Naiya Evolution

Kiera's Happy Halloween

2011-10-31T04:56:00.000-07:00

New Adventures in the Bible Belt

2011-08-06T13:09:00.000-07:00

So I am off to the East Coast and my totally awesome belly dance students had a surprise goodbye party for me. And they gave me the most awesome present. Something I have always wanted (see Risky Business)

Kiera discovers that she does, in fact, have a pool

2011-06-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

Kiera continues to expand like the universe

2011-06-11T15:37:00.000-07:00

ok, she thinks I'm crazy

2011-03-28T15:57:00.000-07:00

But she still loves me.

Tesseract (Naiya net) (for geeks)

2011-03-24T23:15:00.000-07:00

Don't know who to credit for this

Ok, so yeah, I blanked on the Blog. I can't say I've particularly evolved in any successful sense lately except to perfect an oven-roasting technique for poblano peppers.
So I'm doing a little time-folding via flashes that sparked in my brain during the past month:

1-My puppy is 7 months old and 60 pounds. While she is sweet, enthusiastic and scary smart, I will be glad when she can organize her movements according to the laws of physics.

2-The word "organize" is tremendously vague. Depending on who uses this term, it can mean basically anything. For example, when Obi Wan says how important it is to be organized, I think he means to be deliberate in my movements, whereas I think for Mr. J it means to put strength and effort into the movement. When Paul yells, "Get organized," I think he means "Don't f*** yourself up and get hurt on me!" It's like a 4-dimensional organize.

3-I had the fantastic opportunity to dance to a (spontaneous) Cajun/Zydeco version of the Arabic song "Leyla." The melody was fiddled by none other than the sublime Catherine Matovitch herself. And I was belly dancing in cowboy boots. That's perfection organized.

4-Now can I keep the Blog organized?

Puppy Haiku

2011-02-18T08:39:00.000-08:00

Rain falls on the ground.

Clouds slubbing into grey skies.

My face a flower.

Indiana Jones and the Strip Mall Bar (Part 3)

2011-02-09T19:05:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting at this tiny table in a roadhouse bar, my self-esteem pretty blighted by the fact the only people interested in talking with me are a couple of hardened (and sloshy) barflies, one of whom is an angry financier with minimal social skills.

I focus on Indy and his band (who incidentally are playing kick-ass rock and roll,) but then I notice some of the students across the room texting on their phones.

Of course!

So I pull my phone out and text La Diva (who BTW had planned to go with me but ended up hours south of San Francisco on her own adventure.)
Me: Hi. @bar. Listening 2 Indy.
LaDiva: Fun? Nice place?
Me: um, dive. currently @tableful of sticky barflies
LaDiva: Indy not with U?
Me: Indy bzy playing in band.
LaDiva: ??? get out of there!!! R U crazy?!

Major Toht dislikes my texting. He waves a hand in front of my phone to get my attention. He points at me and then points at the band.

Major Toht: uuweeedaban?

Me: Am I with the band? ? Yes, I am here with the bass player. And the guitarist. And the keyboardist. And the singerist.

Major Toht (angry skeptical look): ohwehh? yuuukknnzzzseezname?

Me: His name is Indiana Jones and we are married. We were childhood sweethearts who reunited while searching for the Lost Ark together: as you yourself may well remember since you were there. Incidentally, I liked your fold-up hanger.

Fortunately, before I have to continue this completely fatuous (WOD) monologue, the band takes a break. Indy comes right over, whips his arms around me in a big hug and says, "Let's go outside; they'll think we're going to make out."

At any rate, I enjoy the rest of the night hanging with Indy's friends, while my abandoned barflies sit across the room, two watching me like sad puppies.

And Major Thot.

Meltdown

2011-01-25T19:11:00.000-08:00

So I was sitting Sunday night writing the third installment of Indiana Jones and the Strip Mall Bar and suddenly a wave of panic slapped me upside the head. This overwhelming sense of urgency and dread made me jump up from the computer and look around the room (causing my puppy to leap up and look around the room as well.)

Then I remembered:
School starts tomorrow!
School starts tomorrow!
School starts tomorrow!
School starts tomorrow!

Wiping my suddenly sweaty palms on the back of my furry puppy, I became aware of many tasks which had been trying to get my attention: organize my lesson plans, make sure I had the materials packed in my bag, print out my rosters, tank up my car, and pack food for lunch.
I started with refrigerator first since the food thing for lunch was pretty important (I stand for 6 hours interacting with students and if I don't have food laid out on a table in plain sight I won't remember to eat until my knees buckle.)

But as I reached for the refrigerator door, I suddenly had a much, much better idea:
I opened the freezer instead.

I took out the emergency pint of Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked Cookie Dough ice cream and mixed in half a bag of mini-chocolate chips. I set the mix on the counter to melt to the perfect softness while I climbed into PJs and and placed my car keys where I could find them easily in the wee morning hour.
Then I flopped on the sofa and knocked back the entire carton while watching the en español version of Titanic to its bitter, icy end.

In a sugar-stupor, I lurched to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I would pay for this tomorrow. But I was already dreaming of the three enormous coffees I would chug in order to be able to fully open my eyes, not to mention participate in the upcoming morning frenzy.

Indiana Jones and the Strip Mall Bar (Part 2)

2011-01-18T17:35:00.000-08:00

So Major Toht sidled up close on my left, staring down at me fixedly. I thought, hokey dokey, and turned back to Friendly Farmer (who was only to happy to inch closer to my right side). I tried to focus on Indiana and his band. There was a tap on my left shoulder.
Major Toht:       Shhhzhh gnnna shuhf wha?
Me (smile):   I cannot hear you.
Major Toht (frowning) gnnnan thzzz rrr gonka streep?
Me (bigger smile and nod): I cannot hear you.

Major Toht held out his jacket and pointed at me. Puzzled, I took his leather jacket with two fingers, hefted it a couple of times and handed it back.
Major Toht: Shhhzhh gnnna shuhf wha furrrzoh?
Me: Yes, it is certainly very heavy. And I cannot hear you.

Major Toht looked very frustrated. He pointed at me and then at himself, and then began waving his hands wildly around his head.   Noting my renewed attention at this interesting turn of events, Major Toht pointed toward the back of the bar and drew out a pack of cigarettes, offering me one (I shook my head, no.) He frowned. Then, with a crazy smile, he repeatedly threw his arms up over his head but this time with huge gestures and some skipping and hip gyrations.

Me: Nuclear war?
Me: Balloon ride?
Me: I give up. Anyway, I cannot hear you.

Major Toht was now clearly annoyed, so I moved away from the bar to a small round table with a chair, closer to the band. I waved to Indy who grinned and waggled his eyebrows acknowledging my relocation and the reasons for it. However, my independence was short-lived: Friendly Farmer reappeared on my right dragging a chair. He began a new unintelligible (and apparently amusing to him) monologue. Major Toht with an angry scowl dragged up a seat on my left. Toht took out his wallet (causing 12 interesting thoughts to race through my mind.) He placed first his driver's license in front of me on the table and then a business card indicating he was a financier. This put a new perspective on the charades: Was he hoping I would invest in explosives?

Major Toht: shhhhhzg nnrtgka   kkka furrrzaa wonka!
Me:
Me:
Me:

Just then a new large man, Boozy Santa, added himself to our group. Boozy Santa didn't try to speak, he just stood near Friendly Farmer, smiling and staring.

Friendly Farmer glanced at Boozy Santa, put his hand on my wrist and promptly declared:
"Thz is mah wahff!"

Indiana Jones and the Strip Mall Bar, Part 1

2011-01-17T14:58:00.000-08:00

So my friend and colleague (I'll call him "Indiana") is not only a hilarious genius in his chosen field, but also a rock star who plays a pretty mean guitar. He has invited me to see his band play as often as I've probably invited him to come see me dance, but neither of us has been able to sync our schedules.

And then last week, it happened: he was playing on a night that I wasn't dancing. After thinking about it all day, I figured, this opportunity probably won't occur again anytime soon, so I'm going for it.

This suspect shape is not the actual marquee

I googled the name of the bar to get the address. The name had the word "lounge" in it which made me think of a hotel night club, but the exterior picture revealed a bar with a marquee shaped like the kind that cheap motels use complete with a martini on it. I had dressed in basic club wear, but after considering the photo I decided to change into jeans.

Gold Glitter Platform Shoes: not appropriate

I really wanted to wear the red motorcycle jacket but felt that was too much commitment to the strip mall bar genre.

Getting on the 680 freeway, I discovered that the famous San Francisco fog had crept over the mountains so I could play a night game of Hide and Seek with the pavement.

My GPS faithfully guided me through the streets until I pulled into the lounge parking lot.

My first impression was that my first impression (on the web) was correct. I was thrilled! I had never been to a dive before and this was my first one! I opened the door and just like in the movies, all the men hunkered down on stools at the bar turned to look at me. I stood in the doorway for a moment trying to figure out what I was supposed to do. I figured a regular bar lady person would walk right up to the bar and order something. So I calmly walked to the end of the bar and leaned against it, smiling at the other customers. I looked over at the bartender, but he only glanced at me in that professional bartender way that probably dismissing instantly as a club soda kinda gal. So I turned around to face the band; Indiana spotted me, smiled and waved. I leaned on the bar trying to project Karen Allen from the first Indy movie.

The man to my right leaned in close, and with beery breath he mumbled,"Wahlla Whalla monka wonka yu weer." I thought, Oh my gosh, this is a real drunken barfly just like in the movies! So I smiled and replied, "I cannot hear you" (which was true because the band was so loud my eyes had trouble focusing together.) My barfly proceeded to tell me a long boozy story that was completely unintelligible, and finished with an entertaining disco dance for me. I certainly could not fault him for his sociability. I finally gleaned from my barfly's ramblings that he used to be a farmer (or still was - I'm not sure.)

He then said, "Bartender! I'm buying for her" in perfectly clear and audible tones. The bartender brought over a club soda with lime. We looked at each other for a moment before I grinned, acknowledging his professional assessment of my drink preference for this evening.

Suddenly, Friendly Farmer grabbed my arm and whispered hoarsely, "Watch out for that guy!" He waved a finger at a tall, muscular man wearing a beret who had appeared at my left side. I looked up to find Major Toht (from the first Indy movie) staring intently at me.
And I thought, What now?

Farewell to Arms

2011-01-13T07:53:00.000-08:00

Ok, I totally like this title.
I planned to write about how Kelly has got my shoulder back into working condition. It's not as perfect as I want it to be, but I can easily put a sword on my head so really, what can I complain about?
However, despite the catchy wording, the title is basically pretty creepy as though I were saying goodbye to my arms which I don't think even the original work was talking about. Or that I was giving up my cache of weaponry which is nonsense. But because I can't seem to shake the phrase, I will leave it there and just move onto the blog.

So for the last of the weekly visits, Kelly celebrated by holding my left arm behind my back, grinding down on my ribcage and also destroying my first rib in an amazingly painful manner that once again threatened to detonate my left eye. It is possible I will now need glasses. In fact, I found I was actually unable to inflate my lungs and could only take little squeaky otter breaths.

Of course Kelly continued our conversation as though flattening someone to the depth of a graham cracker on a table were a common occurrence. He did pause to ask why I wasn't responding, but I was reeling in a semi-conscious world: you know, that mental state you fall into when you are channeling the pain of your arm being coiled like a slinky behind your back while at the same time someone is smothering you.

Anyway, there I was, live in the moment, when I realized at last my shoulder could move and I would have to let go of my Obi Wan training wheels.

I miss the Tuesday 5:30am drive, the smell of coffee in the freakin' cold San Francisco morning air, but most of all, getting a weekly installment of the adventures of the Kwisatz Haderach.

DeEvolution?

2011-01-12T08:31:00.000-08:00

So clearly I have not written much lately and been fobbing everyone off with pics and video and other random publications. This was a feeble attempt to disguise a speed bump in my evolution. Between work, and holidays, and the flu and rehearsals and shows I had an internal mantra of "As soon as I get a moment, I swear I'll write about something."

Plus, I need to get back on the workout track. When the time crunch hit, it was the first train that derailed. Of course, I seriously think it is possible that even before I was an otter, I was like a chipmunk or a marmot - something that hibernates when it gets cold. Right now, the thought of putting on dance pants and a t-shirt and voluntarily going to an outdoor gym causes an autonomous reaction in which my knees buckle, thus forcing me to return to the sofa and watch another episode of Medium.

There was also the re-evaluation factor : were the benefits outweighing the injuries? With the holiday show season at hand, I decided (at least temporarily) no.

Now I am partially couch otter and part hyper otter. The entire dance studio is sparkling and neat, but my office is a storage facility. My bedroom is clean and straightened up, but my closet is impenetrable. My puppy is shiny and soft, but I have over 800 emails in my in-box and a total of 17 phone messages that I have not listened to (I am not making that up.)

Anyway, there is finally time to do stuff and write about it in blog. After all, there is a mostly finished article on Obi Wan, and an adventure story to be told about the rock and roll star and the strip mall bar.

And it has to be more fun than cleaning grout with a toothbrush.

Genius comes in many forms

2011-01-11T10:18:00.000-08:00

So Kelly springs another of his invented words on me.

