The Wicked Witch of the Web

Top Ten Reasons Why It's Better To Date Your Mom

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 22:23:00 +0000

When I had the opportunity to review the Elvis Perkins show at Music Hall of Williamsburg on Saturday night, I jumped. I've been a fan since my mom sent me the YouTube Video of "While You Were Sleeping," albeit, not a very huge fan. More like a fan of that song.

But I thought my mom was a huge fan, so I invited her to be my plus one. It turned out when we got there that the only song either of us knew was "while you were sleeping", but my mom still had fun riding the L-train for the first time. And I discovered 10 Reasons Why It's Better to Date Your Mom.

10. When she picks you up at Yoga class and all your friends start oohing and ahhing and saying she is beautiful and young-looking, you don't have to be paranoid that they are a) trying to steal your mom, or b) secretly thinking that your mom is out of your league

9. When your mom says, "we can skip it if you want," you know it's because she really does care whether you do well on your yoga teacher take-home final, and not because she notices that your face totally broke out over night.

8. Your mom doesn't mind listening to you over-analyze your relationship with your ex. She thinks the recurring nightmares you have about him are fascinating. She doesn't point out that the fact that you have recurring nightmares about a man you haven't laid eyes on in eight months probably means you have baggage, because she knows you'd turn around and claim your baggage was packed by her.

7. When she tells you this is her first time (on the L-train,) you know she's not lying.

6. No surprises. When your mom tells you not to walk too close to train tracks and you scream back, "I do this everyday! Am I dead yet? NO!" she's not appalled to discover your bitchy side. She discovered your bitchy side around the time the doctors discovered you were a colicky baby.

5. When your mom pressures you to have another glass of wine, you know it's not because she's trying to get you drunk and take advantage of you. In fact, she told you years ago you had a better personality when you were drinking, and after a long period of healing, you're inclined to agree.

4. Your mom's idea of a good time is sitting at the bar and pointing out every single girl that walks by, and explaining why you are prettier, better dressed or both.

3. Your mom thinks you are a genius for correctly predicting that she'd see lots of stupid looking hats in Williamsburg. "Wow! Another one! You were so right.."

2. You don't have to worry about things moving too fast. When Perkins opens with "While You Were Sleeping," and you and your mom shriek simultaneously, "Oh my god it's our song!" it's not awkward at all. (Until you both realize it's the only Elvis Perkins song you know.)

1. Your mom will not become seriously alarmed and stop calling if you blog about your date.

Be Thankful for Your Teachers

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 04:22:00 +0000

This Thanksgiving, it seemed that even my most cynical fellow bloggers were writing posts about being thankful for stuff. The pressure was on to be appropriately grateful in a bitter kind of way or appropriately bitter in a grateful kind of way. Or just to find something semi-intelligent to say. (As you can see, that took over a week.)

I guess the number one thing I'm grateful for is that this Thanksgiving sucked considerably less than any Thanksgiving I can remember since the time my grandfather helped me to make a big crayon drawing of cornbread to decorate our door (I was around 7.) My guess is the reason it sucked less is yoga, or the cumulative effects of yoga on my (otherwise charming, calm and composed!) persona.

I also got a fair bit of insightful teaching over the weekend, and, over the courses of a few days, came full circle in my appreciation of teachers on and off the mat, human and otherwise. Here's what I learned!

Wednesday:

I saw Carrie Fisher in "Wishful Drinking." Fisher's take home message was: if you are bipolar, an alcoholic, and made tons of mistakes to hurt yourself and others, you can make the whole mess really really funny as long as you wait a least few minutes before cracking a joke. Or, as she said, the secret is "location, location, location." She also said, "Help me Obi-Wan Kanobi, you're my only hope." I couldn't agree more with either of those points. She reminded how grateful I am for my ability to laugh at myself, and that as this point, Obi-Wan Kanobi probably is my only hope.

Thursday:

My first teacher and beloved mentor Elizabeth Rossa stepped up to the plate and hosted a class on Thanksgiving Day at Shri Yoga. This was so perfect, and so much better than last year's Turkey Day workout, when I spent 8, slow, painful miles trekking around Prospect Park and having anxiety about the impending divorced family reunion thanksgiving. Elizabeth started class by asking us to close our eyes and think of 10 people we were grateful for. I was shocked, and delighted, when I came up with 10 easily. "Wow," I marveled. "I am not nearly as hateful as I thought!" I even felt I'd left some people out and was glad when Elizabeth suggested we think of another 10. But by 15, I was starting to question my choices. "He's ok, but he might not come through in a pinch," or "she's nice, but I question her motives," and "let's be honest: he's a self-absorbed, oblivious jerk."

I was kind of alarmed when Elizabeth asked us to work our way up to 30, and surprised when she closed class by telling us she had been able to think of 40 or 50 people she was grateful for. But she explained that she let herself be grateful even for the people who had disappointed or hurt her, because they gave her the opportunity to learn. Ooh, Snap. Yoga: 1, RB: 0.

Friday:

The teacher I visited on Friday, Katie Malachuk, focused on twists, because twists help digestion, and everyone needs help with that the day after Thanksgiving. But she added that a lot of digestion is psychological and really what we can't digest on Friday is our family. Oddly enough, we feel and think with our stomachs as much as with our hearts. But really, it reminded me of my own intention for my yoga practice: to enable myself to consume, process and absorb my life is an healthier, more functional way. The thing that's interesting about twisting is that while it's a tool for coping with what the world throws at us, it also requires we go very deeply inside ourselves, even to the point of intensity. The plus side is we get to experience everything, without denial, rejection, repression or....constipation.

That sentiment was seconded later when I went to see Next to Normal, yet another play about a bipolar woman. This play suggests that even if you're having severe delusions, fits of mania and suicidal thoughts, it might be more worthwhile to put in the work and twist your way through the pain, rather than numb it. It also suggested that not only can bipolar disorder be funny, it can be put to music. Bipolar disorder: 1, Lion King: O.

Saturday:

My gifted teacher trainer, and regular teacher, Chrissy Carter, echoed the importance of both twists, and finding teachers in even the most unlikely places. Chrissy is always fantastic about urging us not to go around our weaknesses in poses, but rather to work through the tough spots. To that end, learning from tough teachers on and off the mat often involves putting aside our egos. Facing these challenges as teachers is..well...a challenge. But an important one.

Sunday:

Biking through Prospect Park = Yoga. But I really do think that yoga is when you think, "I'm so lucky to have a bike, and I'm so lucky that the park is this beautiful, and I'm so lucky that no one cool is here to see me in my helmet."

Monday:

I went a new teacher at YogaWorks, Keith Yzquierdo. I had been kind of struggling with the whole, "find teachers in the people who are giving you a hard time" thing that Elizabeth and Chrissy had been suggesting. I usually do it on the mat (unless handstand is involved) but in life, I often find it a little challenging to see the silver lining in situations that make me miserable. However, Keith pointed out at the beginning of class that when we're struggling with something in yoga, we use more props to help us. Thus, dealing with something confronting in life does not mean we have to plow right through and grin and bear it. In fact, we can use "props" to help us cope with difficult situations.

Basically, in order to allow challenging things to be our teachers, we have to adequately prepare ourselves for the challenge, and protect ourselves as well. Maybe the purpose of a teacher is to show you that you need props. Or maybe conflict can make us aware of what props we need get through it next time.

And that lesson is valuable for everyone, even people who think yoga is cheezy. Someone rather bitterly said to me the other night, "So, you're just choosing to accept everything as a last resort, because you feel like you failed." (Ouch! But he's in law school, so we'll have to forgive him.) I guess the answer is yes: if I had not been laid off during the worst recession in 75 years, maybe I wouldn't want be as zen about this "everything is a learning lesson" philosophy. But the bottom line is, shit happens, to all of us. Some of it we control, and some of it we don't. Whether or not you want to "accept everything" is up to you, but if shit does happen to you, you might as well learn something so you can be more prepared the next time shit happens, because it will.

Unless of course you don't do enough twisting and digesting, in which case shit might never happen. And that would be really unfortunate, I think.

