When Unum offered me a job in Portland, Oregon…it wasn’t moving 3200 miles away from my friends or family. It wasn’t entering into a new and unfamiliar job. It even wasn’t having to live in a new, strange place….It was “can I live without Dunkin Donuts?” and “will I be the same person in its absence?”
Portland, like much of the world, has a substantial Starbucks presence/occupancy. Think of it in the military presence sense, and just like in the military sense I’ve had to learn how to exist with there being a looming Starbucks on every third street corner. Eventually, I was forced to give in …I mean, I need caffeine in order to do my job (or even just to function at 50% of normal capacity, for that matter). Upon walking into Starbucks one immediately notices the merchandise. It’s like a friggin’ mall in there. Espresso machines, coffee mugs, stuffed animals- -there really isn’t an item that Starbucks has qualms slapping their logo on. So then you get into the neatly formed line and everyone in front of you is the veritable “face” of Corporate America. The lobby is like a snapshot of what it looks like to work in an office; well-dressed, and donning a suit or dress. Every briefcase-laden person order drinks that involves 25 moving parts. I never thought I’d be part of this world. A bit of my soul died the day I learned how to order a drink at Starbucks; how to “speak Starbucks,” if you will. You feel like a sell out to Dunkin Donuts. It’s the kind of underhanded team-switching that is only en par with a Red Sox fan suddenly cheering for the Yankees.
The Starbucks baristas, though, have to be the nicest people I’ve encountered in any industry (they also, curiously enough, seem to comprise 78% of the gay workforce in any city). It’s like the difference between customer service at a Motel 6 and a W Hotel. The baristas will help you order, they’ll make suggestions, and once you become a regular face in the line of pant suits and briefcases they are even given to assigning a cute nickname to write on your drink cup. You laugh and joke with them, and they provide you with a drink that is responsible for getting you through the mental auto pilot of corporate hum drum. The warmth of the coffee is only rivaled by the warmth of the precious baristas. I’m not going to lie- -Starbucks has wormed its way into my heart a little (even despite my misgivings about the prices which beg, “I’m paying what for a coffee?!”).
Ah…then there’s my beloved Dunkin Donuts…it’s like the asshole boyfriend from “the other side of the tracks” that you can’t bring yourself to desert because, in all of their shittiness, there is still something about them that makes you feel good. Unlike the “Corporateite”-laden, mall-like, retail setting of a Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts offers no charming little keepsakes and their clientele is anything but homogenous. Instead of a chipper, flamboyantly gay barista who is just as excited about caffeinated beverages at 5 am on a Monday as he is at 5pm on a Friday…you have someone who “doesn’t make enough money to smile,” and was placed behind the Dunkin’ Donuts counter as a condition of parole through the majesty of work release. Dunkin Donuts’ employees and truck stop diner waitresses are really not far off when it comes to an overt seething hatred for the public at large. Even though I went to the same Dunkin Donuts in Maine at least once a day, every day, there was no chance that any of the 3 American and 6 Eastern European staff members were going to learn my name, let alone give me some cute nickname that they write on every beverage I order. In fact, there’s a good chance they’re going to consistently fuck my coffee up in some significant way, intentionally or otherwise. It’s an internal struggle where most interactions force me to question my love and devotion for DD- -and then I take the first sip of my extra large French Vanilla coffee (with regular cream and three Splendas®) and through sighs of enjoyment I entirely forget my train of thought.
Not to say I’ve learned the names of any of my local Starbucks baristas, they all seem to blend into a delightful sea of gay, and I’m just as happy to see one as I am to see them all. At Dunkin Donuts I didn’t know the names of the people serving my coffee either. Only, I usually give them nicknames to help me to distinguish them to other people who also frequent that same Dunkin Donuts. My former and favorite DD was employed by such aptly referred-to characters as: “Russian” (that was 6 people), “Meth Mouth,” “Drug Mug,” and “Medieval Man.” True story. I’m glad they never discovered my monikers for them- -but luckily I’m current on all of my inoculations, which also probably protected from even the normal, day-to-day coffee tamperings.
Despite all of these factors (and to keep with the “asshole boyfriend” theme), I’ll never get over Dunkin’ Donuts. I go back to it despite the abuse. I love all of the flaws and the mistakes. It’s safe to say that I love Dunkin Donuts unconditionally.
Starbucks, conversely, is like a rebound fling- -just a bump in my own personal road called ‘Life.’ I could forget Starbucks in an afternoon, especially if it weren’t for its overbearing and unavoidable presence. The other thing about Dunkin Donuts…is that it’s not just me. Everyone that has been touched by Dunkin Donuts pledges their caffeine homage to it wholeheartedly. Ask around. It’s not a hypothesis that needs proving. I have not met a single person who “doesn’t like” or “won’t drink” Dunkin Donuts, and people who haven’t experienced Dunkin Donuts, are just future converts- -and that’s not naïve optimism. The comedian, Lewis Black believes that the first sign of the apocalypse is the day he visits a Starbucks only to realize that it is across the street from another Starbucks. Funny and clever, but nay- -I say the first sign of the apocalypse is the day Starbucks buys out Dunkin’ Donuts and subsequently eradicates it from existence. On that day a war will be waged, as the pissed off “Joe’s” of the world unite to put a stop to $6 lattes. In the meantime, I don’t consider my relationship with Dunkin’ Donuts to be over- -we’re just taking a break.
Friday, August 7, 2009
PMS Chronicles: April 17, 2009
Ironically enough, I’m having difficulty starting this narrative in a way I find satisfactory, which I’m sure will only enhance the sentiments and splendor of my usual PMS accounts.
