September 30, 2010

Me after only one class!

So I’ve been getting into yoga the last month or so.  I’ve only done it four times, but I can already feel some positive effects.  For example, when I bend over to stretch my hamstrings, I can touch my shins instead of having to stop at the knees.  Yes, I have the tightest hamstrings in the country…they are as tight as Lindsay Lohan is loose (I think that should make the next round of SAT’s as some sort of Verbal question).  I can also definitely feel a small lift in my spirits for at least a day or two after yoga.  So, I can honestly say I’m enjoying myself…that being said, I’ve got some questions that have been lingering on the forefront of my mind for awhile now.

Since I have yet to be at a class where a male attended, what is the proper attire for my gender?  I don’t think yoga pants would be very flattering on me, so I’ve been wearing shorts.  This has not been a problem, until last class when we did shoulder stands.  I was, as per usual, wearing boxers and let’s just say there were one or two close calls.  Luckily I’m Jewish and um, well you get my drift.  Seriously though, do I have to pick up some spandex? I haven’t worn those since I was trying to imitate Andre Agassi back in 1989.

Another question for you females out there, do you think when a guy shows up to yoga class and clearly is a beginner, as is the case with me, we are only doing it to scheme on chicks?  I’ll be honest, it would’ve been way cheapier and easier for me to do yoga classes at UVM where I’m in school, but I would have felt like a total creep as an almost 30 year old walking into a class with a bunch of 19 year old females in tight clothes.  Damn, I immediately regret that decision.  In all seriousness, I feel creepy enough just ellipticaling next to them, let alone playing an exercize version of twister.

Finally, do I have to buy into the spiritual side of yoga to be accepted into the clique of yoga people?  The last ten minutes of class, which I’m supposed to be meditating during, I find myself thinking of the 3,000 word paper due the next day, or the girl from the bar that weekend with the great rack.  I can’t breathe in through one nostril and out the other, and for some reason I’m really uncomfortable saying “namaste” with everyone at the end.  It reminds me of religious services.  Just because I don’t feel one with the earth doesn’t mean I’m not getting something out of it, right?

Ok, that’s more than enough.  I won’t go into details about my thoughts on different poses, the last thing I want to do is give you a mental image of yours truly in odd stretches…I don’t like in the wall to wall mirror during yoga on purpose, I’d probably throw up in my mouth a little bit.


September 30, 2010

Yoga is like oatmeal.  I know being exposed to it more frequently would be great for me, and I always think,” I’m going to do this more often”, when I finish.  But the truth, up to this point, is that I don’t.  When the time comes to go to yoga or go for a run, I choose a run.

When I am there, though, I love it.  I love the vibe: the clean, relaxed, body and soul cleansing aspect of exercise without stress.  I love the explanation behind poses, the reminders to breath, and the positive affirmation.  It’s something I typically do a few times a year and wish I did on a more regular basis.

And as far as men are concerned, I think Jeremy is over thinking it.  I would invest in some spandex, maybe these, be psyched that the next time a flash mob dance breaks out he can consider a high leg kick, and stop worrying about it.

Hot yoga.  Now that is a different story.  Hot yoga is trying to avoid the spatter from the sweat droplets of the person in front or beside you.  Trying to grab your feet, which are slippery as a greased up watermelon in water, to hold a difficult pose.  Wiping your brow with a towel so drenched that you’re not sure it’s even absorbing anymore … 5 minutes into class.  Doing the same 26 postures each class over and over.

Recently, my friend Lindsey convinced me to go to a hot yoga class with her.  She had been going a ton of late and was, even she will admit, obsessed with the class.  So, I borrowed a pair of spandex so short my father wouldn’t have let me out of the house (had he seen me) grabbed a towel and headed to class.  I should have considered, before enthusiastically accepting, that I hate saunas because I get what I can only imagine is the closest thing to a panic attack without being a panic attack when I’m in a sauna.  It’s hot and I imagine all the little oxygen molecules that my lungs need just evaporating into thin air and I start to sweat, and have trouble breathing, and insist on leaving.  I think the longest I’ve lasted in a sauna is about 2 minutes – and I grew up with one in the house.

As we walked into the class, I imagine inductees to hell experience the same wall of heat as they are high-fiving Satan, I realized that forgetting water was a grave mistake.  But our instructor was chipper, and Lindsey drove, so I had no out.  Being one of the last ones there, we were in the middle of the third row (the back), positioned behind a woman with a body that Gisele would kill for thankfully blocking my view of the mirror.  I imagined, as we were warming up, that I looked like her in my booty shorts and later on, that I was as kick ass at yoga as she.  This was, of course, tougher to do as I found myself needing “time out” on the mat with my head in-between my legs trying not to pass out while she continued to bend and contort and yogatize herself.  The class went on and on.  Poses were repeated, our chipper instructor continued to talk without taking a breath, and my sweat droplets continued to multiply exponentially as I careened down Negative Lane, straight past Desperation Alley and headed snack dab towards Hysteria-ville.

Of course, the class ended without me running out the door.  Once outside, it took me ten minutes and one coconut water to feel like I wasn’t going to vomit and/or pass out.  And once I got past that, I felt good.  Exhausted in a great way.  Apparently, I’m supposed to give it a few more tries.  And while I accept this train of thought and know I will be back to hot yoga (I even bought my own pair of short shorts), I also feel that you don’t have to be miserable to get a good work out in.