He has warned against the dangers of developing "asslaminate."

Ass-laminate is what happens to your butt when you sit a lot: you laminate all the layers of muscle and stuff so that they get stuck together most unpleasantly) (and probably unattractively.)

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people (- W B Yeats)

Kiera and the box

2011-01-10T15:48:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year 2011

2011-01-01T16:17:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays!

2010-12-24T20:18:00.000-08:00

Ok, I couldn't resist

2010-12-23T10:18:00.000-08:00

Way to go, dancers!

2010-12-14T16:53:00.000-08:00

A Night Out (in which I did not forget to work on Mobility)

2010-12-10T17:28:00.000-08:00

In my woolly vest, soaked with rain, forced to consume delicacies, I do not forget my mobility exercises....

I also had an audience...


Executive stretch


Some sort of stretch but seriously the boots are cute

The Spencers are amazing lasso artists as well as riders

SEF

2010-12-09T08:25:00.000-08:00

So today I am at home with alternating ice & hot packs on my face.

I am suffering from SEF.

Those in the teaching profession are at high risk for the painful SEF syndrome:
Smiling Encouraging Face.

Smiling Encouraging Face is completely different Professional Face (PF.) PF is a happy enthusiastic face that I wear for short periods of time and usually the PF either genuinely reflects the fun I'm having or it can actually generate a sense of fun for real.

On the other hand, I have to wear Smiling Encouraging Face for 5-6 hours at a time. I use this face when sitting through a series of presentations given by nervous students. I have to look encouraging, friendly, interested and engaged in whatever they are demonstrating. I totally understand that presenting to a group of people can be nerve-racking, and even more so if the language you are presenting in is not your own. So SEF gives them assurance in the way that a light house reminds anxious ships that land is nearby.

But while sometimes PF can be hard to maintain (it does involve an eye smile as well,) the SEF is an absolute labor of love: the sheer endurance factor has my face aching after the first hour. I've even taken Advil because my aching cheeks feel as though they have single-handedly each pushed a Prowler. Uphill. In the Snow. To Canada.

This semester is complicated because after sitting with SEF through 6 hours of presentations, I have a 2 hour break before teaching a dance class that requires a mix of PF and SEF. During that afternoon break, I let my face pass out into an utterly expressionless coma.

By the time I get home uber-late after the dance class, my lips feel like rubber, my eyes are jammed back into my cerebrum, and my cheeks are like individual face migraines.

However, the presentations are now over and I'll be giving final exams:
It would be pretty creepy if I were smiling and nodding while watching students working on tests. So I get to look just as blank as they do.

Phone Tag, Part 2: I'm it

2010-12-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

So I do a quick assessment of the restaurant and realize the only quiet place will be outside. So I rush through the front door and try to get a grip on the giggles. In a post-laughter adrenaline-haze, I lean against a lamp post and manage, "Hello?"
OB1 clearly can tell that I am in the middle of something interesting and politely asks, "Is this a good time? Perhaps I should call back later?"

So, I have two options:
I can say, "Actually, OB1, thanks so much for asking, let me call you back later because in my current situation I can only wander up and down the street outside of this restaurant in the middle of Oakland in the dark, avoiding interesting street people who are highly entertained by my sparkly super-cute shoes and the fact that I am walking outside without a coat, talking by myself in the cold, cold rain."

Or
I can say (and I'm paraphrasing,) "No, it's totally fine!"

So I'm not sure that either of us could actually understand everything I was saying by the end of the call since I was shivering pretty hard, clutching that phone with a chilled, dripping hand.

Call Me

2010-12-05T00:38:00.000-08:00

So Obi Wan and I have been playing phone tag for a while. It's been more like, he texts asking me to call, and I call and leave messages that become increasingly more rambling and more inane. For example:

Me: Hi, uh, I know I'm calling later than we agreed but I was driving and...well, I actually always drive at that time so I'm not sure... I mean, I have to teach at... never mind, it's just that I have more time at night so... oh, and don't call back at this number it's my work number and I never answer it or check messages... Not that I'm a slacker. I just use email and... oh God why isn't there a Delete Your Message option on your phone???

Since I pretty much earn a living speaking and performing extemporaneously, relying heavily on the ability to think and communicate simultaneously, I was mortified at my lack of even basic coherence. I hung up, imagining Obi Wan's face as he listens to the inarticulate babbling, sure that he now thinks I must have a ghost writer for my work.

So, at any rate, tonight I'm in a Middle Eastern restaurant watching (and dancing with) my dancer friend. There is a rowdy group of customers celebrating a birthday and we are all shouting encouragement as the men get up and dance. And then out of the corner of my eye, I see that my cell phone is flashing. It's OB1. So without thinking, I grab it and swipe the Droid unlock to answer it.

And then I stare at the phone.

I become acutely aware of my surroundings: middle eastern music blasting away, people clapping and shouting, dancer's zils blazing; there is no chance whatsoever that I will be able to hear anything OB1 may say in response to anything that I am probably going to shout, spontaneously babbling.

So I stare at the phone. And then it happens.

Before I go any further, I have to relate what happened to me and Elaine at Easter Mass a couple of years ago. Elaine and I were sitting in the middle of a pew together in the center of a large Catholic church, listening as a visiting priest sang part of the liturgy. For those of you not Catholic, normally the cantors (real singers) sing parts of the liturgy. This unfortunate man, alas, was tone deaf and struggled mightily to sound even remotely musical. However, he did achieve an odd rolling rhythm that was eerily familiar. Elaine and many members of the congregation struggled to stay focused, but I was on a tangent, fully absorbed trying to identify that cadence and figure out where I had heard it before. I was unaware that Elaine was now biting her lip in an effort to maintain control.

Suddenly, I recognized the rolling, rolling rhythm and I leaned over to Elaine, when the priest wound down, and sang quietly into her left ear the triumphant climactic phrase:
"♫ Rawhide! ♫ "

I was unprepared for the consequences of my action.

Elaine exploded into gasping, racking bouts of laughter, startling everyone in the congregation. Her honking volume grew exponentially with each breath; I was swept away by the volcanic pyroclastic flow of her laughter and burst out laughing. As I'm sure you know, trying to contain it only added additional effects like snorting, choking and tears. I could only think "Get Out of here! Get Out of here!" Elaine was way ahead of me, shoving her way through the pews, barely able to breathe through the howling paroxysms. We staggered outside.
Elaine: HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW
Me: HA HA HA HEE HEE HEE HEE

After several minutes of painful, convulsive laughter, we lay gasping on the grass in our nice Easter Dresses.
Elaine: OMG!
Me: BWHA HA HA HA HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE
Elaine: HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW

And finally another quiet moment of ragged breathing.
Me: We will have to change churches now.

Elaine: BWHAW HAW HAW HAW HAW
Me: HA HA HA HEE HEE HEE HEE

These repeated attempts to regain sanity continued for the rest of the day.
We were pretty famous after that.

At any rate, back to the Middle Eastern restaurant & the Droid. So I'm standing in the middle of the restaurant surrounded by shouting, clapping people dancing to the beat of the crazy loud music and I have answered my cell phone. All OB1 can hear is a melange of serious noises... dominated by my helpless giggling laughter spawned by the complete pathos of the moment that our phone tag has led to.

A Whole New World

2010-12-02T18:37:00.000-08:00

So I'm working away on Web stuff. My coffee is steaming, the flu has been successfully trounced by my immune system, and I did not burn the bacon.

My puppy is playing with her Kiwi bird by drowning it in her water bowl and then violently thrashing it.

I type away on a blog draft and in the middle of a sentence----
Nothing. The screen is frozen. What the --?
I have lost connectivity!
I check the ethernet connection.
I check the router.
I reboot my computer.
My puppy watches all of this with interest.

Then she disappears back under the table and reappears dragging a long blue cable:

Paleo in the High Beta Lane

2010-12-01T16:37:00.000-08:00

So here is my daily breakfast routine:

1) Put 1/2 pound awesome fresh Wellshire bacon in large pan and place on burner.

2) Turn burner on medium.

3) Go to computer to "check on a few things" before flipping bacon.

4) Read email from friend asking opinion about costume color. Go to website, check out costume. Notice other costumes. Check sizes. Consider buying one. Send reply to friend.

5) Read request from student to check a homework assignment. Log into online work. Review student's work and correct it. Send message to student.

6) Think of new idea for Blog and open application to jot down a few notes.

7) Imagine picture that will go well with it, search for the base photo in folders, open Photoshop and...

8) Accck!!

9) Race to the pan in the smoke-filled kitchen and scrape out 1/2 pound of charred remains.

10) Go back to Step 1 and start process again.

If there were a trophy for the largest quantity of bacon burned per month, I would be a double crown winner.

The Sound of Silence

2010-11-30T21:07:00.000-08:00

So I got a couple of emails asking why there has been a black hole of silence in my blog.
I think it's better that I simply report the conversation I had this past weekend:

Brain: Dudes, we need a blog episode and I'm too tired to think of anything

remotely interesting to say.

Rest of Body:

Brain: Stomach? No comment from you?

Stomach: Not available, still enjoying the pumpkin pie and whipped cream

swimming pool down here!

Brain: Um, Immune System?

Immune system: Sorry, a little busy here planning a raid on the out of control Rave

that the germs have going on behind the eyes.

Brain:

Brain:

Brain: Uh, hey, Germs! Do you have a few minutes?

Germs: We're not funny.

Tis the Season

2010-11-21T20:53:00.000-08:00

So my weekends are booking up as companies and people are organizing their seasonal, end of year parties. As Kelly pointed out, nothing says the Holidays like a belly dancer!
This luckily coincides with the slowdown of the school semester so that I have more time for practicing, performing and choreographing, not to mention a little sewing to tweak the fit on costumes (although admittedly my sewing skills are perhaps on the Frankensteinian level.)

And right on schedule, the semester just peaking with loads of projects, exams, grading, and presentations, dancing, workshops, and rehearsals, my sullen immune system senses the impending slow down at work with the advent of the holiday season.

Immune System:   so, uh, hey, how are you feeling, Throat?

Throat : What? What are you --- oh, no, I think...I think I feel sore!

Immune System : No way! And how are you feeling, Metabolism?

Metabolism     : Actually, I feel sort of elevated, but not in a good way...
                          Do we have a fever?

Immune System: Hmmmm, don't know. Hey, eyes, how are you today?

Eyes                : Wait a minute, we feel raw and bloodshot! What's going on?
I think we are being invaded by microbes!

Immune System: Well, how about that? Maybe I should do something about those germs, Maybe I should get off my over-worked-taken-for-granted butt and maybe help you all out One More Time! Well, I'll certainly take it under advisement- once I have finished this delightful glass of champagne.

Rest of Body : This is SO wrong!! You rotter! Brain, Help!!

Immune System : Tsk, Tsk, looks like Mr. Stress has momentarily stepped out. MWHAHAHA!

Stomach : Um, FYI guys, I have heard that lots of barbecue is good for a fever...

Drum Roll Please......

2010-11-19T07:34:00.000-08:00

BOTH ears are up!

Speaking of Milestones

2010-11-16T04:48:00.000-08:00

Mile Marker : five months

2010-11-15T07:27:00.000-08:00

So I'm now five months into this and I finally hit a significant milestone: this was the first day that I noticed a difference in my efforts with Paul. I wasn't floundering & confused. I was actually focused and working!

It feels totally weird to have Paul who is sporting a new IceMan haircut like Steve McQueen's in The Great Escape, talking about "plates" and I know what those are. They are not actually called wheels even though they look exactly like wheels and nothing like plates, at least not the plates at my house.

So anyway, after repeatedly shoving the Pink Prowler that Paul kindly continued to enhance by adding two wheels of weight after each run, I bent over panting against the table legs waiting for the sickening sucking sensation to leave my legs.

Paul:       You have a new PR!

Brain:    Prowler Run?

Stomach: Pork Rinds!

Paul :      Personal Record! You have pushed over 2 1/2 times your weight!

Me:

Me:

Me:

So there it is: a sense of accomplishment not based solely on the fact that I survived intact.

.

Paul decides I need to go another round with the Lacrosse Balls

2010-11-11T19:20:00.000-08:00

TMI

2010-11-10T22:37:00.000-08:00

So Paul had me on my back on the floor with my legs up against the wall. The task was to see how far I could reach to each side with each leg to stretch some technical term muscle/ligament in order to make my squats amazing and powerful! I had slid my legs down the wall and was now actively trying to push them farther apart. Aforementioned tendon now felt like a steel cable tearing through my flesh.

Me: Um, this is as far as my legs will go given the current state of my physical human body.

Paul: Well, I could stand here, like this, and then push down on your legs to get more stretch.

He faces the wall, straddling my torso. As he begins to lean forward, his butt begins a journey out toward my face. And I realize those loose shorts are about to cross the event (line of sight) horizon.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as Paul's baggy shorts hover over my face.

Paul: Ok, I'm going to reach down to push on your legs.

ME: !!!
ME: Auughhh!