Ever since I was a young girl, I recall my father mandating at meal times that I chew with my mouth closed. It used to drive me insane, and also make me very self-conscious about my eating habits, but not in a way that actually made me consciously periodically evaluate if I was consuming my food in an acceptable way. Like most lessons annoyingly bestowed on us by our elders, I vowed to never enforce that same silly lesson on my future generations, in a gesture of absurd rebelliousness.
At twenty-five, I’m far less surly than my father, but I’ve found I’ve grown into a rather comfortable disdain for mouth noises myself. And so, it seems only natural that as the cruel universe would have it- -I sit in a cubicle adjacent to what one might assume (from an auditory perspective) was a close cousin of Mr. Ed. “Mr. Ed,” like many corporate office gals is slightly older and has taken a faux interest in eating healthy, so to the delight of reverse peristalsis everywhere, I get to listen to Mr. Ed gnaw on carrots, celery and all of the other boys in the “loudest food in existence” band.
Ever since I was a young girl, I recall my father mandating at meal times that I chew with my mouth closed. It used to drive me insane, and also make me very self-conscious about my eating habits, but not in a way that actually made me consciously periodically evaluate if I was consuming my food in an acceptable way. Like most lessons annoyingly bestowed on us by our elders, I vowed to never enforce that same silly lesson on my future generations, in a gesture of absurd rebelliousness.
At twenty-five, I’m far less surly than my father, but I’ve found I’ve grown into a rather comfortable disdain for mouth noises myself. And so, it seems only natural that as the cruel universe would have it- -I sit in a cubicle adjacent to what one might assume (from an auditory perspective) was a close cousin of Mr. Ed. “Mr. Ed,” like many corporate office gals is slightly older and has taken a faux interest in eating healthy, so to the delight of reverse peristalsis everywhere, I get to listen to Mr. Ed gnaw on carrots, celery and all of the other boys in the “loudest food in existence” band.
The PMS is brutally debilitating today, and each interaction is more intolerable than the next. I’m even having great trepidation to respond to broker emails, for the fear of how they might interpret what I’m deeming a convincingly sincere response marked by forced pleasantries.
I’m now wearing large headphones at my desk. I attempted to listen to music, but I was fearful of what I might say to any co-worker who requested I turn down the volume. I thought an easy solution would be to listen to the classical music station on the radio- -except I forgot how unbearably annoying the DJ’s are, with their frequent and very sedated James Lipton-esque commentary. Then from time-to-time, as a glaringly paradoxical shift from the otherwise peaceful classical music, there is a news interruption that broadcasts the latest and most horrific war atrocities from the Middle East. The news reporter never fails to be British, and completely unaffected by the subject matter being reported on, no matter how awful. “Literally, infant limbs and entrails line the streets today in Baghdad as a bus carrying newborn children, puppies, and beloved Disney characters was destroyed by a…..” It’s ridiculous. So, needless to say, the classical music was promptly turned off, and now I’m just sitting at my desk like a psycho with very large, conspicuous headphones on that are plugged into nothing. It muffles the office sounds just enough to hear my own irrational thoughts clearly, although it makes everyone else sound like the voice the adults produce in the Charlie Brown cartoons; that sort of “womp womp womp.” It’s pretty glorious; I’m not going to lie. It could only be trumped by having a hyperbaric chamber in my cubicle. Man, where is one of those when you need it?
I’m now wearing large headphones at my desk. I attempted to listen to music, but I was fearful of what I might say to any co-worker who requested I turn down the volume. I thought an easy solution would be to listen to the classical music station on the radio- -except I forgot how unbearably annoying the DJ’s are, with their frequent and very sedated James Lipton-esque commentary. Then from time-to-time, as a glaringly paradoxical shift from the otherwise peaceful classical music, there is a news interruption that broadcasts the latest and most horrific war atrocities from the Middle East. The news reporter never fails to be British, and completely unaffected by the subject matter being reported on, no matter how awful. “Literally, infant limbs and entrails line the streets today in Baghdad as a bus carrying newborn children, puppies, and beloved Disney characters was destroyed by a…..” It’s ridiculous. So, needless to say, the classical music was promptly turned off, and now I’m just sitting at my desk like a psycho with very large, conspicuous headphones on that are plugged into nothing. It muffles the office sounds just enough to hear my own irrational thoughts clearly, although it makes everyone else sound like the voice the adults produce in the Charlie Brown cartoons; that sort of “womp womp womp.” It’s pretty glorious; I’m not going to lie. It could only be trumped by having a hyperbaric chamber in my cubicle. Man, where is one of those when you need it?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
PMS Chronicle: Aug. 4, 2009
I really should have written about my fragile hormonal state earlier when I was teetering on "clinically insane." For some reason, old, slow whimsical tunes listened to via YouTube at my desk (with headphones, mind you….obviously) have really helped to remedy my disdain for the entire world. Now I’m only your average, run-of-the-mill "bitchy." There is great comfort that comes with the power of being able to select your own songs, sans commercials and offensive station-genre-conforming deejays.
Let me paint a picture for you of my surroundings, and maybe you can formulate your own deductions about why I think my uterus and God have teamed up today to have a good chuckle at my expense. Don’t confuse these sentiments with self-pity, but rather recognize that there is a symphony of annoying being orchestrated around me- -and "self-pity" is the only sentiment that’s really unaccounted for here, as I sit overwhelmed with a whirlwind of hormone-induced psychological distress. It’s like a beautiful symbiotic dance between wanting to wave a white flag of surrender and peace offering, and wanting to detonate an atom bomb.