Going Rogue's A Good Idea

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 21:41:00 +0000

I've always been a big fan of Sarah Palin. Actually, that's not true. Back when she was just the Alaskan governor trying to pass stupid and offensive laws about the polar bears, I seriously hated her. When she got the nomination for vice-president, I hated her. When she started bragging about she was helping to break the glass ceiling for women, I hated her.

But then I made fun of her so much that I started to love her. In October of 2008, in a blog post titled: How Sarah Palin Saved My Life, I wrote:

"I really do feel that Sarah Palin has saved my life. You see, the month of September, for many reasons, held the potential to be slightly scary for me. I had started school, made some other changes, was worried about making more changes, was still having a quarter life crisis , was already planning my mid-life crisis, ETC. But then! Sarah. The world's most beautiful hockey mom, and provider-of-endless-fuel (for conversation.) I was laughing! I was venting! I was making friends! I was pretending to be passionate and educated about politics! I was as close to "whole" and "complete" as Alaska is to Russia."

I'd like to think that is for reasons similar to the ones I listed about that Palin's new memoir is so freakin' successful. But you can't be too sure. Today, I tweeted, "thanks to Sarah Palin, Jonah Goldberg gets another book deal. Yay." Suddenly, some crazy Palin feed that reports everything about the Going Rogue journey started following me. And they sent out a tweet saying everyone should follow me because I was a fan. A fan! A fan of what? I wanted to know. And furthermore, are there real fans of Sarah Palin?

Well, I have no idea. But the New York Times says that Palin's book sold 700,000 copies in the first week. Ironically, in the political memoir Hall of Fame, she comes in at number 2 for most sales, wedged between Bill Clinton (1) and Hilary Clinton (3). Since clearly it was liberals buying up the Clintons' memoirs, it seems like liberals are more likely than conservatives to buy political books. Does that mean that it's also liberals who bought Palin's memoir? Or does that mean that the all the conservatives were just saving up their allowance for a rainy day? Or does it mean that Going Rogue was purchased mostly by teenage girls with a crush on Levi Johnston?

Or maybe it was purchased by angry people. The NY Daily news review said that the entire book is devoted to Palin's whining. Apparently, she was really furious when a senior aide told her to stop eating atkins bars because she need carbohydrates in order to make "cognitive connections." Basically, she blames McCain for making her look bad. Personally, I agree. If he'd never nominated her, she never would have looked bad. But either way, she's complaining and blaming. Everyone, regardless of feelings about polar bears, loves complaining and blaming. This could account for the book's popularity.

Or maybe it was purchased by Shakespeare lovers. The LA Times said that Going Rogue was Palin's "a shot at redemption as well as revenge." What's sexier than redemption and revenge (other than Levi Johnston)?

But I bet it was people who love lying. Think about it. Ever since Obama came to office, if you live in a major city and/or don't work for Proctor and Gamble, it's basically illegal to accuse the president of lying. A few days ago I was working with a high schooler on her Watergate term paper and I explained, "This is the moment when everyone in America gets to stop respecting the president." She looked at me blankly. I caught myself, "Um..until now..with uh, the last election, that is."

Yes, it's sad but true, but the days of fury over lying politicians might be over. Even all the dudes having affairs and paying prostitutes are admitting it. There even a TV show about it. Lame! I mean, gimme some scandal and deception-- it's my god-given right as an American! Thankfully, we have Sarah. She's lying like a rug, and she's even doing it print. Check out the Huffington Post's growing list of the Biggest Falsehoods in Going Rogue.

And please buy the book. The publishing industry is accepting all charitable donations, regardless of race, gender, creed or political affiliation.

Venti Soy Handstand with a Shot of Eccentricity

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 04:20:00 +0000

On Friday, I successfully kicked up in to Pinchu Mayurasana (aka feathered peacock, aka forearm balance) for the first time. I was excited beyond words, so of course I knew our Saturday teacher training class, geared towards all inversions, was going to be a disaster for me. I'd have all kinds attachments and expectations, and I wouldn't be able to do handstand, even though my teacher told me last week that I was thisclose.

Sure enough, I couldn't do handstand. I couldn't do pinchu either, and when my teachers kept saying I was thisclose I kept insisting, "I did it yesterday!" which attests to my ego, attachment and inability to live in the present moment. YogaFAIL!

To make matters worse, our teacher ended class with a meditation that involved envisioning all the organs of your body smiling. My liver could not smile, neither could my kidney. In fact, I thought, I don't even know where my kidney is, but I'm sure if I could find it, it would be frowning and irritated about my bad practice, just like I am.

Finally, the meditation ended and I got to stop envisioning my small intestines in a state of peaceful bliss. I returned to the wall and tried kicking up into any pose that would have me. No luck. Teary-eyed and despairing, I raced for the one thing sure to improve my mood anytime: Coffee.

Unfortunately, when I arrived at Starbucks, the man I yelled at for hurting the environment after he threw out my cup last week was at the register. I wasn't sure if he remembered me when he asked how my day was going so far.

"Well, I've been in Yoga Teacher Training for a few hours...so...ok."
"Whoa! Yoga training! That's crazy."
"Yeah," I continued, surrendering to the present moment. "I've been trying to kick up into handstand and I can't, so I'm kind of frustrated."
He laughed. "Handstand? I can do a handstand."
"Great!' I was happy for him. Really, I was.
"I can do a handstand and walk on my hands," he continued.
"Great!"
"In fact, I could probably do one right here in the middle of Starbucks."
"Great!" I forced out for the third time. Was that my spleen I felt smiling, or psychosomatic nausea?
"Yeah!" He handed me my coffee. "I could definitely do it." Before I could put away my change, he had come around the dessert bar and was placing his cellphone on the floor. He looked up me. "Read it and weep!" And then, right there in the middle of Starbucks, he dove into handstand (with a very curved back) and took a few steps on his hands before sliding down the floor.
"Wow!" I said, more shocked and amused than anything. "That's....great!"
He leaped to his feet. "I could probably walk on my hands all the way to the door!"
"Cool!" I told him, backing away. "Well...I'm going to go over there and put milk in my coffee, so if you want to try walking towards me that's fine, but otherwise I'll see you later!"
"I told you I could do it!" He called after me. "In fact, it was easy."
I hurriedly added soymilk and shot out the door. I had to admit that I was pretty entertained, no longer on the verge of tears and a little satisfied by the knowledge that his form was terrible.

Just goes to show you there's no problem that caffeine can't solve.

Smart Reactions to The Age Of Stupid

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 14:15:00 +0000

Since I saw "The Age of Stupid" a week ago, I've been trying to live conscientiously/be plagued by guilt and anxiety about the demise of our planet. As it turns out, I'm really good at being plagued by guilt and anxiety, but saving the environment is more difficult.

For example, last Sunday, I brought my paper Starbucks cup into Manhattan for yoga teacher training so when we took our break, I wouldn't have to get a new one. The man behind the counter glared at me and said, "Do you know our refill policy?

"Yes!" I smiled. "I can only get the discount if I bought the coffee in this store."

He shook his head at me and threw my cup in the garbage as though as I was some of kind of criminal. His rudeness, added to the rawness I felt after seeing that film, fortified with a two hour hip-opener practice lead me to literally shriek, "No! What are you doing?? I brought the cup to help the environment! That was the whole point. GOD." He mumbled an apology but my eyes were already on the woman filling the new cup. "I have a lid!" I yelled. "Do not do not do not give me a new lid!!"

One of my yoga classmates was waiting at the end of the bar for her soy latte and smiled at me with a mix of patience, amusement and concern. "It's ok, RB!" She called. "Just step down here. Just pay and come away. It's ok."

This morning at Starbucks, I showed up with my cup from yesterday and told them I didn't want the discount, I just wanted them to reuse my cup. They told me that according to the Board of Health, reusing the cups was now illegal. Then they gave me the discount. Team America, F* Yeah!

I know--I need to bite the bullet and get a thermos, asap. So, that's step one. Step Two for me (and everyone else) might be to go back and read the comments on my original Age of Stupid post. A very sophisticated conversation emerged there, and some commenters provided helpful links. One "Gary O" wrote, "I just hope someone reads this" after a long reflection on his career as a Mechanical Engineer committed to creating better energy options. So read it!