Paul:

Paul:

Paul:

Paul: Ok, or maybe not.

in delicto flagrante

2010-11-08T06:48:00.000-08:00

Paul: Can u change ur appt from 3:00 to 2:30?
Me : In class giving test hang on
Paul: Ok
Me : Ok think so. will drive fast.
Paul: ok will b w Mr. J
Me : ok
Paul: thnx 4 b flexible w time
Me : no worries

So while this seems like a pretty innocuous text exchange, the text-versation actually occurred while I was in a classroom watching my students wring out cerebral sweat onto an exam. One of my students came up with a question while I was typing and I actually said with my own human flesh lips, "hang on a sec."

This comment made my student's eyes bulge because my class is like an airplane: the use of electronic devices is not permitted while the plane is in motion. Unauthorized use of a cell phone or iPod interferes with the successful navigation of the class. Students must keep them off until I turn off the Fasten Seat Belt sign. And yet, there I was, blatantly texting while the students struggled with stem-changing verbs.

So I confessed the shamefulness of my behavior to Paul.

Paul (and I am paraphrasing): Well, everyone is hypocritical. After all, look at me with the health diet! And yet, I am a serious cookie monster.
Me:
Me:
Me: This is SO true!

So then I thought, there is no point to being a measly hypocrite:

From now on, I will Be Brazen!

Point-CounterPoint

2010-11-05T22:35:00.000-07:00

Paul: I've thought about blogging my perspective on our training sessions, you know.

Me :   Oh really? You see them differently from the way I do? I think I portray them pretty accurately. And I try to see my efforts from your point of view too: like the
          burning building thing.

Paul: Ha, ha, yeah. Anyway, when I thought about what I was going to blog,
         I couldn't think of a way to describe it that was, well, like not, well,
         that wasn't like kinda mean or anything.

Me :

Me :

Me :

Me :

Paul : Um...wait a minute...

Election Day Results

2010-11-03T06:56:00.000-07:00

Raising the Bar

2010-11-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

So Mr. J. has me working on crunches and butt squeezy things. Then I get up and see that we are heading over to the metal frame where Paul has me do the oxen yoke bar lifts. I'm thinking, ok, I have done these before.
But Mr. J has placed a metal bar at the bottom of the frame.
I stare at Mr. J, confused.
He then says, Today you are going to do a (technical term technical term) lift. While I don't recognize the name, my brain makes a huge leap and accurately translates this into DeadLift.

My entire body breaks into a sweat, and I struggle to understand Mr. J's instructions. This is hard for my brain to do because my low back is letting out a constant wailing scream that rivals a fire engine:

Mr. J.: Ok, you are going to push your ass back and keep your chest up and reach for the bar.
Lower Back: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

Mr. J.: And then fnslkeopnmr vsdlfjvpso jalk oiseurjksf whelrjp lker.
Brain: What? What? I can't hear anything?!
Lower Back: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

Mr. J. : Ok, give it a try.

With the Lower Back in full banshee mode, my hands damp with sweat, and my brain completely bailing and heading out for a drink, I stick my butt back, pushing down into the floor against the outside of my feet and keeping my chest up. I grip the bar, take a deep breath, brace, and push my hips forward.

And stagger backwards, nearly falling.

Mr J. has given me a new bar that I will call the Smurf bar. Although it appears to be a heavy steel bar, it is once again one of his illusions: it is like one of the aluminum edge tubes on a hang-glider, weighing basically nothing.

My whole body is silent.

My brain, slightly tipsy on an adrenaline Martini, says: Well, looks like Someone at the Body Party deserves to wear the Cone of Shame!

Lower back (sniffling): well, it could have been really heavy!

Mr. J.: Ok, well, now that the drama is over, let's try a little weight.

So although the lower back whimpered about how the Rest of Body may be sorry, it held up very well and even got the hang of it as we went up in increments to something bordering actual effort.

Mr. J. is still working the street magic.

Just how sleep-deprived am I?

2010-11-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

So driving home today I thought, 'I need to blog about my Tuesday training with Paul and then I need to blog about my Thursday training with Mr. J.'

And then my Brain thought: the way I am traded back and forth, I should refer to them as Mr. P and Mr. J.

Brain: In fact, I can think of them as my PJs. Ha ha ha!

Brain: Wait, even better, it's like a P & J sandwich!

Ha Ha Ha!

Rest of body:
Rest of body:
Rest of body:
Rest of body:

Rest of body: We need more sleep.

Friday: so while Obi Wan is at the Fjords

2010-10-30T11:45:00.000-07:00

so while Obi Wan is at the Fjords

Professor Plum and Mrs. Peacock head out to the Clue Party.

Where I get to hang out with other gamer characters..

Obi Wan in Noreg

2010-10-29T06:50:00.000-07:00

Back on the Blog

2010-10-27T17:44:00.000-07:00

So I've had kind of a rough week, juggling a lot of slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and decided I'd better regroup before getting back on the blog.

Anyway, Tuesday morning I'm back at the Presidio for another metaphysical journey with Kelly. I was eager to hear about his Russian Bath House experience but figured I'd wait patiently as he reviewed my shoulder mobility.
As he started working away at the shoulder mechanism, Kelly began, "So about the Russian Bath House..." I waited with bated breath for him to continue. My breath was bated because he was pushing down too hard for me to inhale.
"Alas, the Russian Bath house was closed!" (Ok, maybe he didn't actually say "alas" but he implied it.)
I can't exactly remember why he said that it was closed. I think it had to do with a liquor license problem.
He then regaled me with a hilarious story of what he ended up doing in New York instead which incidentally did not involve good Cuban food.

Then he dropped another Kelly conversation-explosive (and I am paraphrasing here): "So tomorrow I am off to the Land of Ice and Snow, from the Midnight Sun where the hot springs blow."

My eyeballs bulged (and not just because I was lying face down.) What?! What?!
I immediately considered explaining that I am good at braiding hair and folding clothes and would therefore make an excellent assistant.

So anyway, he is now arriving in Valhalla-ville.

I googled Norwegian Bath House.

Alas for Kelly, No Results.

Happy Birthday, Cupcake Girl!

2010-10-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

Where am I?

2010-10-19T20:48:00.000-07:00

So I woke up this morning (like, 2am) thinking about Dennis Wholey's observation that expecting the world to treat you fairly because you are a good person, is like expecting a bull not to charge because you are a vegetarian. I first read this when I was twelve, and it just burned straight from my eyes into my brain as a very wise thing to remember.

Anyway, turning this over in my mind, I hit the commuter lanes at 5:30 for a thoughtful drive to the Presidio. I like to arrive a little early to admire the people working out. They make all that lifting and push-ups seem so easy. I can't wait to be reincarnated as an amazon (or an amazon painter.) I think I was once a bellicose Bedouin fighter. But possibly, as said fighter, I was arrogant, and so was reincarnated deliberately as a weeny-sized woman to get some perspective. If so, it has totally worked because while I fiercely admire strength, skill and determination, I am totally in love with belly dancing, cute bras, pancakes, and watching otters play.

But I digress.

So today Kelly worked on that first rib so hard (using both thumbs) that I thought my left eyeball was going to explode. My stomach (in a gesture of solidarity for my flaming eye) nearly tossed the 4:30am bacon & eggs onto Kelly's shoes (but that is a waste of good bacon.) He did listen kindly to my whingeing and then promptly squeezed all the stress out of me.
Kelly wrested a new range of movement out of my shoulder while he told me stories of dancing around drinking pisco in Chile, of using a Chinese network to get his passport renewed, and of future travels to a Russian Bath House.

By the time he was done, I not only had new shoulder mobility, but also some new mental mobility:
I have an existential map; it has ‘you are here’ written all over it. -Steven Wright.

Good friends make sure you don't get lost.

But every now and then

2010-10-18T06:30:00.000-07:00

there is the Up moment.

So Mr. J handed me a large black plastic tube. "Lift this straight over your head."
I grabbed the tube and started to lift it overhead. It lunged to the right with a sloshing sound. It was filled with water. I gripped more tightly and struggled to get it level.

Mr. J : Yeah, so just hoist it overhead, keep yourself organized and walk down to the
           speed bump and come back.
Me    : You know, just FYI, this tube would be way more stable if they took more care when they filled it. If it were tightly full of water, the tube wouldn't be so hard to control.
Mr. J :
Mr. J :
Mr. J :
Me    : Ok, then. I'm walking.

I was still thrilled that my shoulder would actually let me lift something straight overhead so I wasn't complaining as I lurched across the parking lot. Going out was fine. Turning around caused the water in the tube to start sloshing from one end to the other. On the trip back, my arms got tired as they strained to keep from dropping the tube. Mr. J barked out helpful comments, like "No, keep it straight over head!" and "Keep your arms back!"

But the third trip I had figured out how to organize: I had to tighten up my core the same way I do for sword-balancing except.

During that last walk, I had a momentary flash that made me grin:
for one shining second I felt like She-Ra Princess of Power.

More Legerdemain with Mr. J

2010-10-15T06:19:00.000-07:00

So between Prowler runs & squats, Mr. J observing and I, panting discussed favorite candy, snacks, food, & favorite ways to eat and/or prepare said foods. I thoroughly encouraged him to invest in a pastry blow torch because it is a much faster and more entertaining way to melt butter on English muffins or cook the yolk on eggs.

He agrees with me that Bacon, Butter and Beef are all individual food groups with serious RDAs. He likes to eat at home-style Taquerías that have fútbol & telenovelas blasting on the TV (even though he isn't sure what he is ordering unless it's carnitas.)

Anyway, in light of all this sharing, I felt it only fair to let him know about spreading butter on Graham Crackers as a snack. And to let him know about the origin of the Graham Cracker...(look it up: comes under weird but true.)

And, the trump card:

He has a Barbie pink roller suitcase

(seriously, is that hot or what?)

Up and Down and Down

2010-10-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

So Tuesday morning I drove to SF in complete darkness, enjoying way lighter traffic. This is because I now drive out to see Kelly one hour earlier. I'm on the road by 5:30am.

It was still dark when I arrived at the Presidio, but there were no street lights. The nice office with the nice bathroom was not open. This meant using a dark Port O'Pot. It has some interesting Christmas style lights draped around, but actually, now that I think about it, it is probably better that it is pretty dark in there.

So I was able to show Kelly how far I had come along: I could jump up and grab the bars to hang from them.
He smiled. "Can I see that again?"
Me (thinking, uh-oh) : Um, Ok!
Kelly: Can you make the hollow rock position? Pull in. Don't raise the ribcage.
Me : Um, ok!
Kelly : Is your butt tightened?
Me (mentally slapping my butt upside its slacker head) : Um, of course!
Kelly : Can you point your toes?
Me : Ummmmmkkkk.
Clearly, I need to work hard on my Rigid Otter position.

Kelly then set up the Trapeze Rings low to the ground. "Let's have you do a push up using the rings so you can improve that shoulder rotation!"
Me (heart sinking down into my bowels) : um, ok!
I was determined to do this, but push-ups are not what I would consider my forte. I suspect I may need to be Reincarnated before I become adept at push-ups.
My hands gripped the rings (the upside: rings are easier on my wrists!) (the downside: Kelly was about to witness the depths of my weenitudity.)
Kelly watched me for a few seconds as I tried to control my arms. He frowned, "Well, you can do it from your knees. Or just go as far as you can."
I did not dare mention that actually that was what I was trying to do.
Then he added, "and let's make the rings lower."

The rings were now like an inch off the ground. I got straight-armed but once I started to lower down, I felt my body turn into a wriggling eel. I tried to figure out what to focus on most, and hoped my body would just organize instinctively (like with the Prowler.) But, no, every body part was apparently too immature to make any decisions without mental direction. I squeaked like an otter as I slithered to the ground and then struggled to get back up.
Kelly:
Kelly:
Kelly:
Kelly: Well, you have the idea, at any rate!

It could have been worse:
He could have come up with a rhetorical situation involving a burning building in which a ring push-up was required to save a loved one's life.

Part 2 Infinity Digression : Infinite 8s

2010-10-13T06:30:00.000-07:00

So if we look at a woman's body, we can see the Infinity shape vertically:

In the lower loop, there is another horizontal infinity shape in the hips:

In the upper loop, there is an upper infinity shape in the ribcage,

and yet another in the shoulders,

and even more in the arms themselves.

Because movement flows and is not static, feminine dance literally embodies infinity.

Part 1 Digression 4 : Infinity & the Nature of Dance

2010-10-12T04:34:00.000-07:00

Warning: if you hate theory stuff and would rather read about me crumpling under heavy weights and pushing metal stuff on pavement, just skip this one (and Part 2, although it does have nice photos.)

So I've had this theory for years and figured I may as well put it in writing somewhere other than the dance course packs I make.

Actually the Infinity Theory first crystallized for me with Literature and the development of philosophies and approaches. Most analysts refer to a back and forth pendulum movement (reaction to reaction) of literary movements, but I knew this was inadequate. This assumes a linear motion in one direction before a reactionary movement in the other. Human dynamics (and binary life in general) makes this impossible (besides, exactly what is said pendulum hanging from?) Finally, while exploring the nature of duality in Carlos Fuentes' Aura, it hit me.

It isn't a pendulum movement. It's an infinite movement in which one motion already engenders the contrary movement by the initiation of movement itself. Think of waves - as one wave rises, it does so by pulling at the water in front of it : for some water to move forward, other water has to pull back. When a wave falls and flows forward on one side of the ocean, the water on the other side of the ocean pulls back and rises in a crest.