First of all, it should be noted that the kind people in our building thought that the regular 9-5 business day would be the best time to reconstruct our whole office. So, as I sit at my desk and focus with the greatest of dedication on not hating my job, I have 5-10 construction workers, electricians, handy men, and other random clowns hammering and all in the ceiling tiles and basically every time I look up, the office has given birth to more cubicles. Please, pray tell, where is the redeeming charm in this segment of my story. (I’m now listening to "Islands in the Stream" by Mr. Kenny Rogers and Ms. Dolly Parton, in case you were wondering. It’s not helping, also in case you were wondering.) Not that I think my uterus would react positively to anything right now, but on the assumption that I would be pleased to see a handsome construction worker right now…..yeah, none of them are cute. The tool belts and Old Spice aren’t doing anything.
Oh right, because you aren’t here and can’t see the "I bet you won’t do that" new décor in the office….it has been said (by another PMSing co-worker), that "the carpet is so hideously patterned" that it "makes her nauseous." I loathe her complaining…..but I’m inclined to agree. I imagine her PMS chronicles would be something of horror fiction novels. I employ a great deal of restraint and isolation to remove myself from the potential of making a spectacle or ruining the good nature of some of my co-workers- -so, I hope that with this effort, people are only fragmentally aware that I’m pre-menstrual (and are thus tacitly encouraged to let the proverbial sleeping dog lie). For what previously-mentioned- coworker reveals- -she must be experiencing crazy on an unprecedented level. (Ahh, good…..more hammering.)
I just got out of a meeting where it became quickly evident that I’m not alone in my PMSing. It’s like an epidemic spreading through the office, and even being so kind as to include a few of the males as well. Why is a corporate complain-a-thon always presented under the guise of a "meeting?" A legitimate meeting of the minds I can handle- -but a round-table discussion of gripes only perpetuates my own ill-feelings- -AND I don’t have Kenny Rogers to drown them out. I literally just lost an hour of my work day (and life) to discuss the office construction. Very little was mentioned of the disruption, but rather- -the entire focus was on the fact that the hideous carpets aren’t padded. At which time, individual carpet pads were requested for the comfort of certain people. Other certain people (who weren’t present at the meeting, but whose sentiments were assumed and represented by third party estrogen-laden succubuses), were displeased with the view their newly constructed offices offer. C’MON PEOPLE!!!!
Again, I’m terrified to answer the phone for fear of what words or tone may erupt from my mouth. I just returned a phone call to one of our Idaho brokers where I had to stop myself from inquiring, "Did you just wake up one day and decide to work in an insurance brokers’ office?"
I’m having a rough time with spell check right now. Even the subtle annoyance of having to backspace to correct my own spelling as I type is almost debilitating. Oh, I said it- -debilitating. I’m listening to David Gray, because if that doesn’t induce some sort of coma to dull the frustrated screaming in my head, I don’t know what will. Even Lionel Richie circa 1980 failed in this task.
Let me paint a picture for you of my surroundings, and maybe you can formulate your own deductions about why I think my uterus and God have teamed up today to have a good chuckle at my expense. Don’t confuse these sentiments with self-pity, but rather recognize that there is a symphony of annoying being orchestrated around me- -and "self-pity" is the only sentiment that’s really unaccounted for here, as I sit overwhelmed with a whirlwind of hormone-induced psychological distress. It’s like a beautiful symbiotic dance between wanting to wave a white flag of surrender and peace offering, and wanting to detonate an atom bomb.
First of all, it should be noted that the kind people in our building thought that the regular 9-5 business day would be the best time to reconstruct our whole office. So, as I sit at my desk and focus with the greatest of dedication on not hating my job, I have 5-10 construction workers, electricians, handy men, and other random clowns hammering and all in the ceiling tiles and basically every time I look up, the office has given birth to more cubicles. Please, pray tell, where is the redeeming charm in this segment of my story. (I’m now listening to "Islands in the Stream" by Mr. Kenny Rogers and Ms. Dolly Parton, in case you were wondering. It’s not helping, also in case you were wondering.) Not that I think my uterus would react positively to anything right now, but on the assumption that I would be pleased to see a handsome construction worker right now…..yeah, none of them are cute. The tool belts and Old Spice aren’t doing anything.
Oh right, because you aren’t here and can’t see the "I bet you won’t do that" new décor in the office….it has been said (by another PMSing co-worker), that "the carpet is so hideously patterned" that it "makes her nauseous." I loathe her complaining…..but I’m inclined to agree. I imagine her PMS chronicles would be something of horror fiction novels. I employ a great deal of restraint and isolation to remove myself from the potential of making a spectacle or ruining the good nature of some of my co-workers- -so, I hope that with this effort, people are only fragmentally aware that I’m pre-menstrual (and are thus tacitly encouraged to let the proverbial sleeping dog lie). For what previously-mentioned- coworker reveals- -she must be experiencing crazy on an unprecedented level. (Ahh, good…..more hammering.)
I just got out of a meeting where it became quickly evident that I’m not alone in my PMSing. It’s like an epidemic spreading through the office, and even being so kind as to include a few of the males as well. Why is a corporate complain-a-thon always presented under the guise of a "meeting?" A legitimate meeting of the minds I can handle- -but a round-table discussion of gripes only perpetuates my own ill-feelings- -AND I don’t have Kenny Rogers to drown them out. I literally just lost an hour of my work day (and life) to discuss the office construction. Very little was mentioned of the disruption, but rather- -the entire focus was on the fact that the hideous carpets aren’t padded. At which time, individual carpet pads were requested for the comfort of certain people. Other certain people (who weren’t present at the meeting, but whose sentiments were assumed and represented by third party estrogen-laden succubuses), were displeased with the view their newly constructed offices offer. C’MON PEOPLE!!!!
