the while crying, my finger throbbed and my friend's teeth marks prominently engraved themselves in my skin as a reminder of my ill-fated earlier attempt at drunk-sitting my friend.

I suppose, looking back on all of this, that I made out with considerably less drama than most people encounter during their New Year's Eve. There wasn't any puking (a New Year's miracle) or bar fights. The only evidence I had the following morning of my dramatic end to the evening was a swollen finger and a headache, presumably caused by a hangover and too much crying. At the very least, I rung in 2013 happy and excited, only to be knocked off of that perch a mere hour later after being bitten. It was a good hour though and all has been forgiven since then. After all, I made a few new friends that night (who probably don't remember me now...) AND got myself an amusing story (my friend bit my finger...come on).

What's the plan for December 31, 2013, then? I always condemn myself for waiting until the last minute to make New Year's Eve plans (I made plans the night before this year) so maybe I can use what little foresight I have now to plan something maybe even a few weeks prior to the date. Hopefully, I can avoid being mauled by my friend, and perhaps, even break out the sequin-romper again....

Wishful thinking.

The Month-Long Facebook Purge

thanks again someecards - no need to encourage my Facebook creeping

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times: it was the age of social media – a time where your friends are just a poke away, your social life is public domain and how you look in your profile picture determines how many dates you can get. Welcome.

With only a click, we can become instantly engaged to 500 of our closest friends or check up on the intimate lives of famous celebrities summed up in 140 characters. Everything and everyone is so accessible. I find out most of my news – local, national and even personal (happenings with friends or friends of friends) through social media.

So what happens when you disconnect from one of these major platforms for more than 24 hours? If you can even last that long? Well, I did it. I committed to over a month of Facebook-free life, and I live to tell the tale. But you may find yourself asking, why do it? Why purposefully sever an integral part of my life, one that feeds my inner gossip-monger and piques every single creepy curiosity? Ah, of course – the dreaded break-up.

When my last relationship ended, I spent the first 24 hours crying and then the next were spent snapping into survival mode. It was over, and to ward off the next few weeks of incessant “Facebook stalking,” I did what I needed to do: I deactivated my Facebook.  Was it because I have no willpower? Because I needed to prevent myself from checking-up on my now ex-boyfriend’s every musing and shared life detail? Well, yes and yes. Twenty-years ago, I may have called him and hung up, but now I had the new temptation to sift through photographs where he looked cute and decipher the hidden meanings of his statuses, hoping that they pertained less to a new lady and more to his devastation over our break-up. How is a girl supposed to move on when her ex’s face is plastered all over her news feed?

Answer: she can’t. And so, I embarked on this month long journey of Facebook detox, and I realized something – my world didn’t end. In fact, it kept spinning and I was okay; perhaps, even better than okay, I was happy. Perusing the latest news and photos on Facebook, I was constantly comparing my life to those carefully curated posts by my Facebook “friends.” Ah yes, there’s a friend on a cruise with her extremely good-looking, rich, doctor boyfriend having lunch with Ryan Gosling. Oh, and there’s a status update about a guy I used to go to school with announcing his new scientific discoveries on the moon and his subsequent Nobel prize. What have I done today? Oh yeah, I ate some leftover pizza, kissed my dog and didn’t cry about my ex-boyfriend. Wins all around.

After disconnecting from Facebook, I was less concerned about what others were doing and more concerned about what I was doing. The temptation to see what my ex was up to disappeared and that interest evaporated, as it was no longer presenting itself to me in updates on my news feed. And isn’t that the way it should be? I could focus on myself and not linger on the end of my break-up. Even more so, I was no longer baited by alluring statuses or heavily edited photos that my friends were posting, and therefore, no longer feeling as miserable. I forgot that each person has individual control over what they post, and obviously, they are only going to post things that portray their lives in the way they want to portray them. Facebook posts and tweets are heavily manipulated representations of our lives. If I want to come across as a spontaneous, fun-loving gal, I need only post photos and statuses of doing spontaneous, fun things. Similarly, if I wanted to garner sympathy or attract a sense of camaraderie from my friends over my current break-up, I could easily post broken-hearted statuses representing my side (and my side only) of the break-up. Essentially, we Photoshop our lives and only show the sides we want other people to see – deceptive and manipulative, maybe, but also very protective and defensive, naturally.

By no means is this necessarily a bad thing – I’m not exactly advocating for full-disclosure of your life’s every detail, good or bad (And there are those people who post too much. Do I need to know about the regularity of your bowel movements or read your comments as you live-tweet a funeral? No, I most definitely don’t), but this Facebook-free month allowed me to take a step back and re-evaluate why I was going on Facebook and what I was doing when I was on there.

When used for good (and not evil!), social media is a great tool for connecting to friends, but also connecting to communities all over the world. I didn’t need to use Facebook as a way for me to wallow in self-pity and misery. I was already miserable enough. What I needed to do was get offline and be with my friends – my REAL friends. Re-reading Facebook comments, looking at shared photographs and over-analyzing my ex-boyfriend’s Facebook statuses would not have been productive, by any means. Had I kept Facebook for that month, I have a feeling I would have held on to something that had already been long gone. However, de-activating my page was a sort of way of forcing me to start moving on and stop relying on social media to keep me engaged and connected with people, when what I really needed was offline support. Social media is fun, but being social is more fun.

True, I have since re-activated my Facebook. I’ll admit, I occasionally spend too much time reading statuses or looking through photos, but I try to remember why I use Facebook and keep it limited to those activities.  Do I Facebook stalk my ex-boyfriend? Well… I realized, that is what the “unfriend” button is for – for now, I have learned to co-exist with exes of all sorts (boyfriends, friends, etc.) on social media. Until the next break up?...