penalty box

21 03 2011

Drat. Absolutely unequivocally confirmed that yes, do indeed have carpel tunnel. So yeah, lots of modifying of poses, and challenges all around.

Turns out, it very well could be an old never-fully-healed nerve *thang* at C7/T1 rearing it’s ugly head again. Me being stubborn and living life in spite of it, has been a great boon and gotten me way farther than expected. The irony is that now that same determination is what’s gotten me back into the penalty box for a while, having to watch a lot of the game from the sidelines.

MRI scheduled for later in the week. Heck, if being in the penalty box means finally getting some answers about the 15+ year old C7 craptastic nerve stuff, then HELL YEAH! Sign me up!

Cross your fingers, er carpals, that the penalty box turns out to be the best seat in the house.

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guilty as charged

1 03 2011

 

Started yoga teacher training in January. Found a site with loads of observations, some gave me a giggle — and I added to it a bit too:

  • Not wearing body lotion because it messes up your grip.
  • Barely recognizing your classmates fully clothed, or dry, or with hair/makeup coiffed.
  • Freezing in any environment that’s less than 80 degrees.
  • Realizing that Sanskrit no longer sounds foreign.
  • Buying underwear based on how quickly it dries, and if it will peek out whilst in a full forward fold.




100 mile “practice”

11 02 2011

You’ve heard of marathons. Of course you have, those 26.2 oval stickers are breeding like wildfire on the backs of SUV’s everywhere these days, but have you noticed the stickers with numbers bigger than 26.2? Those are “Ultra” marathons, the new badge of honor. They’re typically 50K’s, or even 50 miles, or the grand poobah: 100 milers. (Although I bet there’s someone somewhere who’s hosted a race longer than 100 mi.) 

Mr Geauxgirl and I have worked an aid station for a 100 miler in the past. We used to “run” (term used loosely– much beer involved— and Delightful was there too) with a fella who actually set the course record for one of these jobbies seven or eight years running. He also had legs that were up to about my armpits, and kinda just loped along– his one step was about 3 or 4 of mine, and I’m about 5′ 6″. The majority of folks coming through at mile 85 were just brok-ted. As in likely causing irreparable harm.

Enter into the fray another friend of ours – we’ll call him “This Guy”. This Guy started “running” with us (the beer variety), then somehow he caught the Running bug that we managed to successfully avoid. (Well, “we” meaning me. I still don’t run unless I’m chased. Hubby has done 2 marathons, but his training regimine to get to 26.2 miles consists of about a month’s worth, where training for a month means I can go twice around the block without stopping instead of once around.) He also worked this overnighter aid station, and we together tsk-tsk’d (and awed) at the extremity of how much people voluntarily will put themselves through.

So my point?

Our friend, This Guy, a fellow scant 5′ 6″-er with legs to match, just completed a 100 miler over superbowl weekend.

He posted about it here, including a short video.

While I did read Born to Run recently (fascinating), plus I confess to owning 3 pair of Vibram Five Finger shoes (new jayas!), at the same time we’ve already established that I’m no runner. But I am a yogini. And part of what we yammer about (sometimes endlessly!) is that ours is a “practice”. As in, you get to “practice” managing your body and mind’s reactions to putting your body and mind through a self-induced stressful situtation in a safe place, so that your “practice” in dealing with stresses comes in handy when you step off your mat too.

Well lo and behold, watching his video during the run itself, he’s doing the same damn thing. Hmph. Looks to me like runners are closeted yogi’s, only with tighter hamstrings.

Rock on, friend. Now sit down and eat a bag o’ chips already, will ya? (Beer highly recommended too.) And next time you come for a visit, I’ll lend you my mat so you can work on those hamstrings.

yup! this guy....





i get on my own nerves too, don’tchu worry

19 01 2011

I’m an only child.

Well, sorta.

I do have a baby half-brother. He’s a full 15 years behind me, so in essence, we’re BOTH only children. I was out of the house before he was out of diapers, plus mother was a completely different person by then, with different circumstances, etc, as you might guess.

So now that she’s gone, I’ve become the matriarch, and therefore also the mother figure. Which is fine. Really. He’s really one of the sweetest souls I know. He’s got his own problems and gets in his own way, but then again don’t we all?

Point being, I confess: sometimes it’s hard to not be annoyed. And DAMN, I know it shows, no matter how hard I try for it not to.