Again, I’m terrified to answer the phone for fear of what words or tone may erupt from my mouth. I just returned a phone call to one of our Idaho brokers where I had to stop myself from inquiring, "Did you just wake up one day and decide to work in an insurance brokers’ office?"
I’m having a rough time with spell check right now. Even the subtle annoyance of having to backspace to correct my own spelling as I type is almost debilitating. Oh, I said it- -debilitating. I’m listening to David Gray, because if that doesn’t induce some sort of coma to dull the frustrated screaming in my head, I don’t know what will. Even Lionel Richie circa 1980 failed in this task.
Fake Crying
It occurred to me today that little kids, despite potential language barriers, and maybe a reduced capacity as it relates to motor skills, movement and coordination- -they still know what’s up. When something is going down that they don't particularly care for, they don’t hesitate to initiate the “fake cry," and I have to give credit where credit is due that it's fucking genius. Everyone is aware that they aren't really crying, but we still have to tend to them (out of obligation), because crying is a horribly obnoxious sound, and the moment it starts you want it to stop quickly. What I’m describing doesn’t, in any way, include sobbing. Sobbing is cute- -just little tears trickling down because you're actually sad (or because there is a particularly touching commercial on TV….don’t judge me). I'm talking about the wailing sound that sometimes accompanies crying. Little kids have honed in on that sound and they exploit the shit out of it. It's brilliant, but I feel somehow gypped that I can't also use the fake cry to my advantage just in daily life. Well, I mean…I'm sure I could; all girls know about the fake cry to get out of a speeding ticket or the like. What I’m saying though, is that when something non-ideal happens each day, I want to just start wailing. Like with unruly (brilliant) children, the second I start in, people around me will know that I'm not actually crying, but they will also know with certainty that I'm unhappy....and they will probably follow suit as they would with a baby and try to rectify the situation to make me stop wailing. If they do nothing, the wailing will get louder. Just saying.
The PMS Chronicles: Thoughts on the "maybe you're pregnant" phenomenon
What I'm about to rant on about [mostly] meaninglessly for paragraph after paragraph is something that guys probably won't understand, but who am I to tell you to stop reading- -infact, read on. Internalize the message. Pass it on.
I am not saying that I'm speaking for ALL girls (but I probably am). I'm just going to speak for myself and my own experiences. Ever since I've reached "sexual maturity"....no, strike that....ever since I've had breasts large enough to render me physically capable of reproducing to outside eyes, there has been a drastic and cruel misinterpretation of any ailment I could possibly be afflicted with that seems to default to "pregnant."
I haven't had the flu or a cold for a while, but currently I have a case of the stomach flu which is pretty much going around and also ruining my day. Two nights ago I awoke and vomited for a while and felt generally nauseous for the entirety of the following day. When I voice that I'm not feeling well at work, IMMEDIATELY the first thing people want to throw out there is, "Maybe you're pregnant."....Really? Well maybe you should be sterilized to prevent you from polluting the global gene pool with your ignorant genes.
Even my nerdy boss asked me if I was pregnant yesterday when I told him I was going home early. Of course he said it with a managerial grin that alleviated him from the repercussions of me taking him seriously...but still. It was bad enough that I had to make my way through the cubicle gauntlet of "Maybe you're pregnant" on my way to his office. The only injustice greater than me working my shitty job, is me getting pregnant.
So, because I am throwing up and nauseous, I can't possibly have a stomach flu....or food poisoning?!?! Immediately it becomes an issue of me having a proverbial bun in the oven. For the record, and if you haven't all ready gotten a general sense of my feelings....I resent this to no end. It’s a problem.
In high school, I could be throwing up, have missed my period, have a fever and be gaining weight....and they school nurse would optimistically suggest, "you're just stressed out." Yay, love it (although it did always surprise me, given my high school's staggering teen pregnancy statistic). What happened to those days? Once I went to college I could walk into Health Services congested and coughing give-or-take chicken pox, (give-or-take, bleeding through my pants) and the nurses would just stare blankly with that dead-behind-the-eyes look before asking, "Um....when was your last period?.....we better give you a pregnancy test just to rule that out." Or, I'd go into Health Services with a headache and request Tylenol and they ask for a urine sample. C'MON!!!! I'm pretty sure those crafty UNH nurses could sneak a pregnancy test in there without you even noticing...it's only revealed later as you're checking over your bill statement and there is a microscopic footnote on the bottom indicating you're not pregnant.
By now you're thinking, Oh, silly Emily and her crass exaggerations, but nay....this shit happens ALL THE TIME. I don't know what I resent more....having to endure all the unpleasantries of being sick....or having to endure all of the cliché halfwits inquiring as to whether I'm possibly expecting WHEN I'm sick. Let me make this clear- -you'll know when I'm pregnant, folks....It will be like a one-man enactment of "hormonal apocalypse" starring me (probably not super well-received on the Indie circuit). Also the pissed off look and the constant screaming, "Why God? Why?" Then and only then can you ask me if I'm pregnant, but by that point I'm bound to cause you bodily harm.