Other commenters suggested blogs, movies, Web sites, etc such as:

http://www.beyondtalk.net/ (climate pledge of resistance)
http://noimpactman.typepad.com/ (Colin Beavan's the no impact man blog, from EcoYogini.)
http://www.transitionnetwork.org (The Transition Towns Movement)

For further reading on the subject, also visit the Huffington Post to read True Styler's speech to UN: Do We Really Want to be the Generation that Destroyed Ourselves? If there's anything I've learned in the last week, it's that reform is necessary. I heard on NPR yesterday that carbon emissions dropped 9 percent during the recession. But all the scientists say it's not enough, and if the economy recovers, the planet will suffer more. Now is the time to be active and make laws, because Starbucks and I can't do it alone. As Styler said:

The United Nations was created to bring order and responsibility to our world.

It is a magnificent testament to much that is good in humankind. You are the inheritors of that tradition. You are the keepers of that sacred flame. I am asking you -- no, I am begging you -- to live up to your responsibilities. Don't settle for warm words and fine-sounding declarations. Don't accept clever compromises.

As we go forward to Copenhagen, the signs are not good. In the face of the greatest crisis our world has faced for generations, too many powerful people are behaving with shocking irresponsibility. Instead of meeting the challenge of climate change, they are sidelining it in favor of short-term priorities. Instead of building a sustainable global economy, they are ignoring it in favor of short-term growth.

Instead of telling their citizens the truth, they are obscuring it in favor of comforting lies about painless solutions.

The 21st century is already a decade old. The time when leaders could claim not to understand the implications of the evidence before us is long past .

What Chris Brown Teaches Us About Yoga

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 04:31:00 +0000

I'm sure everyone is familiar with the video above, because my mother told me about it before I saw it, and if your mother tells you about something viral before you catch it, you know it must be huge.

This video, aptly titled "Jill and Kevin's Wedding Dance" is magical because it makes even cynical, cold-hearted non-believers like me think marriage might just be a wonderful thing (or at least an excellent excuse for a dance party and an open bar). The problem is that it's Chris Brown who's making everyone realize how beautiful love can be. Prior to this video, Chris Brown was only teaching us how love might cause you to miss the Grammy awards.

Still, personally, I've been dying to download "Forever" since, well, forever. But more than one person told me that if I did, I'd be "giving $1.29 to wife-abuse". I'm terrible at making my bed, lazy about laundry and inept at cooking, so I anticipate that I'm going to need a wife some day. I certainly didn't want a reputation as someone who thought hitting was ok.

However, last week, one of my roommates (who apparently bought the song before Brown hit Rihanna...) emailed me an MP3 of "Forever." After months of craving it, I've been listening to it non-stop for days. But I've been feeling a little guilty about it, so I decided to do the yogic thing and find the yoga in Chris Brown.

Chris's Karma Points

1) He knows about foundation. On Sunday, when we were doing practice teaching in training, I explained parivrtta trikononasana (revolved triangle) by quoting to the line, "All you've got to do is watch me/see what I can do with my feet" from the song. I told my students that while it seems like the pose is all about the fancy things you do twisting your torso and putting your arms in the air, the real meat and merit of the pose was all in the feet. Focus on what you can do with your feet, and it's expressive enough. The rest will just evolve.

(After I was done teaching the pose I asked if it seemed out of place to be quoting Chris Brown in yoga and everyone said no, although one person did say, "RB, I have a feeling that when you start teaching, your classes will be like no one else's." Not quite sure what that meant. Oh well.)

2. He shows what happens when you don't stick to your intention. When my teacher asked us to set an intention for the class today, answering the question, "why are you here?" immediately, my mind (heart?) answered "Love!" Not necessarily romantic love, but just general kindness. Of course, this turned out be a day when everyone annoyed me, people were knocking my props over, and no one would smile at me. My teacher told us that yoga class was a good place to explore how we reacted when our intentions faced a challenge.

I realized that when my intent to practice loving kindness was not met with equal loving kindness, I got really really pissed off. In fact, I very quickly switched to disliking everyone. Hmm..I thought. Sounds like a certain notorious R&B singer I know (not B.I.G). So while I absolutely assert that hitting your girlfriend is unacceptable, we can all learn something about how not to act when your plans or perceptions are disrupted. Most of us aren't reacting with outward physical violence, but you might be surprised to find the tiny acts of violence you inflict on others or yourself when your expectation and intentions are not met. Those reactions compromise your intention--as we see with Chris Brown, his actions destroyed his noble intention, and a perfectly awesome love song.

3) His situation is so screwed up, it demands radical affirmation! First, two other people, Jill and Kevin (of the wedding dance above), picked up Brown's intention and manage to restore the song's popularity. Then, they got some criticism for helping to boost sales for a wife-beater. They responded by employing another tenet of yoga, Radical Affirmation. They took something bad, and made it something good by collecting donations for domestic violence charity on their web site, Jill and Kevin's Wedding. Now, something that seemed like an awkward mistake is helping people.

4) We learn the value of Ahimsa, or non-violence. If you need me to explain this one, this blog is above your reading level. However, I would add sometimes that ahimsa, one of the five Yamas (which are like the 10 commandments for Yogis) is sometimes interpreted as vegetarianism. This means vegetarians are the opposite of wife-beaters. Go Vegs!

5) Asmita, Or Ego, is one of big obstacles to a Yogic life. If you can put aside your ego to make a public apology, or put aside your ego to write a blog post about Chris Brown and yoga, you are obviously on the right track.

6) He's a good reminder that nobody's perfect, but that doesn't mean we can be judgmental. In Sutra 1.33, Punjali gives instructions on how we should treat certain difficult types of people (as opposed to how we normally do.) For example, we might feel an aversion towards wicked people. But we shouldn't, instead, we should be "accepting" and "neutral." In other words, it's ok to buy the song and listen to it a thousand times, even though "it might make us think we are approving of their bad behavior." We're not! We're just creating equanimity! What a relief. It's like I waited my whole life....

The Age of Stupid

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 14:21:00 +0000

On Friday, I almost bought teal converse sneakers, just for the fun of it. I know people who have lots of converse sneakers in lots of colors. Why not be one of them? But I ended up putting the shoes back and I am so glad I did, because on Saturday, I decided to be hip and politically correct and invite my friend and roommate to see The Age of Stupid at MoMA, which, I deduced from a brief scanning of MoMA's listing, was about global warming.

Cool, I thought. It'd be fun to tell everyone that I'm so environmentally careful that I see movies about global warming. After giving away my fake engagement ring on Halloween to some guy dressed as Run DMC, I'm no longer able to pretend to be married, so I figured appearing more eco-friendly would a good way to fit in in Park Slope for the time being.

Little did I know, seeing The Age of Stupid would not just make me feel like I didn't belong in Park Slope, but it made me feel like I don't belong on the planet. The premise of the film is that by ignoring climate change now, we're basically guaranteeing that the whole planet will be destroyed, and we'll all be dead by 2055. I may not be good at math, but I know that is soon. I will be 81, if I don't die in one of the hypothetical hurricanes or food riots that occur in the years before.

The movie is part documentary, part cartoon, and part fiction. Pete Postlethwaite plays an archivist who has collected specimens of planet earth as we know it in a Noah's Arc sort of way, and uses an iphone-like computer to make a documentary about how we knew better in 2008 but were too dumb to do anything about it.

The documentary footage is real, and it is interspersed with cartoons demonstrating how gluttonous Americans are. Postlethwaite also offers commentary, while scrolling ferociously and tapping his screen to make selections. He has the iphone mannerisms down to a pat (which scares me, I don't know why.)

The documentary sections feature: "Fernand Pareau, 82-year old French mountain guide, Jeh Wadia, starting a low-cost airline in India , Alvin DuVernay, Shell oil man who rescued 100 people after Hurricane Katrina , Layefa Malemi, living in Shell’s most profitable oil region in Nigeria, Jamila and Adnan Bayyoud, two Iraqi refugee kids trying to find their brother, Piers Guy, a windfarm developer fighting the anti windfarm lobby in England." (see full synopsis.)