Imagine the infinity symbol as a constant flow rather than a static typed image, and I think you will see what I mean.

So when one literary movement begins, by its sheer beginning, it inspires & defines its own reactionary counterpart that will eventually replace it as the driving literary movement.

Ok, yadda yadda yadda, what has this to do with dance?

Music breaks down into natural 8s (which I believe result from the 8 beat rhythm of our heartbeats.)
In belly dance we recognize the figure 8 shape of a woman's body. We refer to movements in eights: We talk about "up 8s" (Little Egypts), "down 8s" (Mayas), "front & back 8s" etc.
I don't think they are eights. They are infinity symbols. Our movements are not isolated. When the "up 8" starts, there is already the downward movement from the other side that will slide into the upward movement thus taking the originating movement from up to down. It isn't tracing a figure 8: Tracing a figure 8 implies a beginning and an end and that somewhere is the originating point. Also it means that we have selected a point of our body that travels along the shape of the 8.

Instead, what we are really doing is manifesting infinity (gestalt) within ourselves.

to be continued...

Magic Man : pulling the effort out of the hat

2010-10-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

So Paul dumps me for a couple of weeks (supposedly he is celebrating birthdays, anniversaries and stuff) and has left me in the care of Mr. J.

So Mr. J sizes me up the first day and says: Ok let's warm up with some rowing!

Me: Ok!

So I row my 500 meters, keeping my time under my personal Slacker-Zone number (which I totally do not share with Paul.) I had some stress to work out so I felt pretty good about it.

Mr. J gives a gentle cough: um, no, let's do, say, a thousand meters.

Me: Um, ok!

and I row another 500 meters which admittedly is a little harder than the first 500, especially since now I feel I have to maintain the same rate or better.

What makes the rowing interesting is that Mr. J is a story-teller. This is pretty cool except he makes me laugh which may be some sort of secret personal trainer move to keep my abs engaged but does mess with my ability to stay organized.

Mr. J: Ok, let's go drag stuff.

Me: Ok!

He doesn't put the same big wheels on the sled thingy that Paul does, so I think, well, after I pull it, I'll let him know that I might could do more.

Mr. J: Pull it to the end of the road and back.

Me: Ok!

So we walk, I'm dragging, he's talking. He interjects quiet suggestions into his stories, like, "stand up a little straighter" or "lift your knees up a little as you walk." I'm talking too, but I notice that it takes a little more effort. In fact, I'm starting to feel it all over. We get back to the main door, and I hand him the straps.

Mr. J: Oh, wait, let's do that again. This time, pull backwards.

Me:

So I do the arm pull thingys which is a tedious process and fails to generate any interesting imagery. Fortunately, Mr. J ambles along next to me asking questions and telling stories and occasionally sliding in casual comments on my form. The small short pulls keep us at a turtle pace. But he explains that these little midget movements work my [insert trainer technical terms.]

By the time we head back, my shoulders are like live coals , Mr. J knows a lot of personal info about me, and I am getting familiar with his sense of humor.

I drop the straps, put on a fine PF and trail after Mr. J to the mats.

Mr. J: You can do some crunches to finish up

Me: Ok! How many?

Mr. J: I don't know, maybe until the end of the next story.

Me: Ok!

Me (several minutes into his hilarious story): Ha ha! um, how many more? (this is a rough translation from the gasping sounds I squeaked out.)

Mr. J: I don't count much. How about until the end of the next story?

Me: Ok! (in voice like a chipmunk's)

Mr. J: Hmm, let me think. What story should I tell? Huh....

Me:

He does finally tell a story. I stand up, and I'm shaped like a question mark, feeling as though I have stapled my intestines to my spinal cord and will no longer be able to digest food normally.

Mr. J has fooled me with his sleight-of-hand approach.

Happy Birthday, Kelly!

2010-10-10T10:09:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday, Paul!

2010-10-09T14:39:00.000-07:00

Field Trip in which I don't see Angel but find Kwai Chang Caine

2010-10-07T18:23:00.000-07:00

So I'm back in SF, bright and early. I'm totally thrilled with the range of motion I have garnered by hanging from trees and other available monkey bars and can't wait to show Kelly.

I demonstrate my progress and bubble enthusiastically about the stuff I can do. I marvel, "And, dude, as my shoulder gets looser, amazingly the rest of me is stronger and more flexible. I can do more now with my hips and my back and...."

I notice the corner of Kelly's mouth twitching and I look up at his eyes - sure enough, he's trying not to laugh.

Master Po (Kelly) gives me a beatific smile, basically saying, yes, young grasshopper, you begin to see the light of the whole body gestalt. The universe and your very own self are tightly interconnected which incidentally is why we don't make the Pain Face.

Oh well. Early morning enlightenment comes slowly to me in the wee coffee-less hours.

The "Why Sitting Sucks" Seminar

2010-10-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

Theory becomes Reality

Sliding Home

2010-10-05T04:39:00.000-07:00

So after a lot of fun in my last presentation, I set out from RDU for the trip home to the Bay Area. This time I went through Atlanta where there was a small hitch with a last minute gate change that required a 28 gate dash, but I pulled it off. I even had an aisle seat.

The seats were still tighter than I am use to since I'm spoiled by SouthWest and JetBlue, but the crew was friendly, and I saw baskets of snacks.

The flight crew went into the usual safety spiel. I always dutifully pull out the safety card and look at the airplane configuration. I figure they do have to let us know about the safety and it just seems awfully rude not to listen. Besides, you never know if something may have changed in the procedures.

Anyway, the man doing the talking had just gotten to the part about "In the event of sudden cabin depressurization, oxygen masks will fall from the compartments directly overhead. When you are through screaming, place the mask over your face, draw the straps tightly and breathe deeply--" WHAT? What did he say?? When you are through screaming? It took me a few seconds to decide if that was funny or not, but by then he had moved onto "As we taxi to the runway we'll dim the cabin lighting, thus enhancing the looks of those around you." I burst out laughing as did the woman sitting next to me. Most people were not listening and so they gave us some hard looks, clearly wondering what we found so funny.

I can't help but love a flight attendant who can use "thus" and "enhancing" in a single sentence that is at once informative and hilarious.

The flight was smooth, uneventful, snack-loaded and included a TV so I could watch the plane move across the US. The shuttle home was equally quick.

Now I just needed a quick nap before getting ready for a dance show... Where did I pack my glitter?

Happy Otter

2010-10-04T07:25:00.000-07:00

Happy Otter, Happy Shoulder

...and unbelievably this fabulous spa/pool was always empty no matter when I came down for a swim (a couple times a day!)

Grounded

2010-10-04T06:45:00.000-07:00

The car rental agent was not an NC native. The agent assessed my disheveled, red-eyed, slightly crazed appearance and decided this could work to her advantage. She gave me an incomprehensible speech about why I should upgrade to a mid-size car. I said, "No thanks." She continued to counter with reasons why I really wanted a mid-size car and I kept repeating I wanted the car I had reserved. As I repeated, "no", she began to list what I did not have with my current compact: "You won't have electric windows: you will have to roll up the windows by hand," and "You won't have air-conditioning" until I got the impression I had actually somehow signed-up for a donkey and cart.

I caved and got the mid-size upgrade just to get away from her. She handed me a folder and said, "go pick whichever mid-size you want." I looked out the window at roughly 4,000 cars. I blinked. "Which ones are mid-sized?" She was already texting on her phone, "Whichever you want." I felt Ass-Smacking Harry welling up from deep within: "Point out my options." She waved in the direction of the window, "Any." I leaned across the counter, and gritted out, tears burning in my eyes, "Point to a car and tell me the color! Like 'take the grey one right there or the red one over there." She rolled her eyes and said, "Any of the cars in the middle." I walked away thinking two things: 1) I would never rent from Alamo again and 2) I sure hoped the car I picked was actually better than mid-sized.

I tossed my purse into the front seat and then stared at my gigantic roller bag. 36 hours ago it seemed like a good idea to pack everything into one bag. Horrified, I realized that Paul had been right: I would have to deadlift something heavier than my purse. There were no nice attendants around to help me. I was going to have to wrestle that 50 pound bag into the back seat by myself. I'm not going to describe the pathetic struggle that ensued (since I already know that Paul will get a lot of mileage out of this incident,) a struggle worsened by decaffeination, hunger and sleep-deprivation.

First stop: Starbucks. It was at this point that I knew I was in the South. When I lurched into Starbucks, the woman behind the counter took one look at my frazzled-ass self and said kindly, "Honey, you have had one rough morning!" I explained my story, and she shook her head and offered, "One double venti lattee extra fat foam coming up. But you sit yourself down and I'll bring it over in a moment. And take this muffin. You need it." The couple behind me talked about their travel experiences and watched my stuff while I went to the restroom to splash my face with water (I did not to look in the mirror.)

I then began my four hour roller coaster drive on a series of strangely empty Twilight Zone highways through the amazing Blue Ridge Mountains. I managed to dominate both of the available lanes in my direction so the lack of traffic was quite fortuitous.

In the end, I parked in front of my Cupcake Girl's house, weaved a path to her porch, sank gratefully onto the swing and closed my eyes, my feet at last on the ground.

Part 3: How I arrived in the end

2010-10-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

So our over-sharing pilot comes on and explains that because we are so late, we are going to fly extra fast to try to make up the time. So our nearly five hour flight will now be only three hours. And, just FYI, this bird is pretty loaded and a little heavy so we'll need the whole runway to take off.
This is a clear case of TMI.

We finally took off and I stretched out my feet, put my dog Springer behind my head and let myself doze. I was looking forward to whatever snack they might serve as my stomach was starting to gnaw on my duodenum.

The plane was bumping and shimmying around, and the seat belt sign stayed on. The stewardesses stayed seated. The pilot came back on. I thought, Shouldn't he be busy flying the plane, especially since we were speeding? Anyway, he came on to tell us that because we were hustling that it would be a rough ride and that we needed to stay in our seats.

Ten minutes later, he paged for a physician, nurse or paramedic. The man in front of me raised his hand. "I am a doctor," he said calmly (just like on TV!) The flight attendant unbuckled herself and rushed over to take him to the first class section. He came back a few minutes later and got out a medical bag. I could hear him talking with his wife and the attendant. Apparently, a woman in first class thought she was having a heart attack and the pilot was deciding whether we should go back or head to the nearest airport. The doctor went back up front for a few more minutes, and then came back to his seat where he informed the stewardesses that he was pretty sure that this was a panic attack brought on by stress (I could totally understand this) so he gave her some Valium.

With the emergency resolved, I figured the attendants would start serving snacks. But instead, they wobbled back to their seats to buckle back in for the rest of the flight.

We arrived with a prolonged landing on the runway. I staggered down to baggage claim to get my bag. My bleary eyes would not focus together, and my internal organs were devouring each other.

Next Stop: The car rental agency

It's The Pit's: and don't you wish you were here!

2010-10-01T07:18:00.000-07:00

Part 2: Then things got freaky

2010-09-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

2) But we had arrived late. I had barely enough time to race to the next gate and catch my flight to Raleigh. And no time to find food: I was going to have to settle for airplane snacks.

As I boarded I discovered to my horror that I was in the very last seat next to the window at the back of the plane. And the first two seats were taken up by two very nice, but very large individuals. I was crammed up against the glass (and I am not making this up) with my right foot on the seat so that I was staring at my right knee. I tried to imagine five hours flying with one leg down and one up at all times. Was this legal?

The kid in front of me was steamily ill, snuffling and sweating. He had an empty seat next to him on the aisle, kept clear by the attendants.

The plane was packed. I had stuffed my bags in the overhead compartments in the front as I worked my way to the back so there was nothing under my seat-let (or else I would have had both legs ups.) The flight attendants began making other passengers take their carry-ons back out to be checked since the bins were full. When everyone was finally boarded, we headed out to the runway.

Where we sat. And sat. And sat.

The pilot came on to tell us that there was an emergency light on the panel that would not resolve and that it needed some mechanics look at it. After 30 more minutes of waiting, the plane began rocking like mad and got smellier with exhaust fumes as the pilot gunned the engines.

We all looked around, like, hey, does this sound good to you?

After several more minutes of this, the pilot came back on to tell us that the plane needed to go back to the gate for repair and assessment. This process took 30 minutes as we had to wait for another plane to back out of the gate first.

Then the really long wait started: so long that the stewardesses began serving drinks. I felt sweaty with claustrophobia. We waited for over an hour and a half until the pilot finally came back on to let us know that the problem was with the reverse thrusters which weren't really that important except for landing; but since RDU had nice runways it really wouldn't be that much of a problem. So what the heck, we were going anyway!

As the plane taxied out to the runway, I had had enough of being origami Naiya. I had tried to think about what Kelly would tell me to do (put a lacrosse ball under the one butt cheek actually in contact with the seat?) and what Paul might say to do (Go to my Happy Place?) but then I decided to do what I figured ass-smacking Harry would tell me to do: I unbuckled my seat belt, struggled to my feet, and told the couple in my row to get up to let me out. I lurched up to the next row and plopped down into the single empty aisle seat next to the snuffling sick kid. I didn't care if the attendants tried to arrest me, I was not going back into that corner. They glared at me indecisively but I think my starved, half-crazed "I know Harry" look kept them buckled into their seats.