I am not saying that I'm speaking for ALL girls (but I probably am). I'm just going to speak for myself and my own experiences. Ever since I've reached "sexual maturity"....no, strike that....ever since I've had breasts large enough to render me physically capable of reproducing to outside eyes, there has been a drastic and cruel misinterpretation of any ailment I could possibly be afflicted with that seems to default to "pregnant."
I haven't had the flu or a cold for a while, but currently I have a case of the stomach flu which is pretty much going around and also ruining my day. Two nights ago I awoke and vomited for a while and felt generally nauseous for the entirety of the following day. When I voice that I'm not feeling well at work, IMMEDIATELY the first thing people want to throw out there is, "Maybe you're pregnant."....Really? Well maybe you should be sterilized to prevent you from polluting the global gene pool with your ignorant genes.
Even my nerdy boss asked me if I was pregnant yesterday when I told him I was going home early. Of course he said it with a managerial grin that alleviated him from the repercussions of me taking him seriously...but still. It was bad enough that I had to make my way through the cubicle gauntlet of "Maybe you're pregnant" on my way to his office. The only injustice greater than me working my shitty job, is me getting pregnant.
So, because I am throwing up and nauseous, I can't possibly have a stomach flu....or food poisoning?!?! Immediately it becomes an issue of me having a proverbial bun in the oven. For the record, and if you haven't all ready gotten a general sense of my feelings....I resent this to no end. It’s a problem.
In high school, I could be throwing up, have missed my period, have a fever and be gaining weight....and they school nurse would optimistically suggest, "you're just stressed out." Yay, love it (although it did always surprise me, given my high school's staggering teen pregnancy statistic). What happened to those days? Once I went to college I could walk into Health Services congested and coughing give-or-take chicken pox, (give-or-take, bleeding through my pants) and the nurses would just stare blankly with that dead-behind-the-eyes look before asking, "Um....when was your last period?.....we better give you a pregnancy test just to rule that out." Or, I'd go into Health Services with a headache and request Tylenol and they ask for a urine sample. C'MON!!!! I'm pretty sure those crafty UNH nurses could sneak a pregnancy test in there without you even noticing...it's only revealed later as you're checking over your bill statement and there is a microscopic footnote on the bottom indicating you're not pregnant.
By now you're thinking, Oh, silly Emily and her crass exaggerations, but nay....this shit happens ALL THE TIME. I don't know what I resent more....having to endure all the unpleasantries of being sick....or having to endure all of the cliché halfwits inquiring as to whether I'm possibly expecting WHEN I'm sick. Let me make this clear- -you'll know when I'm pregnant, folks....It will be like a one-man enactment of "hormonal apocalypse" starring me (probably not super well-received on the Indie circuit). Also the pissed off look and the constant screaming, "Why God? Why?" Then and only then can you ask me if I'm pregnant, but by that point I'm bound to cause you bodily harm.
My Misconception of Yoga
Yoga: My trials and tribulations (Wow, that sounds whiny and middle class)
I was very late in getting into yoga, because……well, because I hate everything that’s new and super trendy. So, all these years that people have been “oohing and aahing” over yoga, I’ve been sneering at them and their efforts to convert me…and avoiding yoga at all costs (not dissimilar to how I started reading The Davinci Code last year. Same reason).
I attempted to jump on the yoga bandwagon in secret when I was in high school. I was all ready a member at the YMCA and they offer classes for free, so I optimistically put my name on the yoga class list and showed up one day. I’m going to try to find the best way to start these next sentences, so bare with me. There’s a lot to be said…The “meat and potatoes,” so to speak, is that the yoga instructor was the hippiest dirty hippy the world has ever known. Now, sometimes (operative word=sometimes) I love hippies. I love the hippies that get stoned and sing songs and are happy and free-spirited….and don’t protest on street corners, fooling passersby with the façade of their dreadlocks and second-hand clothing. Anyway, this woman was clearly opposed to any form of bathing and shaving. It was like the perfect storm of body odor- -her underarms, her vagina (yes, vagina), and even her breathe. I made the mistake of identifying myself as a first timer…so, she felt the need to stand by me and critique every move while standing in positions that were the most conducive to me benefiting from the tsunami of odors. Have you ever walked into a damp basement or shed and your lungs adamantly refuse to inhale? This is what it was like….except the painful irony is that yoga is all about breathing. Breathing deeply. Every lungful I could taste all of the foul molecules that were just emanating off this woman, and on several occasions the shining achievement of “downward facing dog” was not vomiting on my mat. Needless to say, this yoga experience was traumatic and after I went home and showered and shaved….several times…..I wrote off yoga as terrible and a fad that I would not be endorsing any time soon.
Fast forward a few years. Now I’m 19 and I’m visiting my favorite aunt and uncle in Seattle for College Spring Break. My aunt had recently found herself a part of this never-ending yoga trend and she was really excited to try to convert me. I appease her and attend her regular yoga class. This class may have lacked the luster of a hygiene-protesting instructor, but where it fell short there, it more-than-compensated in the Circue Du Soleil-like style that this new instructor employed. We were in headstands and backbends the whole damn class….but still, I had limited knowledge of yoga, so now I was under the impression that yoga is like the Special Olympics of gymnastics. Still not impressed.
Years have passed and sort of washed away most of my ill feelings towards yoga, and again, I give yoga a chance. I’ve completely written off the first two classes as “yoga trickery” and have attempted to completely forget the experiences. So, one day during my lunch hour, I walk three blocks to my gym to attend the noon yoga class. The whole way I’m thinking about yoga: stretching and relaxing in a dimly lit room while an instructor encourages me to “find my inner peace.” I’m excited. It’s been a stressful day at work, and frankly, I’m excited for the opportunity for the Boot Camp of Relaxation.