They are all trying to better the world in some way, but they are all either misguided or doomed to fail or both. The point of the movie is to convince us that we know how to fix global warming, but are committing suicide by ignoring it and doing nothing. I'm sure the point of the movie was to inspire action, but it inspired a total panic attack. Jamila and Adnan Bayyoud note that while they wear shoes until they fall apart, Americans throw away shoes the minute something breaks. It literally made me want to punch anyone I knew who buys shoes for fun. (file under: my career as a yoga teacher is as doomed as the o-zone layer.)

The movie does a good job of showing us how stupid we are, but less of a good job demonstrating how we can help it. Rather, the world of the film is filled with really stupid people. And it made me think that I knew a lot of stupid people too. (I also felt physically violent towards anyone I knew who had ever suggested it was a good idea to take a cab.)

That said, I do recommend checking out the site, seeing the movie if you can and joining the movement, "Not Stupid." On the site, you can e-mail politicians and learn to cut your emissions by 10 percent. You can learn more about the conference in Copenhagen in December 2009 that might help to set policy that will reverse the effects of global warming.

I joined, and hope to convert my hopelessness into action, but unfortunately, what I drew from the film is that humans are sort of biologically wired to consume resources until they're gone. Postlethwaite reflects that maybe we're committing suicide because we don't think we're worth saving, but I think maybe we're just driven by the laws of entropy. Maybe we're doomed by genetics to feverishly use everything until it's gone. If you agree, I encourage you not only join the Not Stupid campaign but also to join my movement, which involves pledging to never have children, throwing teal converse sneakers at shoppers in SoHo and then moving a farm with the next person I find who I can stand for more than an hour.

GrilledCheeseFAIL

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 21:49:00 +0000

Because yesterday was Veteran's day, I agreed to look after my friend's daughter so he could work while she had the day off from school. I showed up at the tail end of breakfast after an early morning ashtanga practice that I hoped would prepare me for a day with a five-year old. She was really upset when he left and did her best to thwart his departure by wiping her buttery fingers on his nice dress shirt and crying extensively. She insisted that he be the one to get her "dressed," but when I saw that the outfit she chose was a bright pink, footed flannel pajama suit, I observed, "it's a hang out on the couch and watch movies day!"

We settled down for "Ariel's Beginning." I had no idea that the Little Mermaid had a prequel, but it seemed like a great opportunity to practice restorative yoga poses and read Paul Krugman's The Return of Depression Era Economics, the next book on my review queue. Kids, I thought, as I snuggled into a pillow and delved into the Latin American 90s recession, are wonderful! Not only that, but after the movie, there was a bonus feature starring the girl who plays the little mermaid on Broadway giving a backstage tour of the theater. I had Musical theater, reason to panic about money and more time to worry that I can't do lotus pose--in short, everything I could possibly want. But then I had to make lunch.

At first, I was happy when she asked for grilled cheese. It seemed easy enough, and suitable for a chilly fall day. I got the ingredients out of the fridge and placed them on the counter. I gave my brain the cue, "make grilled cheese." My brain replied, "but how?"

I decided the bread should go in the toaster oven first, then should be cooked in a pan. I avoided burning the bread in the toaster oven, and congratulated myself on the achievement as I layered cheddar cheese on the buttered sour dough slices. Yes, this was definitely how grilled cheese was made. I sighed with relief and turned my attention to the soup. And then the smoke alarm went off.

I turned off the burner, moved the pan and ran to open the windows. "You're not allowed to have the windows open," my little friend told me. "It's not safe."

"Well, don't stand over there for now, ok? They need to be open for the smoke to go away." She agreed, and went with a blanket towards the alarm and started fanning the air.

"I'm helping you!" She cried.

I thanked her and when the wails of the alarm had subsided, I shut the window and returned my attention to the troubled sandwich. The cheese was hard as a rock, but the edges of the bread were already completely burned. I reignited the stove, this time with a lower flame. Master of subtly, expert problem solver, babysitter extraordinaire! I thought. I served the soup as an appetizer. Then the smoke alarm went off again. I ran to the windows.

"I'm cold!" yelled my ward. "And I hate this soup!"

"I'm sorry!" She had changed out of her flannel jump suit into a Disney princess nightgown. I wrapped her in the blanket she'd been using to fan the smoke alarm and assured her, "when I serve your sandwich, it will get the taste of the soup out of your mouth, but you have to eat it."

But what to do about that pesky sandwich? The bread was now miraculously both soggy and burned, while the cheese was slightly rubbery, but solid. Then I recalled my college boyfriend's passion for tuna melts, which he insisted his Mom cooked in the oven. Although I'd technically written her off because she hated my guts, perhaps she might be on to something.

I stuck the sandwich on a plate in the oven and waited. And waited. Wasn't cheese the sort of thing that melted quickly? It had only taken me about 7 minutes in an oven to completely destroy my ipod. Wtf??

"I hate this soup!" Shouted the little one.

"Ok." Breathe. Just breathe. Then I remembered the best advice my father ever gave me: diffuse and deflect. I turned it over to her. "You have two options. You can wait for me to keep cooking the sandwich until the cheese melts, or you can eat it now with the cold cheese."

Apparently, it's really not true that women want the right to choose. She started to cry. "My option is daddy."

"Daddy's at work, honey, I can't bring him home."

"My option is daddy!!"

"But 'option' means that something is possible. It's not possible for daddy to be here. Pick one of the other options." I always knew that formal logic class would pay off, someday.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!!!" She screamed.

I sunk to the floor of the kitchen, nestling myself between the island and the stove, staring at the stubborn sandwich. "Cook!" I whispered, as the voices in my head started to sneer, "you can't even cook grilled cheese! What can you possibly contribute to the Planet Earth?"

[art shot of my arm reflected in the oven, as I sit on the floor and contemplate pulling a Sylvia Plath.]

"I hate this soup!! I want daddy!" She howled. I hoisted myself up and walked over the table, grabbing the spoon. "Here, I'll feed you the soup, and when it's gone, the sandwich will be ready." She seemed to agree, but after receiving the second bite, spit the soup back in bowl and continued bawling, "I want daddy!"

I tried more reason. "But just think, if today were a normal day, you'd be at school. You'd be fine!"

"Yes but when I'm at school, I don't have to be with you!!" I recoiled back. Much like the bread, I was burned. But I forced myself to go on.

"What did I do to you?"

"You're bossier than all my nannies!" She began to howl.

"Bossy how?" I demanded (case in point. But oh well.) I softened. "I mean, if you tell me what I did that is bossy, I won't do it anymore."

"You're just bossy," she sobbed. "It's just how you arreeee."

I lay my arms down on the table and hid my head. When I closed my eyes, I saw an image of my dear, sweet, wholesome new Englander ex, with that horrified sneer he had used to express that I was a morally devoid, over-harsh and self-absorbed eccentric. I heard the ex before him, explaining to me over Prince and warm beer at a cast party that I just wasn't the sort of person a man would want to start a family with.

Maybe, I frenetically hypothesized, if I started crying, she'd stop crying. I imagined what the ex would say about that. That I was immature? No...another word that started with "I.." Ah, yes. Insane. And that was why I was unqualified to make grilled cheese, sustain a relationship, or care for a child. I thought about what my mother would say about that. She'd say, "Stop your catastrophic thinking!" And then maybe she'd tell me how to make grilled cheese... But for now, I had to go against my grain and learn an impossible skill: coping with criticism.

I fled to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. There had to be some way to take this constructively, maturely and improve my behavior. I'd met one of her nannies. What did the other nanny do that I didn't do? Then it hit me. The other nanny cooed and squeaked. I talked like a grown-up. Maybe kids were like dogs, and if you cooed and squeaked at them, they never knew you were saying, "your horrendous moron! The ASPCA was so right when they said Golden Retrievers were over-bred."

I marched back out and removed the still-not-cooked sandwich from the oven. "Ok!" I sang. "Time to have some yummy sandwich that silly me goofed up on!' Squeak, Coo, Giggle: Miracle.

We finished lunch, and I launched into some squeaking and cooing about how cute her clothes were. She smiled at me, "You can have them when I grow out of them, for when you have a baby. Then I'll get to see my old clothes because you can bring the baby here!"

"Bring it here?" I choked. "I don't know, honey. It might take me a lot of years. I'd have to get a boyfriend, then get married and then have a baby. How long do you think that will take?"