The Road to Enlightenment has many paths...

(to be continued....)

Finding the Otter Zone

2010-09-30T03:39:00.000-07:00

Part 1: The Best Laid Plans or how it started

2010-09-29T15:30:00.000-07:00

So this is what I had planned:

1) I would drive to SFO after an easy 6-hour day of giving tests where I would get a sandwich before flying to LAX to catch

2) the red-eye on which I would sleep until I landed in NC

3) where I would rent a car and drive to VA to relax before the conferences.

This is what occurred in Naiya Realityland:

1) After the series of exams which I packed up to take with me, I arrived at SFO dragging my heavy suitcase loaded with my own pillows, snacks, and that plastic jar of fish oil capsules. I then dragged my computer bag bulging with my emergency 50-foot ethernet cable (I am not making that up) & carry-on through Security where I actually had to take off my hair clip.

Upon arriving at my gate, I discovered to my stomach's horror that I was in the only terminal that had NO food other than a newsstand with snack packs. I bought a $5.50 bottle of water, figuring to buy food in LAX's loaded food courts.

And then I waited.

And waited.

Our flight was late and I got hungrier and bored. At first I graded exams for a while, but it occurred to me that I'd be sitting all night so I may as well walk around. I circled the gate but I couldn't go too far in case there was an announcement regarding our flight.

So I decided, what the heck, I'll do some of Kelly's Mobility Stuff at the airport. It's not like I was trying to date anyone there. So I started with the quad/hip flexor stretch. As I crouched on the seat stretching away using my phone to time myself, I noticed people beginning to surreptitiously watch me. Finally, one gentleman politely asked what I was doing and so, of course, I had to explain. Then several other people people came over to chat, and I learned they were from Geek Haven Oracle World. We all continued swapping stories even when I went to the gate ticket counter to do the Behind-the-back arm stretch.

Finally, our flight was called and I enjoyed a nice quick puddle-jump to LAX, comparing software applications with a cool techie from Ohio. As I exited the plane, I was desperately looking forward to getting some food - the first food I would eat since 12 noon when I had eaten a banana....

(to be continued.....)

Cupcake Girls: Carb rampage

2010-09-29T09:42:00.000-07:00

PKWNA: Probably Kelly Would Not Approve

BPSW: But Paul Secretly Would

Monkey Hang: Crystal Springs

2010-09-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

On the Road: Going Primal

2010-09-29T09:24:00.000-07:00

Where's Naiya

2010-09-28T04:50:00.000-07:00

Monkey Swing: Roanoke VA

2010-09-27T03:21:00.000-07:00

Happy in the rain

Do or Do Not. There is no Try.

2010-09-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

"Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you?"

Ok, I so am not Yoda, but now my butt can lift twice my weight. Hey! Now I can use my hips to shove a hefty person out of a burning building....

On the Road

2010-09-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

So I'm totally traveling and taking note of what must be shared as soon as I can get some serious computer and PhotoShop time.

But Kelly can be proud:

Shameless Airport stretches that won friends and influenced people.
Still swinging like a monkey at least once a day.

Coming soon...

Monkey Business

2010-09-23T17:16:00.000-07:00

So after a nice hour and a half commute to the Presidio, I arrived a little early to get my Kelly Fix. Since the heavy fog was lifting, and there was a pretty window of sunlight on the Golden Gate Bridge, I wandered around Chrissy Field in my flipflops greeting all of the friendly dogs.
I then sought refuge in my warm car where I enjoyed a velvety venti lattee. I listened to my new veil song, humming, sipping my coffee, and sketching out new choreography.

At ten 'til the hour, I headed over to Kelly's Office. I stopped in at the Deluxe Port O'Pot (venti coffee, remember?) and thus began the morning trauma. First, by now you would think I would know better than to actually look down into the Pot before using it. There are things you should never have to see with your naked eyeballs, and certainly not in the morning when you haven't finished your coffee. Anyway, while I was washing my hands, I heard a loud truck sound and the structure began to vibrate. Crikey, that truck must be really, really close! I opened the door and nearly banged the back of the service truck which had come to drain the Pot. Panicked, I inched out the door and squeezed past the truck. Seriously, I think they should knock when they see the door is closed.

Anyway, clutching my latte, my pupils a little more dilated than normal, I entered the Cage Zone and said hi to Angel. I probably should talk about Angel since he is pretty much always the first person I see there. Angel has a permanent coffee in his hand; he reminds me of all of my website icons because they all have a coffee in hand even if I have to photoshop it in. He is usually telling athletes to do stuff, just like ass-smacking Harry, except that Angel is super quiet, contained and always smiling in that yeah, hey, uh huh sort of way.
I have visions of someone lurching up to him and saying, "Hey Angel, blood is fountain-ing out of my nostrils, and I think this stuff dripping on my sweatshirt might be grey matter, and do you think this might actually be bone sticking out here?"; and Angel would keep that steady smile, sip his coffee and say quietly, "yeah, great, we'll take a look at it after you finish the pull-ups, deadlifts, and squat-things. Uh huh."
I might be completely wrong about this but just in case, I make sure to smile and say, "hey!"

Anyway, Kelly came out of his office: he looked totally surprised to see me. This was unnerving, more so for coming on the heels of nearly having been sucked into a septic tank. Turns out that he thought I had broken up with him; whereas I thought I'd been dumped: Scheduling mishap.
Um, awkward!

But he juggled me into his schedule and (as usual) there were lots of highlights to the visit (e.g. the Bacon grease moment, the discussion of the gory details of Keanu and my relationship, and Kelly's clawing at the door and shouting for Angel when the door latch broke, momentarily trapping us in the box.) But at the very end, after observing (and feeling rabidly envious of) some athletes hanging by their arms and pulling their legs to the bar, I blurted out that I wished I could do that. Kelly asked, "Why not?"

I don't think he knew the riveting power of those two words. I kept my face calm (PF) but I could feel my inner otter ricocheting around with excitement. I scrambled up onto a tall nugget and grabbed the overhead bars.
I slowly lowered myself and then dropped to my knees and then even sat deeper until I was pretty much mostly hanging by my arms. Success! My ribcage pulled open, and I could TOTALLY breathe. I wanted to hang there for an hour. Kelly had me change my hand position but I had lost focus trying to contain the ecstatic otter who wanted to step off the box and swing away.

The new morning goal: hang like a monkey from any bar I can find.

The Horror

2010-09-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

6am.
Steaming mug at my side.

The post is ready.

I push the button.

My creation does not come to life.

Instead, everything goes dark.

I re-power the machine and find my creation in pieces.

So I'll be a little busy resurrecting the post and piecing it back together.

Body Language: Morning Reveille (& Revelry) in SF

2010-09-21T17:29:00.000-07:00

Stomach: Hey, what is that gooey stuff that Kelly is putting on the Shoulder?

Brain: I don't know. It's kind of an ivory-yellow color.

Stomach: Is that bacon grease? I think it's bacon grease!

Brain: WHAT? WHAT did you say?

Stomach: I think that he is using bacon grease.

Brain: Are you completely mad? And even if it is, what are you thinking? That the Face will chew it off the Shoulder later?

Shoulder: What? What are you talking about? I'm a little tied up right now.

Nose: It doesn't smell like bacon grease.

Stomach: I'm just saying... Well, then, how about more coffee?

Face: I'd like some more coffee, too.

Lungs: Oh, yeah, sure, ok! Let's pour coffee into the Throat while lying flat on the Back on a table. It's not like that will result in, I don't know, maybe my inhaling fluid and all of us choking to death?!

Brain: La-la-la, I cannot hear you, la-la-la.

Shoulder: I'm sorry, were the last four sleepless nights packing ice at 2am not enough of a message for you? Do I need to perhaps repeat myself?

Rest of Body:
Rest of Body:
Rest of Body:

Shoulder: I didn't think so.

Stomach: I still think it's bacon grease.

Life in the Beta Lane

2010-09-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

Although it may seem that I spend all of my time working with Paul, and making field trips to see Kelly, I actually have an all day real job teaching an overload of classes, and a night job teaching dance classes, and another day job doing web work, and a periodic job of educational technology presentations & training, and a periodic job of dance performances.

Sometimes I eat food, and I occasionally sleep.

Although, when I'm eating, I'm probably grading, writing tests, creating activities while at the same time catching up on culturally fascinating (DVRed) TV shows with a fork in one hand and the remote and a pen in the other.

And when I sleep, I'm still sort of working: I've gotten pretty good at lucid dreaming and when stuck in sleep paralysis, I'll kill time by choreographing or just thinking up stuff.

I've realized since moving to CA that there are so many resources here and that people move at such hysterical speeds, that I've become a P&J sandwich with way too much bread and not enough peanut butter.

So when I got invited to speak at two conferences on the East Coast, I thought, "I need to get back to my 'hey y'all' roots. I will go a couple of days in advance, relax a little, and give myself time to organize my ideas and equipment." This would be new and a nice break for me since I generally overbook myself to the point that I am performing on the fly. Plus, the hotel has a pool: I would love to go swimming! I have that totally uber-cute swimsuit....

But my brain started storming ideas to fill what it saw as "available time."

Brain: Hey, Naiya, you know your friend Patty? Her university is only three hours away. You could add a little side trip to see her.

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that.

Brain: You know your friend the author and program coordinator at the conference university will be at your workshop. You should schedule some time to catch up with her.

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that.

Brain: You should see if your mentor has some time available too - she will be in the area.

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that.

Brain: If you take all the exams with you, you can grade them on the plane instead of waiting until you get home.

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that. I had planned to sleep on the red-eye since I have to drive three hours to visit Patty's school after I land, but I guess I could just drink two venti lattees...

Brain: If you put a copy of the web materials on your laptop, you could continue updating the site from your hotel room.

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that.

Brain: You should check out the belly dance scene there!

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that!

Stomach: Hey, and don't forget to find a real East Coast barbecue place!

Me: Wow! That is a good idea. I'll do that.

I heard a heavy sad sigh from across the room. It was my swimsuit, tucked in my suitcase. My swimsuit that I have taken to conferences and many out-of-state show performances over the past couple of years, looking forward to time in the hotel swimming pool.

My cute swimsuit with the price tags still on it.

Episode IV: A New Hope

2010-09-18T21:44:00.000-07:00

I totally over-worked myself! My body has fallen under attack from Darth Shoulder. His Death Star fires at us incessantly, forcing us to retreat to the bleak, remote ice planet Hoth, and keeping the Alliance completely sleep-deprived. This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi-Wan Kellyobi. You're my only hope.

The Grapes of Wrath

2010-09-17T19:18:00.000-07:00

So I'm taking a shower and, upon looking myself over, I see that I am covered with more colorful markings than a cheetah if cheetahs were black and blue.

Bruises are pretty much inevitable when you are being systematically rolled out like cookie dough, and, as it happened yesterday, repeatedly stomped on like a bunch of grapes at harvest time.

So Paul put me through the T-Rex stretch, the new "Buffalo Wing" stretch which felt as though he were attempting to crack my pelvis in half; and finally he stood and stamped out both legs from the knee to, well, higher above the knee.
But he wasn't done pulverizing: he flipped me over and slung one of my legs over a foam roller. He began to re-crush the leg but now from both sides.

"How's that working for ya? Ha ha!" He looked suspiciously as though he might be enjoying this too much. Was this payback for the burning building scenario?

Since I was face down on the floor with a large man grinding my inner thigh into primordial pulp on top of an asphalt-hard roller. I did grit out between clenched teeth that he ought to consider investing in upholstery to pillow the roller. Since I was directly in front of 30 or so high school athletes, I was limited in my exclamations.

By the time Paul was through turning both my legs into steak tartar, I was feeling not only much looser, and light-headed, but also as if I had moved one entire zip-code away from my butt. No doubt I was experiencing the spiritual high of having my leg muscles try to ascend into my chest cavity.

Paul assured me that crushing me with his feet in this way will make me more flexible.

Certainly, it's going to make me more interesting to my doctor at my upcoming annual physical.

Lethal Weapon 3

2010-09-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

"Check this out," Kelly points to his face where he is finely controlling and manipulating a particularly excellent facial tic.

"Can you wiggle your ears?" I ask, wiggling my ears.

He wiggles his ears and then his nose, "Yes, and my nose."

"I can touch my tongue to my nose," I counter, touching my tongue to my nose.

"I can roll my tongue," he arches an eyebrow. "And arch my right eyebrow."

"Me too, except it is my left eyebrow," I say, arching my left eyebrow. "And I can do upper and lower stomach flutters," I point at my torso, demonstrating this.

He says, "Ok, check this out!" He makes several fast arm movements that result in a loud snapping sound reminiscent of the crack of a whip.

I pause, puzzled. Is he snapping his fingers? "How did you do that?"

He demonstrates it again several times and then shows me the red marks on his arm where he is making contact with his side. Somehow he is making that sound with his arm!