I get to the gym and find that the room is dimly lit. Check. The yoga instructor doesn’t smell of feet, BO, and patchouli. Check. Other people seated around me are preemptively stretching. Wow(!) this might be something I could really be into, as it has conformed to all the visions in my yoga-specific rose-colored glasses!!!
Wrong. The teeny tiny, flexible instructor starts us off with some light stretching…but I quickly learn that every position ends with “plank” into “upward facing dog” into “downward facing dog.” In short….you do thousands of fucking push-ups through the whole class. For those of you who played high school football….these moves done in this order is like doing slower, more graceful belly-whackers….over and over and over.
The push-up segment ends and then begins lunge-a-palooza. You lunge and lunge and lunge until your legs shake to the point that you’re fantasizing about doing more push-ups. I broke a friggin’ sweat.
Then, when you think you can’t resent this yoga trickery any longer….the instructor has you lay down on the mats, and she reads you a short comforting story from Buddhist proverbs. Something like, “There is no set path in life, where you walk is the path” and then she tells you the exhale out all of the bad and she tells you to enjoy your day. I was confused, because despite all of the abuse via stretching, lunging, and push ups….I felt good; better somehow. I felt like how Tina Turner must have felt when Ike put his belt back on and was like, “Hey babe, you know I love you.” So, that’s what yoga is….it’s not about flips and dirty hippies. It’s about ending the nuanced aerobic abuse on the upside…so that your brain is tricked into allowing you to return for more in the future.
I was very late in getting into yoga, because……well, because I hate everything that’s new and super trendy. So, all these years that people have been “oohing and aahing” over yoga, I’ve been sneering at them and their efforts to convert me…and avoiding yoga at all costs (not dissimilar to how I started reading The Davinci Code last year. Same reason).
I attempted to jump on the yoga bandwagon in secret when I was in high school. I was all ready a member at the YMCA and they offer classes for free, so I optimistically put my name on the yoga class list and showed up one day. I’m going to try to find the best way to start these next sentences, so bare with me. There’s a lot to be said…The “meat and potatoes,” so to speak, is that the yoga instructor was the hippiest dirty hippy the world has ever known. Now, sometimes (operative word=sometimes) I love hippies. I love the hippies that get stoned and sing songs and are happy and free-spirited….and don’t protest on street corners, fooling passersby with the façade of their dreadlocks and second-hand clothing. Anyway, this woman was clearly opposed to any form of bathing and shaving. It was like the perfect storm of body odor- -her underarms, her vagina (yes, vagina), and even her breathe. I made the mistake of identifying myself as a first timer…so, she felt the need to stand by me and critique every move while standing in positions that were the most conducive to me benefiting from the tsunami of odors. Have you ever walked into a damp basement or shed and your lungs adamantly refuse to inhale? This is what it was like….except the painful irony is that yoga is all about breathing. Breathing deeply. Every lungful I could taste all of the foul molecules that were just emanating off this woman, and on several occasions the shining achievement of “downward facing dog” was not vomiting on my mat. Needless to say, this yoga experience was traumatic and after I went home and showered and shaved….several times…..I wrote off yoga as terrible and a fad that I would not be endorsing any time soon.
Fast forward a few years. Now I’m 19 and I’m visiting my favorite aunt and uncle in Seattle for College Spring Break. My aunt had recently found herself a part of this never-ending yoga trend and she was really excited to try to convert me. I appease her and attend her regular yoga class. This class may have lacked the luster of a hygiene-protesting instructor, but where it fell short there, it more-than-compensated in the Circue Du Soleil-like style that this new instructor employed. We were in headstands and backbends the whole damn class….but still, I had limited knowledge of yoga, so now I was under the impression that yoga is like the Special Olympics of gymnastics. Still not impressed.
Years have passed and sort of washed away most of my ill feelings towards yoga, and again, I give yoga a chance. I’ve completely written off the first two classes as “yoga trickery” and have attempted to completely forget the experiences. So, one day during my lunch hour, I walk three blocks to my gym to attend the noon yoga class. The whole way I’m thinking about yoga: stretching and relaxing in a dimly lit room while an instructor encourages me to “find my inner peace.” I’m excited. It’s been a stressful day at work, and frankly, I’m excited for the opportunity for the Boot Camp of Relaxation.
I get to the gym and find that the room is dimly lit. Check. The yoga instructor doesn’t smell of feet, BO, and patchouli. Check. Other people seated around me are preemptively stretching. Wow(!) this might be something I could really be into, as it has conformed to all the visions in my yoga-specific rose-colored glasses!!!
Wrong. The teeny tiny, flexible instructor starts us off with some light stretching…but I quickly learn that every position ends with “plank” into “upward facing dog” into “downward facing dog.” In short….you do thousands of fucking push-ups through the whole class. For those of you who played high school football….these moves done in this order is like doing slower, more graceful belly-whackers….over and over and over.
The push-up segment ends and then begins lunge-a-palooza. You lunge and lunge and lunge until your legs shake to the point that you’re fantasizing about doing more push-ups. I broke a friggin’ sweat.