"Two years!" She replied confidently.

"What? That's kind of soon!" And what if she was some kind of prophet? I was running out of time to date horribly inappropriate men and complain about my life!!!!

"Well," she looked at me as though I was missing something major. "The parents decide when the baby comes. It doesn't have to take that long." Then she leaned in very confidentially. "You know, I actually have a boyfriend."

"Really?!" Remember, I told myself: squeak, coo. "Who is he?"

"He's the talking trash can at Disney World. And..." her eyes lit up. "He's not even operated by remote control!" For the first time since I'd started slicing the cheddar, my mouth cracked into a relieved and glorious smile.

"Don't laugh! It's true."

I curbed my enthusiasm but embraced my tremendous joy. "I'm not laughing sweetie. I think it's awesome. And so are you."

When her dad came home, in the name of full disclosure, I told him everything. "I know!" he commiserated. "That damn cheddar! It just won't melt. I have no idea what's wrong with it."

Awesome.

The Hypochondriac at the Cell Theatre: It's Sick

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:05:00 +0000

As faithful followers of this blog know (there must be 2 or 3 of you out there...) I have mixed feelings about illness. On one hand, I like making fun of people who worry about swine flu. On the other hand, I like googling random symptoms and diagnosing myself with rare diseases based on information I can find online. On one hand, I won't go to doctors or take antibiotics, on the other hand, I'm mildly addicted to Excedrin.

While I may be confused about my feelings on health and well-being, I know exactly how I feel about satire. I love it. So I was very excited to get an invite to The Hypochondriac at the Cell Theatre. The play is a modern adaption of Moliere's Le Malade Imaginaire in which a very rich man is duped by doctors into thinking he is very ill (with what disease, we don't know) and needs oodles of expensive medicine and enemas. (So basically, he's a Hollywood star, except bald and in a bathrobe.)

In this adaption, brought to life by my fellow Revolving Floor contribut0r Chris Harcum (who also plays the title role, Mr. Argan), Matthew Gregory, Shira Gregory and Greg Tito, Moliere's message about the idiocy of doctors is converted into a critique of our pill-popping society. The set TV played occasional commercials for made up diseases like Wandering Eye Syndrome (when your boyfriend stares down other girls' shirts) and Mr. Argan's brother Barry (Douglas Scott Sorenson) reveals a magic cure for heart disease: exercise. (Duh!)

These messages were interesting and relevant, but for me, the real joy of the show was witnessing a kind of comedic brilliance that we don't see frequently in modern shows. Maybe I'm nerd because I think Moliere is hilarious, but this cast brought the work to life with the perfect blend of vaudevillian slapstick, tight delivery and genuine acting chops. Moliere's characters are stereotypes, but in The Hypochondriac, they become real in a way that is simultaneously comfortingly familiar and piercingly refreshing. In short: I LOVED LOVED LOVED this show for its ability to entertain, offer social commentary, and remind me of how essential classical theatre is.

For example, nobody writes great women like Moliere does, and Vivienne Leheny, as the brilliant and conniving maid, Toinette, does an invigorating job of proving it. Harcum is impetuous and determined as Argan, rising to the tremendous challenge of playing the ass and victim in a troupe full of willful characters. Kyle Haggerty brings levity and hilarity as a socially inept and idiotic young medical student. As Argan's hyper-rational brother Barry, Sorenson shines like a beacon into the dark mesh of hysteria and self-absorption that plagues the other characters.

So, in short, I recommend the play. And maybe giving up pills, too. The day after I saw the Hypochondriac, we learned about the Ayurveda in Yoga Teacher Training. Ayurveda is a holistic form of health care that advocates creating a lifestyle suited specifically to one's constitution. Apparently, I would have no physical or mental problems if I just napped, quit caffeine and ate lots of oatmeal. Easy! (she says from her perch at Starbucks, empty Venti cup faithfully by her side...)

My teacher warned us that choosing this path isn't easy, but I really think I can! Fare thee well, dear Excedrin. It's been real.

DoDos Around the Web: The Band, The Politician and Big Bird

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 18:56:00 +0000

It's been said that things always show up in threes. I noticed that my last two posts on PopMatters.com were related to Dodos. One was a review of the San Francisco-based band, The Dodos, at the Music Hall of Willamsburg. There, I discovered that the Dodos are lot more interesting than they sound on their last album, which was produced by Phil Ek, who has worked with other not-immensely-interesting bands like the Shins. (Not that I really have anything against the Shins...)

The other was a review of Ralph Nader's new book, Only the Super-Rich Can Save Us! in which Nader proves over the course of 736 pages that he is, himself, a Dodo, or at the very least, a bad writer with delusions of grandeur.

I was waiting for the third Dodo to fall from the sky when I saw Cookie Monster on the Google homepage and realized it's the 40th Anniversary of Sesame Street. The PopMatters Mixed Media Blog has Sesame Street covered, too, with the Sesame Street Turns 40 Video Collection. You can also visit the official Sesame Street Homepage for more child and adult-friendly videos.

Personally, I love all things Sesame Street, but nothing more than the movie Follow That Bird, the story of how Big Bird goes to live with a family of Dodos so he live with animals "of his own kind." It turns out of course that even though the Dodos are birds like Big Bird, his real friends are the one on Sesame Street who may not look like him, but certainly understand and love him. Still, the Dodo family is pretty hilarious and from what I remember, Follow That Bird is a top-notch film. On a whim, I decided to some hunting around YouTube for Follow That Bird videos and found this song, "Ain't No Mountain You Can't Climb." I was surprised to discover I remembered all the words, but concluded the song is probably the reason why I was such an astoundingly over-confident three-year old.

Mainly I think this song is so great because Sesame Street is so realistic and ironic. While Jennings is spouting his cheery, kickin' country inspiration, Bert and Ernie are fighting about the color of Big Bird, Oscar is driving off the road, and Cookie Monster is looking for cookies. In fact, Big Bird is no where close to home, but tapping his webbed-foot along to a catchy tune certainly doesn't hurt. Grown-ups get the sad humor of Big Bird hopping delighted off the truck only to realize that he has no idea where Sesame Street is located, but it doesn't take away from entertainment value of the tune. Somehow, Sesame Street finds a way to make fun of everybody and inspire toddlers at the same time. This is basically my goal in life. (minus the toddlers.)

I think of all the characters, the Count has the best idea. He points out that no road is too long, as long as you can count telephone poles. If you suspect you are in for a long wait, it's always a good idea to find something to be passionate about other than the ticking of the second hand on your watch.

Hear Today: ArpLine

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 16:02:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, I was driving around Williamsburg with my friend and his 5-year-old daughter. They tried to introduce me to one of the greatest songs of all time, "C is for Cookie."

Because we were beneath the BQE on Meeker avenue, and because the person trying to cross the street had on a stupid hat and sunglasses even though it was raining, I felt it was appropriate to roll my eyes and groan, "whatever. I was listening to 'C is for cookie' 20 years ago..on vinyl" while silently celebrating: "Yes. Yes. Yes. I finally sound like a hipster!"

In reality, listening to the Sesame Street album, which, by the way, is absolutely fantastic, reminded me that even though I will never be able to pull off skinny jeans and rarely remember my sunglasses even when the sun is out, discovering new music is still a valuable activity. (For example, while listening to the Sesame Street album, I discovered, Kermit the Frog, singing "This Frog" based on "My Way," a brilliant and inspiring tune that I'd never heard in my youth)

Soon after, by accident, I stumbled upon KEXP.org, a Seattle based radio station that plays a lot of music that is in the same caliber as muppet music but kind of different genre. Featuring mostly independent artists, KEXP, like Sesame Street, is an "innovative cultural force."

Last week, KEXP had a band from Brooklyn in the studio that is so independent that they don't even have a label yet. (Yes! I really finally sound like a hipster!!) It is called ArpLine, and you can hear a lot of different influences in the music, (the usual cocktail of Joy Division, Arcade Fire, with a hint of Animal Collective, etc.) but the the sound is a little bit more raw. They don't define their genre on their myspace page but they are catchy (and not in the way that Jordan Sparks is catchy but I have to pretend she's not to save face.)