But if it’s like so many sports, where it gets more enjoyable as your body gets used to it, I might just start enjoying it and post about my love affair with hot yoga.  Has anyone who reads this been miserable at first with something only to grow to love it?

SHE SAID: Case of the Mondays?

September 27, 2010

I’m super excited about this collaboration since I admire both artists and also love love love when cool people get together to create stuff.


We missed it, but Friday was National punctuation day.  Click here for more information on your favorite punctuation marks and to see some of the haiku’s submitted in honor of the day.


A funny Steinem essay that considers how different our world would be if men could menstruate.


If you missed Saturday Night Live’s broadcast on Saturday night, you should definitely check out this highlight.

HE SAID: Case of the Mondays?

September 27, 2010

This has been making the rounds lately, some say ‘cute.’ I say ‘creepy.’


Ladies and gentleman, the Governor of the State of California.


In direct relation to Nifer’s post last week about passive aggresssiveness, I present to you a ferret.


Want to see Justin Bieber’s acting debut on CSI, but don’t want to watch the train wreck that is CSI? Look no further.

SHE SAID: Passive Aggressiveness

September 22, 2010

I’m surprised, given that I’m a woman and Jeremy is Jewish, that we haven’t covered this topic yet, but a certain Facebook post today provided me with some inspiration to post.

HeSaid’s status? “maybe i feel the need to be more diversified because i no longer have a blog partner.”

It’s all there.  The cry for pity.  The posturing.  And the zinger.

There’s only one thing to say: he’s a pro.  And you thought he was all about 90210 mourning and Brett Favre ruminating.

And to a certain extent, it seems that as a woman, it is either expected from me, or accepted and tolerated from my sex.  The classic example is the woman who gets mad at her spouse or significant other for not reading her mind.  It happens, I know people like that – the idea isn’t coming from thin air.

And yes, I have been delinquent.  That’s putting it nicely.  If this was my job I would have been fired months ago.  I realize that.  It’s there, in the back of my mind.  My dropping this blog like a my son dropped playmobile when he discovered Star Wars.

But I was not expecting it from my blog partner, despite his being Jewish. I’m kidding.   And all I mean from that is that the stereotype is there, think George Costanza’s mother on Seinfeld.  But Jeremy going to such great and very public lengths to get my attention instead of calling, texting, emailing, IM-ing me to get my ass in gear and post was not expected.

And the worst part of this passive aggressive attack?  It worked.  Because I posted.  You’d think after years of exposure I would have been able to resist.

HE SAID: Passive Aggressiveness

September 22, 2010

Ok, so apparently Nifer, you are not a fan of passive aggressiveness.  Well, here is some active aggressiveness…EFF YOU! You wrote, “But Jeremy going to such great and very public lengths to get my attention instead of calling, texting, emailing, IM-ing me to get my ass in gear and post was not expected.”  I am here to sit on a pulpit and set the record straight…in a way you are correct, because I absolutely was an ass in the way I went about getting your attention over the past couple of weeks.  In addition to the status you referred to, I also included this little zinger in the last case of the mondays post – “Oh, and enjoy them…they very well could be the last.”  I was implying that if you didn’t get your ass into gear, I was going to quit.  Luckily for you, and our 16 readers, you stepped up.

Back to my point, you hate passive aggressiveness, I hate liars.  If I could only somehow get a hold of text message conversations and scroll through our thousands of gchat lines to count the amount of times we discussed, in a very PRIVATE setting, your lack of blog activity.  So, as I said earlier, EFF YOU.

Ok, now that we are done with that, I’m actually surprised I was so effective with my passive aggressive attacks, only because I grew up in what according to Nifer, an obvious anti-semite (I kid, I kid), was an a-typical Jewish household.  That is, there was no passive-aggressiveness, especially on the part of my mom.  It was not, “that dishwasher isn’t going to empty itself,” so much as “empty the dishwasher, now.” My sister didn’t vent her anger at me by some passive aggressive tactic, instead she used to scratch me, far more direct. Maybe it’s just ingrained in my Jewish DNA.

This guy is kind of a Dane Cook wanna be, and since Dane Cook is lame in the first place (perhaps a whole other blog topic), that makes this guy a huge dbag – however he does have some decent tips on how to be passive aggressive – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDzoVtts3qU.

Finally, my passive aggressive facebook behavior was not “a cry for pity,” as you called it.  It was a call to action, clearly it worked.  And as frustrated as I have been this summer at your blog behavior, I am extremely happy to see you back.  Of course, we have probably missed out on thousands of potential readers and advertising dollars, but don’t worry, it’s not entirely your fault.

SHE SAID: Case of the Mondays?

September 20, 2010

My coffee was spilled by an errant foot, so I’m lacking my caffeine and it’s Monday.  Blech.

the Slate is doing a series on creative pairs.  They wanted to include Jeremy and I but then realized I had been AWOL on our blog for over a month and told us to go figure ourselves out.  I have no excuse.

They did, however, choose to spotlight Paul and John from a small band called the Beatles as well as my friends Robbi and Matthew from Idiots’ Books.

Here is the link to the first installment.


Some fun with political photos here.

This one is my favorite:


21 of the most ridiculous romance novels ever. Although, I’m sure most of us have read these since I recognize a lot of the titles from summer reading lists.