And as I stand there wondering what I else I can show him that I can do and is there any way to make it somehow involve noise,
I have this Beta moment in which it occurs to me that we are re-enacting a body-trick version of the movie scene in which Mel Gibson and Rene Russo compare their multiple bullet/knife/taser scars.

Mexican Stand-off

2010-09-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

I stared at Paul. Paul stared at me.
Neither of us would budge.

It started when Paul placed a funky frame (think: donkey equipment) on the ground and began attaching wheels to it. The fact that it was 1) on the ground and 2) loaded with wheels, could only mean he actually intended for me to lift it up.

My inner otter froze, shook his head and squeaked out "no!" From Paul's expression I realized I had channeled both the movement and sound aloud.

He said (basically, I'm summarizing here), "Look, I'll raise it off the ground with these wooden nuggets and even some more wheels to make it easier."

I said, (and I'm summarizing,) "No."

I then pointed out that while I could see myself needing to be able to drag something heavy or push something heavy (like the totally lame computer carts at my school,) I could pretty much promise him I had no plans to deadlift anything heavier than my purse.

So then Paul, narrowing his eyes, sat on a bench and came up with one of those rhetorical scenarios that make you feel awful because they usually involve a loved one in a burning building.

"What if someone you loved is unconscious in a burning building, and you need to lift him out?"

I coolly pointed out that I was now (thanks to him) perfectly capable of pushing a relatively heavy person out of a building. He countered that this would be too slow as the flames were roaring away. I then replied that I would roll the person onto a blanket or rug and drag him out of the building since I had demonstrated pretty dogged ability at the slave drag.

Plus, I had already learned that in panic moments I am capable of "hulkette" flashes and so would surely find some creative and effective method of rescuing said unconscious person (Question to self: And why is this person unconscious and I am not? How can I lift anything if I can't breathe with all that smoke? And is the door close by or could this involve stairs?)

As Paul and I stared each other down, it then occurred to me that he was imagining himself surrounded by flames, disoriented and unable to walk and his life was in the weeny hands of a scrawny belly dancer who would not dead-lift him out of the building.

As Paul looked more and more traumatized about being left charring in the ashes of the building, my inner otter crumbled and shuffled miserably over to the weight set.

My hands were shiny with fear-sweat ("Fear is the Mind Killer") (Ok, but Paul Muad'Dib didn't wake up thinking, hey, I totally want to put my hand in that box) (Read the book.)

So as I tried to get into good squat form, my lower back went all limp like a kid lying on the floor sobbing. I mentally kicked all the body parts' asses and tried to stabilize by sucking everything in as tight as possible; but I still weebled and wobbled in a sadly uncoordinated effort.

But I finished by totally holding my breath, and by keeping a fixed image in my mind: I was roasting a marshmallow on a stick over a campfire. Or maybe it was something larger.
At any rate, my totem otter is as pliant and wiggly as my lower back:
In our The Good, the Bad and the Ugly standoff,
I blinked first.

Bright and Chipper the next morning!

2010-09-13T14:55:00.000-07:00

Putting Theory into Practice : the Hookah Mobility-wod

2010-09-12T10:27:00.000-07:00

When it occurred to me that I could blog this

But then my friends came over from the bar to see what the heck I was doing...

Zen and the Art of Prowler Pushing

2010-09-10T18:26:00.000-07:00

So as I bent over and grabbed the prowler legs thinking that secretly I was glad to have a ferociously hard task to channel all my frustration and determination. It is the only task Paul gives me where my whole body is so freaked out that all the parts come together as a team without the brain interfering (my Brain seems to think it can run things better.) My Brain is like Big Federal Government over-controlling all the State-run local businesses with complete disregard for their wildly different needs, and with no idea how to delegate. But I digress.

Back to the Prowler. So I shoved. Nothing happened. I realized instantaneously that Paul had slid an extra wheel or something onto the Prowler. Determined to pretend I had not noticed this stealthy maneuver, I bent over further, dug my toes into the crease in the sidewalk and shoved harder: the prowler screeched and scraped across the parking lot. My body tightened up in terror and ran on instinct.

What? Someone already had this idea for a movie?

My brain, now completely free to kick back and Beta-away, began to examine the experience of the prowler. It's a mixed experience : part of the difficulty of pushing is the joy of effort. This joy is counter-balanced by the vampire blood-sucking sensation when I stop pushing. But then the horror of the draining-death sensation makes the joy of the effort that got me there even sharper.

Does this make sense? My Brain, sipping champagne and nibbling a water cracker, thought so.

So to distract myself from the creepy sense that my energy was seeping through every cell wall into some giant dimensional leech, I tried to think what that sensation actually was. While I am sure that Kelly and Paul have loads of technical terms, I was thinking metaphysically.

But I'll bet no one has thought of *this* movie idea!

This is what I came up with:
The prowler sucks all the bad stuff out of you. It sucks out the pain & misery that you ever experienced. It sucks out all that negative goo that clumps around your spirit giving you nightmares about exploding veins, swamps, driving off unfinished bridges, thus reducing you to a mere battery in the Matrix.

Anyway, it sucks out the bad stuff; and now you have space to put in new good stuff.

So then my brain, chewing thoughtfully on a chocolate wafer, wondered why sucking out bad stuff would have to feel so gross! But then I thought, well, it's hecka less painful having the Metal Leech drain out the misery and unhappiness than it was to go through the uber-painful suffering of bad experiences in the first place.

Anyway, all of this is probably just prowler-delirium, since my brain was not integrated with my body as it staggered spewing sweat and foam through all ten runs without collapsing which is actually quite amazing considering Paul felt it necessary to cheerfully recount a series of vomiting stories to me between runs.

Portrait of a Renaissance Man

2010-09-09T18:15:00.000-07:00

Leonardo would have subscribed to Kelly's MWOD Blog.

I'm getting the hang of driving to San Francisco at 6am. Granted, I'm half awake, but I'm totally pleasant and polite on the road. When I'm not cutting off the jerks.

I love the smell of the Bay, and so if I am lucky enough to arrive early, I hang out looking at the water, waiting to enter Kelly's Pain Box: "Fear is the Mind Killer," he reminds me.

Anyway, working with Kelly is a little different than working with other PTs that I've seen in the past. While that may seem sort of like, duh, in terms of his knowledge and skill, it's that he has a seriously developed persona. BTW, I still have deep affection for the physical therapist I went to years ago because both of us crazy love high heels. I have not asked Kelly his opinion on heels.

seriously, Katmandu!

Anyway, this persona, Kelly, has a habit of dropping nuclear tidbits, like today when he started out with, "When I was 21 and tired of teaching kayaking in Katmandu..."   Since he had my arm in an interesting grip that had my apparently casual but in reality full penetrating focused attention, I mumbled, um, wow or something similarly coherent, totally showcasing my charm and wit.

So while I was pretending to be on a separate planet from my shoulder, I also spent some beta time trying to imagine if I could actually say anything even remotely as interesting as that about any point in my life.
On a scale of 1 (bare existence) to 10 (seriously living):
Kelly: Katmandu "10"
Me:    I got kicked out of Spain after they canceled my Visa while I was an exchange teacher at the University of Sevilla. I had 48 hours to leave, went to England and got mono.   "4" [story better told while drinking]
Kelly:    Thailand "10"
Me:      I got to see the Pope really close in Rome when the guards mistook me for a member of a visiting choir.   "5" (I'd make that a 8 if I'd actually had to sing.)
Kelly:    Ft. Bragg Special Forces "10"
Me: I got to ride in a submarine around Charleston Bay once.   "7" -actually that was pretty awesome.
Kelly:   I'm one degree of separation from Mandy Moore. "10"
Me:    I met Dina in Canada and she was totally nice to me. Plus I dated Keanu Reeves. "11"

The mad, crazy passion of our tumultuous affair could not withstand the insurmountable odds of our never having met.

I actually did not get to say any of that because he was making little twisty motions with my arm that made it feel as though he were grinding the head of my humerus (upper arm bone) (I looked it up) against a stainless steel cheese grater.

He then revealed serious geek qualities as well by quoting BladeRunner : Director's cut (really!) (but can he quote Star Trek..?) and talking philology.

I'm sure I've just scratched the surface of his renaissance-ish-ness.
So, in one of his blog commentaries, when he says : "Nicht nicht!", I can't be sure if he is alluding to Paul Watzlawick ("One Cannot Not Communicate (Man kann nicht nicht kommunizieren): Every behaviour is a kind of communication. Because behaviour does not have a counterpart (there is no anti-behaviour), it is not possible not to communicate")

or if he is quoting Sasha Cohen's Bruno...

The Fallout continues... or how working with Paul is possibly adding TMI to my professional life

2010-09-08T20:19:00.000-07:00

"Super bien!" I told my students. "Ok, Vamos a la página 14 para ver más expresiones útiles!"
I reached up to write on the board.

Now my college students are used to watching me laboriously erase the board with my left arm in my Wax on, Wax off effort to loosen up that shoulder joint. That kind of sharing is ok.

So, today, as I began to write on the board, I realized my chocolate-mint scented black marker had dried up and wasn't writing very well. So I bent down to get the cherry-scented red marker. I had to semi-squat to reach into my computer-bag and as I did, I felt the sudden pull of ticked off glute muscle.
"OMG! My butt hurts!"

I think that might be one of the top 100 things students do not expect their instructors to suddenly blurt out in class.

Mental note: Curtains

2010-09-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

I totally function 24/7 in high-Beta which means while I can be hyper-sensitive of external nuance, I can get crazy focused on internal idea. Anyway, there I was staring into space while my brain busily fomented discord among the squabbling body parts about how I was driving Paul crazy with my scandalously bad squat form. I suddenly put down my fork, abandoning my breakfast and marched into my dance studio, utterly determined to get it right.

I took a deep breath, turned sideways to the mirror and did a squat. I looked into the mirror to examine my form. Aha! I was too far forward over my knees. I shoved back farther with the booty. I craned my head to assess my new stance. Better. Then I tried it again with even more back booty action. Definitely better form. But my knees still tended to drift a little in front of the ankles.

I stood, shook out my legs and tried another squat, this time basically handing the car keys to my booty and encouraging it to drive. But it was having some trouble getting completely out of the driveway.

Before: hamstrings activated.
After: hamstrings completely relaxed.

I rocked back more on my heels, lifting the front of my feet completely off the floor. I felt the tug behind my knees : it was the tight hamstrings!

Now I can't really be annoyed with the hamstrings: I have to consider that they pretty much keep my entire torso from collapsing like those push-bottom toys (see pic at left.)

But currently there is a certain point where the hamstrings won't give, and the knees surge ahead of the ankle.

I stayed in the squat position, frowning at my booty, pushing, wiggling, and willing it back further.

And then I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. Movement outside of my large window. Human movement. Crikey! Public view!

I became aware of the entire open-window dance studio scenario in less than a heartbeat:

I'm bent over, head twisted back staring at my bouncing booty...

in my underwear.

(You really thought I'd post a pic of that?
Sorry, you had to be there.
Like my neighbors.)

When there is no context

2010-09-03T19:29:00.000-07:00

Me: I'm having trouble with my balls when I do the work on my back. I can't keep them together so they get uneven as they go down.

Kelly: That's an easy fix! Here, let me tape them together for you.

Me:     Wow! Thanks so much!
    Now I can really dig into those tight spots more evenly!
    I won't have to keep wiggling around, and grabbing at them to move them
          into the right place.

Clarification : click here

Channeling my inner twizzler

2010-09-03T07:15:00.000-07:00

So a friend of mine had a couple of Flexeril and thought that I ought to try one in order to sleep a little better (which BTW actually works provided you don't mind your limbs turning into Gummy Worms.)

I discovered that the advantage of taking Flexeril the night before an appointment with Kelly, is that my arm had the resistance power of the French when Hitler marched through Paris. There was some furtive spitting on the sidewalk, but no serious insurgency.

On the down side, my body was as organized as a wet noodle.

Ok, maybe my offering wasn't presented exactly like this. But it's the coffee joy that counts

I had brought Cuban coffee as an offering . And though I sort of trusted him to share the coffee, I made sure by fixing his coffee first and reserving a wee bit for me.

As this was the first coffee I had swallowed in three years, it was a momentous event. Kelly claims that since it was so long since I had drunk coffee, that I was technically losing my coffee virginity again. I do remember the first time: I walked from Penn State's East Halls all the way down to Willard Hall in the winter. I was so frozen that I bought a vending-machine coffee with 6 quarters. I did not care ni un comino what it tasted like - I only cared that it was hot. Not a great first experience.

It was Grad school that got me seriously hooked on coffee: I started with steamers so I could hang out with the other wired grad students. Being naturally hyper helped me "pass" for a while. But then I moved up to decaf for the flavor, then half-caf, then single shot, then double....well, you can imagine how that went.

Anyway, the caffeine jolt in that small cup of gasolina simply heightened my awareness of my wet-noodle status. I kept thinking it was a good thing he didn't ask me to lift anything other than my arm. It was funny enough when I had to turn over.

It got even funnier when he finished up with what I think of as "giggle-wheels." He twists his hands in a spiral movement on my back, adding lots of pressure at the same time. Theoretically, it should be hard to breathe while a strong man is bearing down on your back like that, but for some reason it pretty much squeezes giggles out of me-perhaps my back has a unique sense of humor I have yet to explore.