So. Take one step at a time. Visit ArpLine online, or listen here. This their song, "Rope."

<a href="http://arpline.bandcamp.com/track/rope">Rope by ArpLine</a>

Teaching Your Children About Spirituality

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 02:30:00 +0000

I've started to think that no matter how much you don't believe in God, His name still crops up in the vernacular, and the collective conscious. For example, today, when the sun came out after a day of torrential downpours, I thought, "Oh no! God is a Yankees fan!" Now that I see the Phillies are winning, I'm thinking maybe He's a Phillies fan. Or maybe God is one of those un-American dudes who prefers soccer to baseball. Maybe He's not even American...but if He's not, why would he let George W. in on the secret about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq?

Regardless, it is certainly easy to slip into God-talk, and, as demonstrated above, it is just as easy to slip into really irreverent God-talk. (Honestly, my guess is that God is so devoted to the Mets, He doesn't even know who's in the World Series...)

However, I've been spending some time with my friends' children lately, and I realize that you have to choose your words carefully, especially if you are spending time with children who don't belong to you. Having penned the highly useful "5 Web sites to Develop Your Child's Spirituality" and as a committed and spiritual yogini, I'm certainly not advocating telling anyone under the age of 10 that God is dead. (I'd say the 11th birthday is a good time to introduce Nietzsche). But as anyone who's ever yelled "F(*K" in front of a toddler can attest, it's easy to slip up.

Last week, I was hanging out with a friend's six-year-old son who wanted to know why Bar Mitzvahs happened at 13:

Me: Because the Bible says so.

Him: Why?

Me: Because that's when the people in the Bible decided.

Him: Who are they?

Me: Uh, the people in the Bible.

Him: But WHY?

Me: I don't know. That's why some people think the Bible is made up.

Oops. I'd like to hope he doesn't know what "made up" means but given the highly skeptical nature of his questioning, I doubt that's the case. Either way, I vowed to be more prepared the next time I was confronted. Sure enough, we were eating dinner the other night and he asked, "Is Hell a bad word?"

"Well," I replied. "It is sometimes. It's a not a good place."

"What is it?"

"Do you know what Heaven is?"

He nodded.

"Well, Hell is the opposite of Heaven."

"Ah, so it's where you go if you don't believe in Heaven."

I was stumped, and tempted to reply, "No, if you don't believe in Heaven you just live a fuller life on earth and then decompose when you die..." but instead went with an emphatic, "Um, kind of..sure!"

"But," his wheels were spinning. "If God is everywhere....he's not in Hell."

"No. I guess not."

I was still brainstorming a way to make Hell not seem scary when he hit me up again. "God is everywhere and everything right?"

"Yes!" This made sense from a yoga perspective, too, and it was better than distracting him with Dante, which had been my back up plan.

"Ok, fine." He looked seriously perplexed. "There's something I don't get then. Who's that..I mean...what's that...uh, do you know His son?"

I choked on my breath for a second. Did I personally know God's son? Why..yes! In fact, He loved me, or so I'd read on a bumper sticker in Florida. I replied evenly, "You mean Jesus?"

"Yeah! That's him. Jesus. I don't get how if God is everywhere and everything, he had a son. You can't have a kid like that. You need a human parent to have a kid."

Determined not to screw up, I explained, "Well, he had his mother. Mary. She's a human."

I thought I was saved. But he was too smart. "You need two parents. The Dad can't be everywhere and everything."

Think fast, I willed myself. "That's true, usually you do need two parents. But that's why Jesus is a miracle. He was born even though it shouldn't have been possible, so it's a miracle. Have you heard of miracles?"

He nodded enthusiastically, then paused. "Yeah. Like if you had a Chinese twin..."

"Excuse me?"

He tilted his head. "I mean a Japanese twin."

"Um..."

"Connected, I mean."

"Oh! You mean a Siamese twin." I was lost.

He clapped his hands and nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Two heads...one body! Now that's a miracle!"

Dutifully, I explained to him that Siamese twins actually have two bodies. But in hindsight, I think it's probably ok that I told him the Bible was made up.

Learning to Love the Lost and Broken

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 04:04:00 +0000

I've never been much of a materialistic person. I hate shopping. I don't like fancy things. I don't think wealth is important. But ever since we've been reading the Yoga Sutras for Teaching Training, I've been overcome with feelings of non-coolness with non-attachment.

After first reading the Sutras on the subway, the first thing I did after I got off was go to Bloomingdale's--just to look around--at things. My second stop was Sephora, where I tried on make-up, even though before reading the Sutras, I never wore make-up. At first, I thought my behavior was really strange, but now, I see that it was entirely essential in order for me to really understand the Sutras.

You see, in order to understand non-attachment, you have to have something to detach from. I had avoided material possessions, but not because of yoga or deeper philosophy. The Sutras say that the world is a playground, and we have to use it to understand ourselves. Only then can we step away from the world and see our true selves. I wasn't necessarily in the world, but I hadn't made a conscious decision to step away from it, either. Even the Sutras say that self-denial for the sake of self-denial doesn't count for sh*t.

It made me think that maybe, my awesome brother, who is somewhat more into material possessions than I am, might actually be further along on the yogic path. You see, when I graduated college, he gave me a really expensive pair of sunglasses with the advice, "Growing up means having something expensive, and being able to cope if you lose it or break it." For the past week, I have been trying to convince people that my brother and the Dalai Lama are totally on the same wavelength.

Last night, I got evidence that this is true. One of my teacher trainers told a parable that she said had truly shaped her life. At an ashram, one of the students has the job of cleaning his guru's room everyday. The only possession the guru has is a tea cup, which he loves dearly. Unfortunately, the student breaks the teacup. Mortified and devastated, he goes to his guru to report the bad news.

But the guru is not angry or even sad. Instead he says, "Don't worry. I only loved it because I knew it was already broken."

The point is, we take care of things knowing full well that they're going to break or be lost. We love them because we know it's impossible to have them forever. My brother, immersed in a good taste, not only picked the same rose tinted Ray-Bans for me as Gwyneth Paltrow had, he also picked out the same the moral that is contained in an essential Buddhist parallel. Genius.

I, on the other hand, have spent most of the last 10 years trying to avoid truly loving or owning anything (people, possessions, places) because I don't want to admit that they're already broken and lost. Unfortunately, this kind of attitude leads to a lot of boring, spiritually stunted time in the Playground of Life.

And the point isn't about clothes either. It's about everything that falls under the Umbrella of Achievement. It doesn't actually matter if all my clothing comes from clothing swaps. But it does matter that I find some way of entering a relationship of non-attachment with Success.

Again, I have my brother to thank for getting the wheels turning. On Thursday, he asked me to take him to his NY State Road Test in the Bronx so he could finally get a driver's license. Granted, I am the only "under-employed" person he knows. But I was still very flattered...and also very nervous, a sentiment I tried to hide by suggesting we play "I, Spy" while we waited in line. (The fact that he agreed to it for at least one round was the biggest shock of the day.)

Then, his turn came. I got out of the car and made a break for a local playground to find a bathroom, filling my mind with positive energy and thoughts of perfect K-turns and spacious areas for parallel parking. Turn on your blinker, check your mirrors, glance in the blind spot... I repeated in my head. But then I realized something. While I wanted him to pass, I didn't really care if he didn't. I was just so excited to be the one who got to take him, to be the one marveling at the cleanliness of public toilets in the Bronx while he paused at the 4-way stop signs down the road.

I thought back to my own road test, and it occurred to me that I'd probably been immensely worried that my dad, who took me there, was going to be annoyed and disappointed if I failed. But of course, this was not the case. That is not what parenting, or loving, is about. Loving is the honor you feel when you get to be a part of someone else's journey--when you get to be something slightly more than a passive witness for a few moments in another human's existence. Pass, fail, lost, broken....whatever. I was, briefly, indifferent to the outcome.

(I'm sure the fact that the park bathroom had toilet paper and running water contributed to my happiness. After all, if the world is your playground, it doesn't hurt to have one with a nice bathroom...but we get to learn from Nature, and I don't think Punjali would judge me for being.....relieved.)