It’s my problem, not his. I didn’t have the prep time of having the baby/toddler/kid/tween/teen progression beforehand, I just skipped straight from baby to Young Adult. And my official “I’m Practicing Kindness” mindset this year mandates that I not only of course show kindness and patience to him as his inner-self grows to match his size 13 shoes, but also that I show kindness and patience to myself as I adjust too.

Just the same, it makes me realize that what I found mildly irritating, is likely because on some level I cringe that I probably used to do whatever that is too (and please GAWD, hopefully I have grown out of it otherwise I wouldn’t be recognizing it in him when it goes awry.). All minor things, none of which are a crime of course, but still, *sigh*.

And yeah, even still: every now and then, just like watching him, I also watch myself. I see my own lips flapping, and I am powerless to stop my own annoying self. I’m choosing to find it “mildly, charmingly, annoying”. (I’m trying really hard here, work with me…)

Pesky “witness”.

Phone conversations rather than face-to-face might have something to do with it, but fortunately so far, I think I’ve been pretty good with him not noticing the occasional eyeroll.

The Witness agrees.

(whew)

And that is all for tonight.





you SAY you wanna….

12 11 2010

… but do you really wanna?

You want to lose 10 pounds. You want to learn a new language. You want to be an early riser.  You want to eat only locally. You want to save the puppies. You want.

again … but do you REALLY wanna?

Maybe it’s that you want to want to.  But you really don’t wanna.

Don’t get it? It’s just like that I want to like peanut butter. But I don’t. (Emphatically, irrevocably, undeniably, DO NOT LIKE.) But it sure would be convenient if I did.

Interesting food for thought from my master yogini goddess sistah gurl.

Something to chew on. And happy Friday, folks. Get out there and do something you REALLY want! (Just keep your peanut butter to yourself.)

It looks lovely, and danged convenient, sure wish I liked it.





don’t take yourself that seriously, I’m BEGGIN’ ya. sheesh.

4 11 2010

Thought for the day:

Please know that just because I’m having fun while doing something doesn’t mean that I’m not serious about it. Seriousness does not have to look frowny, mean or worse yet: boring. Sadly, sometimes people think they go hand in hand.

Now get out there and help me change that.

So there.

Carry on.





…d’ere’s poo in there

11 09 2010

Hurt my foot a couple weeks back, doing some team building silly adventures on the cape (woo! It sounds so worldly “on the cape”) The team building adventures were of the tennis-ball meets scuba-fins meets make-an-ass-of-yourself-with-your-teammates variety. So I haven’t been able to practice much. Yoga that is.

Take the resulting +/-10 bruises (we won 1st!), throw in a holy trinity of crapdom (big zit, cramps, and a lovely fever blister – as in “say hello to my little *friend*”) and maybe that’s attributing to my inexplicably morose world view of late. Sorry kids. Back soon in earnest, I promise. Kinda feel like I’ve been “mailing it in”, all around. Don’t sweat though, because I ain’t brokted down quite yet. Proof in point: Here’s a belly laugh from this morning to share for your own enjoyment:

Just cracked a new book Neal Pollack’s Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude. Yeah, yeah, I have an unreasonable affinity for memoirs, akin to other strange affinities found in the world, like Funyuns, discoballs and the nation’s still ongoing obsession with various and sundry reality shows. (Stopping here, lest this become a whole ‘nuther flavor of post entirely.)

But yet again, I disgress. Focus, dear. (Pronounce this in your head as “fuckus”. It’s much funner that way, and I promise to explain why someday. But not today.)

Sheesh. Again. FUCKUS!

So. Yeah. The Yogi dude book thing. Barely in the first chapter, which includes such literary gems as these, both of which are clearly destined for the literary quote Hall of Fame, if such a thing exists:

  • “…. bending forward over my knees, I caught the faint and unpleasant whiff of my own ass…”
  • “….I’d expected poses with flouncy names, like laughing daisy, or bejeweled vagina….”

(Thanks for the giggle Neal. Funny as shit thus far, but I won’t be next to you in class, no offense dahlin’.)

But the kicker (still with me?) is this’n:

“Like a freshly made vampire, I’d only just begun to test the limits of my thirst. Yoga was about to become the organizing principle of my existence. Also, much to the chagrin of non-yogis I knew, it became pretty much the only thing about which I ever wanted to talk. In the walk of life, I’d stepped in a big pile of yoga doo, and nothing could get it off my sole. Or my soul.”

Um, yup. But at least this kind of poo doesn’t stain the carpet.

Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?

Hey, anyone else craving funyuns?