At any rate, wiggly, caffeinated and a little more mobile in the shoulder: not a bad way to start to a full day of teaching.

Dragging my wheels

2010-09-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

So it was only 2 billion degrees outside and Paul says, here, drag these wheels out to the white trailer and come back. I squinted through my sun glasses which were becoming sort of molten on my face, and said: um, ok.

I turned to ask him whether I was dragging in full Egyptian slave-mode, or pulling backwards with my shoulder blades. But Paul had ducked back into the A/C to do something that involved his returning into the A/C.

The effect of the heat on me was already obvious since my question was pretty inane. There was no way I was going to successfully drag those wheels across the parking lot using any method other than that of grimly bent-over slave.

My sun-induced delirium produces imaginary co-workers

As I trudged under the flaming ball of gas and flame that we often refer to as "the sun", sweat trickling down my neck, I suddenly remembered the slave in The Ten Commandments whose clothing gets stuck under one of the blocks being dragged to the pyramid. He gets dragged along and is eventually crushed by the stone. So I'm wondering how he got sucked under the stone - like did his leg go first and then the rest of him followed? Or did the stone just slowly scrape away and shred him to death?

I finally reached the white trailer and didn't bother to reach out a hand to touch it: I just bent forward and banged the top of my head on it (my melting brain sloshed inside.) I did a big turn and started back, hugging the wee bit o'shade behind the parked cars.

Plodding like a plow-horse toward the air-conditioned gym, I returned to my morbid thoughts of the crushed Egyptian slave. I thought, how thirsty the stone-haulers must have been in the desert, and how thirsty I am, and, will I be able to reach my water before I dehydrate, and, if I dehydrate and crumple like a raisin on the ground, will my hands be locked in a pit-bull death grip on the straps and

"Hey!" Paul's smiling voice sounded in my ear, "How's it going? Ha ha." Little puffs of chilled air still floated around him.

If my eyes hadn't been seared nearly closed, they would have jumped out of my head. Clearly, the flaming air rising from the pavement had affected my ability to hear even Paul approaching.

I'm going to get my iced tea. And a cookie. Pull faster while I'm gone.

And I'm sure it was the heat-induced delirium that generated the interesting but unsavory images that flitted through my mind at that moment. I was bloody well focused on getting those screeching wheels back to the door, but I took a breath to point out that he really ought to remember that the slaves eventually rebelled and did in all the overseers who had been carried around in litters fanning themselves.

Paul: Ha ha! Ok, when you finish, we'll do some lifting.

Me:

Me:

Me:

Paul is lucky that he wasn't wearing any long rags that could have gotten tangled in my wheels.

Totem Envy

2010-09-01T17:35:00.000-07:00

So I had this whole post written about totem animals, and then as my finger hovered over the publish button, I froze. Wait! What was I thinking!? I was about to totally out Kelly's totem animal. Surely that violates some sort of T.A. protocol? Crikey, did I nearly commit an uber-crass blog faux pas?

So I scrapped the post and spent a half hour writing about coffee instead (Coming soon!)

But I did spend some time thinking about what my totem animal would be.

Somehow, I suspect my totem animal may not be particularly dramatic.

Naiya, are you making coffee? Coffee! Coffee! Coffee! Wanna make snow angels? Let's play with photoshop! What happens if we press that? Ouch! Whoa! Don't do that again! Wow, that smells amazing, doesn't it? Hey! let's dance outside, you know, where the stars are! Ok, we'll just lie here and watch the rain fall. Are you going to finish your bacon? I mean, I'm just asking...

Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

2010-08-30T16:27:00.000-07:00

Field Trip to Café Kelly

2010-08-27T21:34:00.000-07:00

Mental Note: Think twice before ever again googling 'Scary Seat Belt'

It isn't everyday that I am lying on a table while a large muscular man straps what appears to be a complicated seat belt around his waist in preparation for laying hands on me. I am learning just how far my eyes can rotate to the side while the rest of my face is acting casual.

So on one of the worst days ever to be a big rig in the Bay Area (three different flipped-truck accidents,) I drove to San Francisco to have Kelly work some more on my shoulder. After over two grueling hours in transit, I arrived at Mr. K's café.

So back to the seat belt scenario. I'm lying on the table, eyes glued to the belt. But before I have a chance to formulate a coherent question to ask Kelly what he has in mind, we are interrupted by a of course, muscular man carrying two coffees. While they chat, I inhale deeply hoping to snort up some of the caffeinated aroma.

Then it hits me.

Kelly is drinking coffee! What?!? I thought we all had to drink that green tea stuff.

Coffee. Think Garbage's #1 Crush.

Sure enough, Kelly is a serious coffeeisseur.

I felt like a deprived oenophile (Word of the Day) living in a Carolina Dry County who finds out her church pastor is boot-legging fine French wines.

BTW, here is a true story:

When I was in the hospital with the bleeding ulcer, I was forced into coffee-withdrawal cold turkey. My decaffeination-generated delirium was so pitiful that the lobby coffee vendor actually brought open canisters of freshly ground coffee blends for me to smell. But I digress.

So snapping the belt in his hands, Kelly discusses his brewing techniques, drinking preferences and favorite blends. And he is giving me permission to re-enter the world of sensual Coffee-opium Dens. And here I am, totally coffee-seduced, distracted away from the fear of the seat belt (is it a restraint?)

To top it off, Kelly promises to share his coffee!

I had that promise steaming in my mind the entire time.

And then the visit took a sadistic turn.

He drank up that entire coffee all by his own self.

I mean, what are friends for

2010-08-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

if not to provide you with fodder for first-rate anxiety.

Here I am thinking my gym was a local Bay Area chain run by military sort of guys. But I just discovered my gym belongs to a massively popular industry, like Jane Fonda and Zumba! (except with more guys.) There are places like mine all over the world!
I found this out when one of my (non-gym) friends thoughtfully sent me an article which describes the group as a cult!

I've always been very careful to avoid whack organizations, especially those involving rackets, Fidel Castro and/or volcanoes. So, how is it possible for me to become involved in a cult without my undergoing some interesting initiation?
OMG, sudden thought: maybe I am too weeny even for a CULT!

Did I fall under the spell of a charismatic leader? Possibly. Hmmm, intriguing thoughts about seedy bordellos, polygamy, and unusual rituals, followed by gruesome thoughts of bad Kool-aid, skank hair and a complete lack of oral hygiene.

Although the article makes it sound extreme (a puking clown mascot? Must be a guy thing,) I can honestly say I haven't seen any such signs (or clowns) at my gym that indicate the secret formation of a self-flagellating commune. Well, actually, the prowlers are pretty suspect. So I'm not going to read any more articles like that (unless they really do involve polygamy) (or pancakes.)

the night started out hecka fun!

After all, one party experience of drunken bunny-chucking with resultant hangover is usually enough for anyone. Nowadays, my body reserves tossing the chum for the emergency evacuation weapon that it is.

Mental note:

write about me and Gretchen at Folly Beach w/pink champagne
possibly relate Bathtub story as well....

Absolutely, Do NOT under any circumstances tell the Whale joke!

Mata Hari

If the gym is a cult, it is a pretty clean one outside of ass-smacking Harry's salty vocabulary; and it's often entertaining, like Paul blurts out that he likes Shakespeare In Love and begs me not to tell anyone (but forgets to add not to blog it.)

Besides, when I work with Paul, I'll just keep an eye out for open cups of fruit juice.

Field Trip 3 : Dagobah

2010-08-26T15:09:00.000-07:00

Kelly probably weighs more than Yoda

And now, Kelly vs. the Shoulder!, the highly anticipated wrestling match in which Kelly heroically wretches my arm free of the deadly clutches of Darth Shoulder.

So as Kelly took a grip on my arm, I braced myself for the fight.

Me: I won't fail you. I'm not afraid.

Kelly: You will be. You... will... be.

I entered the cave to face Darth Shoulder where we struggled for a while. And, in a moment of great frustration, I mentally slew (slayed?) Darth Shoulder.
Of course, the helmet vaporized, and, in a classic Spielberg denouement, whom did I see in the helmet but my own weeny-ass self.

Crikey! Am I trying to kick my own ass?

It isn't Kelly vs. the Shoulder and it isn't even the Shoulder vs. Myself. In fact, there isn't really a conflict at all. Just me letting go of guarding. And Kelly getting the shoulder moving again.

It's a good thing I realized this early on into our session because despite my best intentions to suck it up and let him work it free, I was dangerously close to seriously biting Kelly's forearm.

"Don't go into the Pain Cave, " he advised.

I had been staring intently at his tattoos to distract myself from savaging his arm with my teeth. I now blinked and mentally re-assessed where I was. Nope, I was not in a Pain Cave.

I was in a fully-furnished, beach front, ocean-view Pain Condo.

Field Trip in which Paul orders lunch before we see Kelly

2010-08-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

Don't argue with a carb-deprived sword dancer

Episode 4: I stare down Paul until he puts the cookie back on the counter.

Doh!

2010-08-20T15:50:00.000-07:00

I am still wearing Professional Face

So today I learned exactly how gingerbread dough feels when it is flattened into shape under a rolling pin.

Paul wanted me to get on my side and grind my quads into a hard foam roller the size of a shoe box. This proved difficult because of the strain on my shoulder.

So he hopped up (he really does spring to his feet) and returned with a short, heavy wooden pole. He slapped it into his palm several times, and said, "ok, we'll just have to roll 'em out."

I realized immediately that it might have been better to endure tearing shoulder pain. I mumbled something about trying the foam roller again, but he had already grabbed one quad, flipping me on my side.

Sure enough, he rolled that wooden thing up and down my legs, flattening out the kinks and cramps. I could feel my flesh crushing under the hard wood. I'd like to say I was stoic but I was actually reduced to scraping the floor with my fingernails to keep from grabbing that roller away from him.

Of course, I felt a wee bit of satisfaction at finally seeing the sheen of sweat on his face when he got up. Baking is hard work.

Mush

2010-08-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

So I am thinking that perhaps Paul is not sure what the heck to do with me since the only thing I do well doesn't appear to involve any sort of strength. And the exercises that do involve strength jack up my shoulder (which incidentally while not having achieved Meerkat status, is fast approaching the chimpanzee level.)

The areas that need to be tight are flexible and the areas that need to be flexible are fiercely tight. Could I possibly be from a Mirror dimension like the Star Trek episode with Evil Captain Kirk?

You aren't very persistent, Mr. Sulu. The game has rules. You're ignoring them. I protest, and you come back. You didn't come back.

At any rate, today involved T-Rex stretch, Velociraptor stretch, squats & an attempt at a weighted squat made awkward b/c I closed my eyes.

Another trainer (I'll call him "Jesse") helped out early on by gripping lots of individual muscles in my shoulder and trying to unlock them from each other. It was probably like trying to separate Siamese octuplets.

Today I learned that the wheels I drag across the parking lot are a machine called "the Sled." The Egyptian slave fantasy is gone.

I am now an Alaskan Malamute.

Next up: Kelly vs. the Shoulder

Back in the Saddle

2010-08-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

So this past week has seen me shuffling into the gym feeling like Dug wearing the Cone of Shame.

It's hard when I feel even weenier than my original weenitud starting-level. It also didn't help that I spent part of the last couple of days watching the Special Forces Training TV series on the history channel. It was humbling to realize that I weigh less than the backpacks the candidates lugged all over North Carolina for two weeks.

But anyway, today I was finally able to do some rowing and push the (pink) Prowler toward the Happy Door (a door across the parking lot with strange tape on it in a pattern that looks like two eyes and a smile.) I was so relieved to be kicking off stress and moving in a way that made my heart jump and pound. Rest is boring. Unless I am asleep.
I tried extra-hard to do it as effortlessly as possible so Paul would let me keep going.

Of course, first I had to endure the sledge-hammer in the abdominal aorta activity in an attempt to hit my tight psoas muscles.

Then Paul decided to loosen up my hamstrings with the T-Rex stretch. He worked on the left leg for several minutes before saying, "ok!" in his That Is The Last Stretch voice.
So I totally relaxed and he took advantage of this to lean into it more to stretch it even further! This could cause trust issues.

He did get me working on some leg-lifting butt exercises which he then promptly complicated by pushing down on my legs
(see above photo for perspective.)

At any rate, I got back up on the horse.

Study Habits: possibly why my back is so limber

2010-08-16T11:03:00.000-07:00

seriously, my head is resting on the floor. I study like this.

Field Trip #2: Tuesday we visit the Kellai Lama

2010-08-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

So this time Paul met me at Kelly's: he drove with another large muscular man with whom he planned to work on some muscular weight-related-activities stuff later in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure it wasn't a reflection on my driving skills.

Anyway, today the Shoulder got a Get-Out-Of-Jail free card since my spinal cord got first ups. Kelly laughed off my morose demeanor and in 5 minutes time had (painlessly) (easily) straightened out my vertebra. I didn't even have time to feel wary.