Anyway, all my spiritual growth was nice..but for naught. He passed the test. We had a dance party in the car. And I waited 25 minutes before shrieking at him for texting while being stopped at a red light.

He was not pleased. "You really to take a breath and pause before you scream at someone like that," he told me. "You need to think about the tone of your voice, and whether it's really necessary."

I think I have a new guru. Bring on the teacups.

It's Moby Dick, It's an Albatross...no! It's Handstand!

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 03:12:00 +0000

I'm now at a point where I am (proud?) to announce that while I can balance in the middle of the room in a handstand for a few moments once I've been assisted, I still can't kick up.

I went to a new teacher today, who after giving me a spot up, exclaimed in surprise, "You're very strong up here. Just give it more momentum." She didn't offer a spot when we went back for our next handstand, and after she came over to watch me pathetically kicking, I explained, "Handstand is my White Whale."

"Ah, it's your albatross." Now, at a first glance, I guess this sounds like a mixed metaphor, or maybe my yoga teacher wasn't an English major or a Brearley girl and just didn't realize the difference, but as an English major and a Brearley girl, I feel compelled to over-analyze this apparent mix-up and assume that the poet (aka yogaworks teacher) deliberately made her word selection to convey an important message.

So I started to think: What are the differences and similarities between Moby Dick and the Albatross? Both are the catalyst for endless, hopeless maritime misadventures. Both lead the protagonist on a quest. Both ultimately hold the protagonist as an emotional and physical prisoner. In both cases, the sea creature in question replaces religion for the protagonist.

But the differences seem more important. For example, Moby Dick attacked Captain Ahab, inciting him to seek irrational revenge. The Albatross was just flying through the sky minding its own business when the Ancient Mariner shot it down for the sake of sheer gratuitous cruelty. Ahab won't stop hunting for Moby Dick, but has a choice. the Ancient Mariner can't stop wandering because he's being punished for his act of irrational self-sabotage. Moby Dick is elusive, but the Albatross is hung around the Ancient Mariner's neck. He just needs to find a way to unshackle himself.

In looking over that last paragraph, it still seems more appealing to view handstand as a White Whale...after all, it's not like I view my inability to kick my feet into the the air as punishment for something. However, after deeper consideration, the Albatross makes sense. Thinking of handstand as some abnormally large sperm whale that might show up or might not and might kill me or might not shoves handstand into the realm of magical thinking (which is already filled with unrealistic goals like cleaning my room, getting enough sleep and steady employment.) Thinking of it as the Albatross implies that it's always going to be with me, and I'm not going to get to go home until I figure out a way to deal with it. It also puts the responsibility back on me, because I'm the one that shot the bird in the first place.

The other nice thing about the Albatross metaphor is that with Moby Dick, if I find him, all I get is revenge and triumph. If I can repent for my sin of killing the albatross, I get freedom. (We'll ignore the fact that what the Ancient Mariner really gets is the right to die...although maybe if there is an afterlife, it's just like being upside-down...) More to the point, the Albatross is an impingement to personal spirituality (Instead of the cross/the albatross...etc.) Shirking the burden of the Albatross also necessitates a constant awareness and practice, while Moby Dick just has be found. (Being honest, as messy as my room is, I would never find him.)

To that end, after class, the teacher came to talk to me about my albatross. She gave me some exercises to do for my weak psoas muscle that might enable me to get the momentum I need to kick. They don't look super fun or easy, but I think they are probably more manageable than watching your fellow sailors die of dehydration before getting kicked off the boat and wandering the ocean in state of eternal damnation. Although if next week is a bad as this week, I might get to experience that, anyway...

I'm Not Meant to Feel Like This

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 03:28:00 +0000

The first time a yoga teacher ever impacted my life beyond the mat was in frog pose (pictured above.) Frog post is a kind of split, it is is really painful, and at my yoga studio in college, we ended every class doing it for about 5 minutes. Ouch!

But one day, as we were all crouched there with burning legs, my teacher said, "I know this hurts, but imagine this was It. The rest of your life was just going to be frog pose forever. How would you find a way to bear it--even enjoy it. If this was life, how would you make it work it for you?"

It's a philosophy I've used many a time after that, but rarely on the yoga mat. Every time I'm in some really horrendous situation that's causing me tremendous pain, I think, "imagine if this was life. Imagine if there was no way out. How will I make this bearable?" In short, I've endured all kinds of crap by telling myself to imagine that there was no way out, that was I was stuck, and I'd just have to find a way to enjoy it.

This method helps one develop a solid, sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor, but I'm starting to learn that it does not actually help one to be remotely happy. What's happy about pretending that life is a series of miniature entrapments in painful positions? Nothing, I guess. But it still never occurred to me that I had a choice, until tonight.

Teacher Training Weekend 6 was wrapping up, and we were going over poses that are safe for beginners. Suddenly, for no reason, I turned my friend and whispered, "what happened to frog pose? I haven't done a frog in, like, 4 years" Apparently she had never done a frog pose ever so I forgot all about it until my teacher started mentioning poses one should never teach, because they were so dangerous and rife with possibility for serious injury.

"Russian split is one," she told us emphatically. I'd never heard of it, but when she demonstrated, my jaw dropped. I pointed and squeaked, poking my friend. "It's frog! It's frog!"

So, lesson learned: The next time you are in a position (life, mat, otherwise) that feels really painful, instead of telling yourself you're trapped and forcing yourself to like it, find someone who can will tell you that agony is actually a bad thing, and mandate that you never do it again.

Namaste.

A Pirate's Life: Downloading E-books for Free

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 14:34:00 +0000

When I read in the New York Times that the E-book version Dan Brown's new hit had been uploaded to piracy Web sites and was now available for free, my first thought was: serves those idiot publishers right for giving Dan Brown a book deal in the first place.

No, I'm kidding. My first really popular article was about Miley Cyrus and I understand that everyone has to make a living. However, it did get me thinking about how much piracy would prohibit publishers and authors from actually making that living. (By "publishers and authors" I mean the ones that aren't already doing it for free on the Web.)

So I wrote up a post for Popmatter's Re:print, thinking about whether the E-book threat was really as big as the MP3 threat:

"There are people who would prefer to carry a book with them, but the ability of that handful of people to sustain an industry is unlikely. And it’s going to be the new authors, the literary fiction writers and the memoirists who need to find other methods of distribution. After all, when you compare a publisher’s arbitrary decision to print someone’s first novel with the release of the low-budget movie Paranormal Activity, which was only produced because online users demanded it, the differences are glaring. But is it possible to imagine a world in which readers get to commission books?"

It turns that this article was also popular, although not quite in Miley territory. However, I think it's the only thing I've ever written that shared on social media sites by someone other than me. I was overly delighted about this, perhaps because, as my 9th English teacher once said, "it's a dull subject, you've got to get your kicks where you can."

But enough negativity. Let's pretend this is an omen of the dawn of a yet-to-be-determined new era for writers (aka bloggers) (aka people destroying the industry) (aka is she done, yet?). To infinity, and beyond!

The Wired Warrior: Move into Fear

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 03:34:00 +0000

Yoga doesn't want to destroy your anxiety. Yoga just wants to have a nice open dialogue with your anxiety. "The Wired Warrior," will be devoted to facilitating that dialogue. Every few days, I'll be sharing work-related and real-life-related dilemmas, with an explanation of how yoga can prevent you from breaking things and hating people.

I was talking to a former co-worker tonight about her new job and she mentioned that she's starting on a three month trial period. "More reasons to just be nervous," she explained.
"I'm sure it'll turn out better if you try not to be nervous and just do your work," I suggested.
"But being nervous is a big part of my personality," she protested.

I totally hear her on this. Fear is a big motivator for many people, and constant fretting can be as natural as breathing. But through careful observation of my own work habits, I have noticed that worrying about the future, or things that are not immediately in my control, has a negative effect on the quality of work I do. Constantly worrying that I might lose my job in 3 months would almost definitely lead to me losing my job in three months.

It made me think of something my teacher-trainer Kara Sekuler said this weekend. We were practicing handstand, and she told us, "Move into your fear. Don't try to conquer it--it's too hard. Just move into it." For many people, myself included, handstand is the White Whale of the yoga practice. Whether it's kicking up, not looking like a banana once you're up there, or trying to balance off the wall, everyone has a challenge. For many people, myself included, an entire class can be tainted by concern about the handstand practice.