Then, when you think you can’t resent this yoga trickery any longer….the instructor has you lay down on the mats, and she reads you a short comforting story from Buddhist proverbs. Something like, “There is no set path in life, where you walk is the path” and then she tells you the exhale out all of the bad and she tells you to enjoy your day. I was confused, because despite all of the abuse via stretching, lunging, and push ups….I felt good; better somehow. I felt like how Tina Turner must have felt when Ike put his belt back on and was like, “Hey babe, you know I love you.” So, that’s what yoga is….it’s not about flips and dirty hippies. It’s about ending the nuanced aerobic abuse on the upside…so that your brain is tricked into allowing you to return for more in the future.
The ORIGINAL PMS Chronicle
Normally, my boobs get tender and I have a slightly lower threshold to deal with things that are annoying. This time (and this is an actual idea that I worked out in my head and determined to be plausible, under the influence of spiked estrogen levels), I was thinking about carrying a paintbull gun, both in my car and in my purse. In my vision, the one in my purse looked like a glock that pegged very-deserving people with multi-colored hard balls of paint. It would be so absurd that they could hardly be mad at me for causing them the pain and bruising…..and I’m sure the look on my face would be way too “unstable” for any sort of retaliation.
The one in my car would be used solely for cyclists. “Thank you for saving the earth, but stop pretending you’re a car…..or a pedestrian. Or worse, both….you greedy shits. Pick a set of rules and abide by them. If you’re going to be a car, go the speed limit….stop at red lights……BE a car. If you’re going to be a pedestrian….no, I take that back….don’t ride on the fucking side walk!!!! There’s all ready too many of you and pedestrians are becoming the extinct transportation dinosaur.” So, yes…the paintball gun in my glove box would be for cyclists.
Today at work, my co-worker Jen was trying to defend that girls aren’t crazy. (The irony is that while she’s soap-boxing on the topic, I’m battling in my own head with different levels of female hormones who have begun to take on a sort of population of schizophrenic, multiple personalities. My distraction shifts back and forth between the unstable inner monologue(s) and Jen’s dissertation.) Finally, I just tell her- - “Jen, we’re all crazy. We’re sisters in craziness. We just all have to silence ourselves when we know that our thought process is being dictated by our ovaries and associated bodily processes and that, to the outside world, our thoughts and opinions may be temporarily off kilter and ill-received…..so we “get quiet” (well, that’s what I do when I “get quiet” anyway).” which I followed up with (I probably should have quit while I was “ahead“….Oh, there you are 20/20 hindsight. You certainly are a jester with critical timing.) “Like sometime Drew will leave his clothes in a pile on the floor…and some days when I see them I’m thinking, Grrrrr, that’s SO annoying! Why does that he do that?! and then other days, something in the back of my head chimes in, Burn down the fucking house!….and I’m like, Wait…..what?!?! Shhhhh. Jesus, don’t say that.” Everyone laughed hard, which dissipated into awkward laughter…..which gave way to cautious stares that begged of one another, “Is Emily going to kill us?” Whenever I say something of this nature, I like to deliver the punch line….and then walk away. Then I like to come back and hand out Kool-Aid or partially-opened candy…..just to fuck with them. I don’t really….I actually just thought of that and the more I roll it over in my mouth, the more it sounds like a hilarious idea….only my timing is never that good. Not even in what-should-be a flawless theoretical model in my head.
Another thing. Drew and I recently got cable again. At first, I rejoiced because I was tired of expending brain cells trying to figure out which DVDs to re-watch every night. But now that we have it, I’ve gotten reacquainted with being wholly un-entertained by what television offers. My taste in TV shows has evolved to the point where nothing is interesting, and nothing is worthy of my attention……except the most horrifically inane of shows. Reality shows, Fuel TV (where people skateboard and surf all day…..which is also bizarre, because I have a general distaste for skateboarders. I like them theoretically, but I encounter few that I’m pleased to meet.), Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, The Hills…..I mean, crucify me, but these shows are the only thing that even evoke a second glance, or the channel-changing equivalent of a double-take.
I mean, I understand someone who hates their job, comes home and turns on the shows that are the most epitomizing of schadenfreud….just to relish in other peoples’ misery and smile at the horrific genetic hand that life dealt them….and feel better about their own day, even for an hour (because, hey…someone has it worse than they do)….However, I’m not employing that method at all.
I’m doing something completely different that defeats everything that the first method strives for. I’m coming home from a shitty, miserable day at an unfulfilling job….and instead of watching Jerry Springer (wow, that’s become a cliché entity unto itself) I’m watching shows about people who have it so much better and easier than me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Either jealousy has become a welcome part of our female culture and lives that we’ve just embraced it as normal- -or I’m a fucking glutton for punishment. Or I hate myself. Or the estrogen is involved in high-stake bets with both my brain AND progesterone that estrogen can make me bulimic by the season finale of The Hills. (God, let’s hope.)
Either way, this television schadenfreud made me think about the American culture NOW, and how that is a direct product of our culture and society NOW…..and then I contemplated what people used to do about feeling better after a long, shitty 9-5 when America was in different times. (Walk with me, if you will….) The days of keeping yourself entertained in “wholesome, fun ways”….the days where Americans weren’t fearful of exercise…..or leaving the comforts of their car to get dinner…..the days where people read books. Ahhh (sigh). There it is. The days when our country wasn’t the intellectual butt of every joke amongst our global peers. I thought about “literary schadenfreud”…because when I came home today from work (still swearing under my breath……maybe even twitching) the thought of watching TV annoyed me without even attempting to turn the damn thing on (also, I scoured the TV Guide last night, and I feel mostly confident that there’s nothing that I would deem “worth watching” on right now….but that’s neither here nor there). The book I’ve been reading is staring at me from the countertop and as I glanced at it I thought, “my book is about twins, and one is schizophrenic and is ruining his twin’s brother’s life….Gosh(!), that will make me feel better!” So, I guess in lieu of the self-loathing…I’m going to read about the fictional folly of Dominick and Thomas and feel better about everything in my life, because even though I’m probably an honorary member of the Schizophrenic community…..I’m not a diagnosable defective……which makes me feel that much better. (Sigh). Then maybe after I finish this, I’ll pick up Angela’s Ashes…..