He then proceeded to show me where all the looseness in my back was causing me trouble and setting me up for injury again. Part of this demonstration involved his pressing down on my abdomen while I attempted to breathe in a very specific manner. For those of you who don't spend your time micro-managing your every movement (like breathing,) this will seem very dull. For me, it was like trying to catch minnows in a stream with my bare hands. The more I thought about it, the more aware I became that there are a lot of little muscles. I had to figure out which ones to use in which order, like a puzzle.

It did not help my concentration when Paul decided to ask right at the very moment I was inhaling, contracting, and being flattened by Kelly, "Has anyone ever farted while you are doing this?"

There were a few more stretches that I hope I will remember because they felt great (I was on a serious post-pain high and was totally ready to simply fall asleep.)
Kelly then worked on my psoas muscle which basically felt like he was attempting to remove a kidney with his bare hands (See Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom.)

I pointed out that the abdominal aorta was in that region, just FYI, along with some other important organs I most likely needed for survival. Eventually he started on the right side which was better, so then I wondered if he could feel all the bacon, eggs, concord grapes, blueberries, oatmeal and fish oil capsules milling around (I believe most injuries heal much, much faster -and better- if they have plenty of fuel.)

Kelly then asked Paul, Have you used the Sledge Hammer technical words technical words technical words?

Paul said, we have Sledge Hammers, but I haven't used them with her yet.
Now, I have seen only videos of people swinging sledge hammers at a large tire (which BTWIMHO I think is neither practical nor productive.) I cannot come up with a single image in which I am using the sledge hammer that does not result in my death or the death of anyone standing near me.

So when Paul went outside and returned with a real life heavy-ass sledge hammer, I was trying dimly to think of some excuse to avoid swinging it (or, in fact, to avoid any contact with it at all.)
Kelly placed it head down on my belly where earlier he had been performing bare handed psychic surgery. "There!" he smiled. "See, you can do the same thing to yourself. Use the weight of the sledge hammer to relax the psoas."

This was so anticlimactic that I

just stared blankly with absolutely nothing to say nor a coherent thought in my head.

(hover mouse for full cricket effect)

At any rate, my back is finally not tweaking.

Next field trip: working the iron shoulder, mwhahahaha!!!

What your neighbors don't know

2010-08-07T17:47:00.000-07:00

So Paul casually mentions that he went to a clinic on Spines and heard an interesting discussion regarding an Olympic gymnast. She could grip a pole with her butt cheeks and then raise both her arms and legs into the air and hang on the pole! Her coach had her do this to strengthen her glutes.

At first I thought, Please do not let him be telling me this story because it is a future goal or exercise for me.

Then, I thought, If this is a future goal, can Paul do this and if so, is he going to demonstrate it?

Finally, I thought, I, of course, am going to try this at home somehow.

Loser (warning : it's just so not funny)

2010-08-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

Loser Alert: Making the Sucktacular Decision

So describing the latest workout is irrelevant in the face of the momentously stupid decision I made to try to lift more weight than I felt confident with. Each set felt a little harder, and I ignored a rising anxiety about the tension in my wiggly low back.

I think you can see where this is going.

So when the electric pain shot up & down my spine and down my right leg, I shouted, F***! F***! F***! adding serious social embarrassment to everything else I experienced. Note: for once I dropped the weights correctly: I just let go. I hope Paul noticed.

Anyway, those shouts break down as follows:

1st: I am in a F***load of pain

2nd: I am so F****ING stupid

3rd: I F***ING just blew a weekend of serious dancing, including the Carnival of Stars for which we'd been rehearsing for several months and 3 bookings ($$$.) And probably no dancing for the next week or so.

Poor Paul iced my back for like 20 minutes which helped numb my pretty stunned back muscles; but it didn't stop the lightening striking down my back & leg. I then became a deadly menace to society by driving home, which involved a lot of lip-biting.

In Painkiller Search mode (notice urbanwear)

I spent the day lying and crying on the floor, packed with ice and sucking back any pain drugs I could find regardless of interaction, ulcer or expiration date (and this morning I am still crawling through the cabinets seeking drugs like a web bot scuttering the internet.

Bottom line: Crikey, is it possible that I'm too weeny for a manly gym?

Why I don't teach Math

2010-08-04T11:10:00.000-07:00

So after some lunges (which I felt for the very first time - three days in a row will do that, I guess), Paul set me to grinding around on the Lacrosse Ball, even though I repeatedly offered to lift stuff or drag weights around instead. Although painful, it wasn't as bad as the first time I used the Lacrosse ball: and I was actually able to move my arm with deliberation.
While rolling around on the floor with Paul holding my ribcage down (yeah, try breathing like that sometime), another trainer (I'll call him "Harry") explained to his group of hard-working clients that I actually really, truly, was doing an exercise. He said, yeah, she is suffering from F***ed Up Shoulder and Paul is helping UnF*** it."
Laughing while someone is compressing your ribcage at the same time that you are waving your arm while a Lacrosse ball is penetrating through your torso has potential as some sort of Las Vegas freak show act.

So now that my shoulders were looser, Paul said, Ok! The Prowler is all set up for you! I walked over, actually looking sort of forward to doing something to kick off some serious stress.

Give yourself to the Dark Side. In time you'll learn to use it as I have

But it was not the pink prowler. It was black. It had large wheels with the number 20 on them.

It was the Darth Vader of prowlers.

So I mentally geared myself up and then shoved. WTF??? It was heavier than the pink one.
I struggled to get it moving and after turning to head back, I wondered if I could actually do two more runs (ok, I say "run" but I suppose at times it is more like stomping.)

I got through three with effort and felt relieved. Until I saw Paul turn Darth to face the front again. He smiled, we're doing four, right? I smiled back, yes, of course (I would LOVE to, thank you SO much.)

After the fourth trip, he turned it again. Let's do six, he grinned. What!?! I slapped on PF, and thought, fine, ok, so my legs turn to jello; I'll be damned if I get out there and can't get back! To distract myself as I shoved, I tried to figure out how much I was pushing. Two 20's are 40 pounds, and then the Prowler must weight like 40 pounds? During my last breather, Paul got into a discussion of the weight of the machine and then picked up another prowler with one hand and walked it over to the scale. 68 pounds. I weighed myself just to check the accuracy: 118 pounds. So I still weighed 10 pounds more than the 108 pounds I was pushing.

I got through the last trip with wobbly legs and a pounding heart (and yet, mysteriously, no sweat!) Paul seemed pretty proud that I did it, saying, "you pushed 156 pounds! You couldn't do that two weeks ago!"

Ummmmmmm....

I blinked, "um, no, those were two 20's, it was 108 pounds."

Paul: "uh, 20 KG - that's 44 pounds each."

Me:

Me:

So, FYI, I can now push a small man out of a burning building.

Next up: Another Field trip to see the celebrated Mr. K!

The Nature of Desire

2010-08-02T13:01:00.000-07:00

no bathing suit here

So we had a show up in Oregon on the Coast which incidentally is pretty much the coldest place I've ever been to in July. Wait-except for Crater Lake: one July there were still piles of snow on the Rim Drive.

I went down to the beach wrapped in a sweater, jeans, corduroy jacket & scarf. The icy waves playfully smacked the hard grey sand littered with tons of smooth stones, but no shells. The sharp wind was too lazy to go around me so it just tore through my clothes.

Leukocyte engulfs the Proteus killing evil traitor Dr. Michaels

The fog coiled and scudded across the beach to the hills where it caught in the trees, swallowing them like the white blood cell engulfing the Proteus in Fantastic Voyage. Clearly, my optimistic bathing suit was staying in the suitcase.

I went in search of hot food.

portrait of a pancake addict

Oh, joyous glory! There was a Pancake House just down the road! I am a serious pancake addict, and I can pack them away until I have to lay flat, barely breathing.

I could smell the seductive perfume of pancakes as I approached the door. If my stomach had eyes, they would have been glittering with excitement.

This is my favorite order from Cracker Barrel : Momma's Breakfast with a side of grits

Women swept by with flirty trays of pancakes piled with fresh blueberries, crispy hash browns, tantalizing bacon, buttery eggs, and golden waffles swimming in butter.

And then I remembered Paul and Kelly frowning at my heinous diet. Obedience warred with insane temptation.

I stalled by ordering scrambled eggs and bacon hoping that I would be too full to care about the pancakes.

I desperately focused on my eggs & bacon under the sympathetic eyes of my waitress who asked, "honey are you sure you don't want to try just a short stack? They're really good." I opened my mouth to say "yes, ma'am! Give me the full Momma's Breakfast!" and amazingly Paul somehow channeled through me and said, "No, thank you so very much though." I choked on my eggs.
If my brain had a face, the rest of my body would have slapped it, thrown a drink at it and stormed out of the restaurant.

It didn't help that the show turned out to be outside in the chilly evening air on a stone patio. I warmed up, and once I got dancing I was no longer cold; but as I danced and smiled at the audience, I was wishing fervidly* that I had stuffed down a few hotcakes soaked with melted butter, dripping with hot syrup, and smothered in whipped cream and blueberries.

The passion in my face and in my dancing was absolutely genuine.

[*Goal! Fervid was Word of the Day on my calendar!]

Pretty in Pink

2010-08-02T11:23:00.000-07:00

I woke up actually not in pain for a change: I opened my eyes and it was like birds were singing everywhere, the sun beaming over the horizon (or would be, since it wasn't up at 4:30am,) all was right with the world.

After scarfing my eggs & spinach breakfast, watching the DVR of Kaya & Sadie (you girls so rock!) on AGT, slurping back 4 cups of scalding green tea, showering and getting ready, I had 30 minutes before going to work with Paul. I decided to practice dancing instead of icing. I was so surprised how much looser I am. I got more confident and let my arms move in an extended range of motion: no tweaking! WOW! I was clearly on a serious Karma high today!

Off to the gym, totally feeling the universal rhythm, zoning with Allman Brothers AFE. I walked in, smiling and then all the 6:30 gym class participants all looked up at me. This was new.

a predator should not be pink

Paul was on the floor rolling the Lacrosse Ball under his calf, leading the class. He smiled, "Hey, did you notice anything new?" I said, no, without looking around since that smile of his meant some sort of S & M bondage gear/machine had probably just been installed, and I didn't want to see it and lose my confident mood.

He said, we got a prowler just for you, ha ha ha. I glanced at the stack of prowlers. Sure enough, there was a Pepto Pink one (Pepto as in that prowler might look cute, but it probably weighs a nauseating ton.)

I got on the rower determined to knock it out before Paul could come over to yell, "Catch! Drive! Finish!" at me. He can sense when I go languid and uncoordinated.

We did lunges of all forms. That's not a royal "we" - he does them too, although munching on a breakfast snack at the same time. I won't rat him out by revealing that it was some sort of breakfast pastry for which he would have made me drag the wheels to Canada if he caught me eating it.

Then Paul said, you're going to do some squats! Notice: singular form. I thought, um, ok! But then he led me over to the frame that holds the bars. Uh, oh. Squats with a weight bar. The fizzy weakness that swept through me reducing my knees to Styrofoam is pretty much the same as Stage Fright.

I put on the PF and actually tried to pay attention to what he was instructing. He put the Barbie bar on first. I got into the squat prep position, rolling the bar up on my neck until I could barely breathe. I stood up. Crikey! The bar wasn't that heavy! I stepped back and then did the deep squat. Paul had thoughtfully placed a square wooden nugget behind me that I had to touch with my butt before standing up. I stood back up, with Paul making suggestions like, "Back on your Heels! Lower! Explode up! I actually listen, but I can only absorb with the "up" part for now.

HA!

I did a couple squats; I must have looked too pleased. His eyes narrowed. He went and got the Ken bar. "This bar," he noted, "weighs 45 pounds." I narrowed my eyes back and said, "I can do it."

And I did!

His eyes narrowed more. And he added some weights.

I narrowed my eyes also (but possibly this was a bluff.) He said, "This bar weighs more now so mentally prepare yourself." (BTW I think it is better to not say stuff like that. Thinking obviously messes me up.)

I got the bar on my chest, rearranging my hand and feet positions, tightening my abs so much I am sure the food in my stomach stood out like braille across my belly. And I stood up. And squatted. And stood back up. Several times!

As a reward, Paul, eyes narrowed a la Clint Eastwood, removed the Ken bar and went for a large leather-padded yoke that looked like something you might see on 2,000 pound oxen. My entire molecular structure watched anxiously while he set it up. He explained how to duck under it, rest the bar on my upper back shoulder area, holding on with my hands. I shuffled my feet around trying to find where I would feel secure, like Charleston, South Carolina, took a deep breath and got into the frame. And stood up.

My first thought was, "I am actually standing up."
My second thought was, "I feel like a farm animal."
My third thought was, "If I squat with this, I will sink through the floor to China."

I squatted - and would have fallen over if Paul hadn't hooked his pinky finger under the bar to help me up. He frowned and then sent me off to get a few red stretchy cords which he threaded around the yoke. After a few more struggling reps, I got the hang of the motion and was able to do 12 in a row although massively assisted by the stretch-bands which I suspect removed a lot of the 65 pounds at the bottom of the squat.

On the Plus side: My shoulder held up and didn't tweak once!

On the Huh side: I'm Still the Gym Weeny; Paul reminded me to wear my pink leg warmers on Monday to push the pink prowler.