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.





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....





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.





balance, schmalance

25 05 2010

I never figured myself for a balance freak. Sure, I did gymnastics as a kid (a min of 2 hours a day, EVERY day, eight on weekends) but I despised balance beam.  But now that I’m all-growed-up, apparently I have a *thing* for balance. Wakesurfing, Yoga, Slacklining, plus throw in a little Indo-board and um, heh? For cryin’ out loud, I’m even obsessed with balancing ROCKS. Turns out I’m a balancin’ fool. (Meanwhile my friends are saying Nice Grasp of the Obvious there missy.)

But really, I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no such thing as balance.

Seriously.

Think about it– you’re either too far in front, or too far behind. If you try to find the finite spot that is the perfect balance, boom, over you go. But if you keep moving– a little more this way, a little more back the other way– you find “balance”.

Hmm. So maybe Balance exists. But isn’t a Thing. It’s a state of motion.

Or maybe it’s hiding under the label of Harmony. Today I might be too much of this, and tomorrow I’ll be too much of that, but as long as I keep crossing over that midline back and forth I hope I can find that finite moment in there, even if it’s only for a split second.

Whatever its name, I guess I better keep moving if I’m gonna find it then.

*yoga pic: By the way, no my feet aren’t that cartoon-ish, I’m proudly sporting my Vibram Five Fingers. Rock on, fellow VFF’ers! (The rest of you know you want some.)