The one in my car would be used solely for cyclists. “Thank you for saving the earth, but stop pretending you’re a car…..or a pedestrian. Or worse, both….you greedy shits. Pick a set of rules and abide by them. If you’re going to be a car, go the speed limit….stop at red lights……BE a car. If you’re going to be a pedestrian….no, I take that back….don’t ride on the fucking side walk!!!! There’s all ready too many of you and pedestrians are becoming the extinct transportation dinosaur.” So, yes…the paintball gun in my glove box would be for cyclists.
Today at work, my co-worker Jen was trying to defend that girls aren’t crazy. (The irony is that while she’s soap-boxing on the topic, I’m battling in my own head with different levels of female hormones who have begun to take on a sort of population of schizophrenic, multiple personalities. My distraction shifts back and forth between the unstable inner monologue(s) and Jen’s dissertation.) Finally, I just tell her- - “Jen, we’re all crazy. We’re sisters in craziness. We just all have to silence ourselves when we know that our thought process is being dictated by our ovaries and associated bodily processes and that, to the outside world, our thoughts and opinions may be temporarily off kilter and ill-received…..so we “get quiet” (well, that’s what I do when I “get quiet” anyway).” which I followed up with (I probably should have quit while I was “ahead“….Oh, there you are 20/20 hindsight. You certainly are a jester with critical timing.) “Like sometime Drew will leave his clothes in a pile on the floor…and some days when I see them I’m thinking, Grrrrr, that’s SO annoying! Why does that he do that?! and then other days, something in the back of my head chimes in, Burn down the fucking house!….and I’m like, Wait…..what?!?! Shhhhh. Jesus, don’t say that.” Everyone laughed hard, which dissipated into awkward laughter…..which gave way to cautious stares that begged of one another, “Is Emily going to kill us?” Whenever I say something of this nature, I like to deliver the punch line….and then walk away. Then I like to come back and hand out Kool-Aid or partially-opened candy…..just to fuck with them. I don’t really….I actually just thought of that and the more I roll it over in my mouth, the more it sounds like a hilarious idea….only my timing is never that good. Not even in what-should-be a flawless theoretical model in my head.
Another thing. Drew and I recently got cable again. At first, I rejoiced because I was tired of expending brain cells trying to figure out which DVDs to re-watch every night. But now that we have it, I’ve gotten reacquainted with being wholly un-entertained by what television offers. My taste in TV shows has evolved to the point where nothing is interesting, and nothing is worthy of my attention……except the most horrifically inane of shows. Reality shows, Fuel TV (where people skateboard and surf all day…..which is also bizarre, because I have a general distaste for skateboarders. I like them theoretically, but I encounter few that I’m pleased to meet.), Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, The Hills…..I mean, crucify me, but these shows are the only thing that even evoke a second glance, or the channel-changing equivalent of a double-take.
I mean, I understand someone who hates their job, comes home and turns on the shows that are the most epitomizing of schadenfreud….just to relish in other peoples’ misery and smile at the horrific genetic hand that life dealt them….and feel better about their own day, even for an hour (because, hey…someone has it worse than they do)….However, I’m not employing that method at all.
I’m doing something completely different that defeats everything that the first method strives for. I’m coming home from a shitty, miserable day at an unfulfilling job….and instead of watching Jerry Springer (wow, that’s become a cliché entity unto itself) I’m watching shows about people who have it so much better and easier than me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Either jealousy has become a welcome part of our female culture and lives that we’ve just embraced it as normal- -or I’m a fucking glutton for punishment. Or I hate myself. Or the estrogen is involved in high-stake bets with both my brain AND progesterone that estrogen can make me bulimic by the season finale of The Hills. (God, let’s hope.)
Either way, this television schadenfreud made me think about the American culture NOW, and how that is a direct product of our culture and society NOW…..and then I contemplated what people used to do about feeling better after a long, shitty 9-5 when America was in different times. (Walk with me, if you will….) The days of keeping yourself entertained in “wholesome, fun ways”….the days where Americans weren’t fearful of exercise…..or leaving the comforts of their car to get dinner…..the days where people read books. Ahhh (sigh). There it is. The days when our country wasn’t the intellectual butt of every joke amongst our global peers. I thought about “literary schadenfreud”…because when I came home today from work (still swearing under my breath……maybe even twitching) the thought of watching TV annoyed me without even attempting to turn the damn thing on (also, I scoured the TV Guide last night, and I feel mostly confident that there’s nothing that I would deem “worth watching” on right now….but that’s neither here nor there). The book I’ve been reading is staring at me from the countertop and as I glanced at it I thought, “my book is about twins, and one is schizophrenic and is ruining his twin’s brother’s life….Gosh(!), that will make me feel better!” So, I guess in lieu of the self-loathing…I’m going to read about the fictional folly of Dominick and Thomas and feel better about everything in my life, because even though I’m probably an honorary member of the Schizophrenic community…..I’m not a diagnosable defective……which makes me feel that much better. (Sigh). Then maybe after I finish this, I’ll pick up Angela’s Ashes…..
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