As it turns out, the handstand practice can also be tainted by fear about the handstand practice. Take someone like me. If someone helps me up into handstand, I can balance fine. But I cannot kick up to wall to save my life, or anyone else's. Once I got so mad that I threatened myself by saying, "your mother will die if you don't kick up into handstand." I didn't do it. (Sorry, Mom.) On the downside, I no longer believe in mind over matter, although on the upside, my mother is still alive.

It's not that mind-power and will aren't important. But my problem was that I was trying to conquer my fear of handstand. Clearly, since I can balance once I'm up there, my fear isn't really of handstand. My fear is about kicking myself up. By focusing on "conquering the handstand," I was able to keep being sloppy and weak when I kicked, because I distracted by trying to force myself towards the final pose. Similarly, for most of us, the big worries, i.e, will I lose my job? will I get promoted? will anyone ever visit this site? distract us from the little worries that we should be focusing on, i.e, does this sentence sound right? did I fact-check? are there any typos?

The thing is, you can't just conquer your fear of kicking. You have to deliberately and mindfully move into your fear of kicking, and you do that by forgetting about the end goal and kicking with the best form you can possibly have. It's a more manageable way to deal with whatever is blocking you, physically and psychologically. Kara also told me that my block was that I wouldn't really commit. (I told her commitment was impossible for me and that I could get a doctor's note to prove it.)

While it's true that I have fear of commitment, I found that moving into that fear slowly--not committing to a full handstand but just to kicking really well, was doable. For people who love to worry, it's hard to imagine putting the end goal aside for even a moment. But for people who love to succeed, it's probably worth a try.

Ralph Nader Kills Trees

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 03:54:00 +0000

A few weeks ago I was listening to NPR and heard that Ralph Nader had written a novel, a parody called, Only the Super Rich Can Save Us. When the book list came from PopMatters.com the following week offering Nader's book as a title, I found myself selecting it, largely out of curiosity.

In the book, Nader fictionalizes the super rich of America. The book stars Warren Buffet, who decides after Hurricane Katrina that the government stinks, and that he and other super rich people should save the world. He calls together a round table in Hawaii, and then the rich go on to change the world. Kind of a cute idea, I thought.

Then the book came. 736 pages. This is the man who said he was going to save the environment??? What the hell could he possibly have to say that would require the use of that much paper? So, yes: I opened to page 1 already feeling hostile. But that doesn't mean that I'm not completely unbiased when I say: Nader is a mediocre writer and a terrible humorist. Am I supposed to think it's funny that Warren Buffet drinks Cherry Coke every two pages? I'm not sure. But clearly, "How To Be Funny For Dummies," or whatever book Nader read to help him create this attempt at satire, advised him that quirks and repetition were useful devices.

What's worse, is that after he's done trying to be funny, Nader sinks his text with disjointed passages that sound like campaign platforms. Dude, we heard you the first time. We didn't elect you. Move on!

I need to be honest. I'm not that far into this book. If the radio show is right, Nader's going to suggest some ways that the super rich could save the world, which will be cool. But I already don't want to read anymore. I don't want to carry all 736 pages of it on the subway with me anymore. I also think it says something important about Nader's character.

Nader is a professional encroacher. First, he helps Bush win by stealing important Democrat votes. Now, he's stealing book deals from writers that can actually write. Everybody knows there's an acquisition freeze. Let the real writers get the book deals! (And if you're going to be a non-writer and write a book, at least get a ghost writer like the athletes do so your book doesn't completely suck.)

Did I mention I'm becoming a yoga teacher and giving up anger?

The Power of Kindness

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 12:11:00 +0000

I've always been a contrarian, so I knew that as soon as I threw myself fully into a Yoga Teacher Training, I was going to find it really hard to be a good yogini. I tried to stop it. When I felt the urge to complain about something, I would put my hands in prayer prose and say, "I am going to be a yoga teacher. And I have given up anger."

But as it turns out, as my training has moved along, I've been less sunshiney than I was all summer long. I've started to get annoyed at people on the train again. And people on the street. And people who are rude to me when I try to pay for things. But the other day, I walked into McNally Jackson Books and the person interrupting my flow was trying to give me a dollar.

It was a Tarcher/Penguin staffer promoting the book, "The Power of Kindness." As a marketing tool, they were just being kind.

This is me, getting my dollar:

The truth is, it did put me in a good, creative mood. I started to think that there might be hope for books, after all! I sat down at a table wrote very enthusiastic post for PopMatters/Book Bytes:

"Essentially, The Power of Kindness is using a marketing strategy that adheres to the principles of the semantic Web; thus, it suggests a glimmer of hope for the publishing industry. People have argued that print is dying because people don’t want to pay for reading material anymore, but suddenly, today, while clutching my dollar, it dawned on me. It’s not about money, it’s about the power of kindness. [read more here]"

Then I went on my merry way and decided to use my dollar to buy a delicious Dr. Pepper, something I've been trying to avoid in the recession.

Man at Deli: 20 dollars.
Me: Cool! Because I've got millions of dollars I'm just looking to throw away!
Man: Great. Throw it at me.
Me: I will.
Man: $1.25 please. And you go have a great day!
Me: Thanks! You have a great day, too!

(insert merry laughter here.)

I later learned that some people gave their dollars to homeless people. Oops. But I was glad that the dollar gave me back my urge to interact with my fellow city-dwellers. At least until the next Subway trip. NB: That yoga mat is cumbersome and gets knocked into a LOT.

The Man Drought II!!

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 13:35:00 +0000

A year ago, I published a blog entry called "The Man Drought," about what happens when you break up with your boyfriend and become an over-achieving, early-rising superstar, only to find yourself helplessly in need of a man when a dead mouse shows up on your kitchen floor. I ended up recruiting my mom and her boyfriend to come to the rescue, and posting Wilson Philips' song "Hold On for One More Day," on my blog. It's a great song, I swear.

So when, almost exactly a year later, I found myself in my kitchen on a day when all my roommates were away, face-to-face with a dead mouse, I frantically looked up my old blog entry, hoping to find some advice. But the only conclusion I could draw was: no matter how productive or self-sufficient I am, it would still be awfully nice to have a man around in moments like these.

I tried calling my mom again. Her response was, "I don't even know how to dispose of a snap trap." I went for plan B: Wilson Philips, hyperventilation and covering my eyes partially so I couldn't really see what was going on. Using the plastic lid of a Chinese take-out container for leverage and wailing, "Oh my god. Oh my god. It has a face. I can see it's face. It has a face. It has a face," I scooped my deceased friend off our counter and tossed him into the trash can just as "Hold On for One More Day" was fading out.

I walked out into the rain with the garbage, wearing my clogs from high school, my sweatpants from college and my mom's plaid shirt from 1970, thinking how after one year and 20 days, I finally had become completely independent. Strangely, my sense of "man drought" is a lot more poignant this year than it was last year, perhaps because I finally realized the point of men is neither to prevent you from being productive on the weekends nor to clean up rodents.

To that end, I am researching an article about women/men who feel that although their day-to-day lives are probably better without their ex-significant other, they are still hung up him/her. If you have a story you'd like to share, or are a mental health professional who can comment on this from a scientific/advice standpoint, please leave a comment, tweet @wickedrb or email bachel73@yahoo.com.

Here's to weathering the weather, whatever the weather, whether you like it or not.

The Wired Warrior: It's Time to Talk to Your Anxiety About Yoga

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 13:35:00 +0000

If you're like most people, using yoga to calm your mind sounds great in theory, but when push comes to shove, the idea of wasting precious time and energy taking deep breaths kind of gives you an aneurysm. I was once one of those people. In college, I competed with people in my yoga class to see who could hold "om" for longer. I cried and refused to go to class for a week if I had an ego damaging practice, and ultimately took a long hiatus because I brought my best friend, who was an ex-ballet dancer, to class and she turned out to be way more flexible than I was.

Like most people, I sought after aerobic exercise, or activities where I could count miles, stairs and blow off some steam. But I'm at a point in my yoga practice where I'm actually generating steam, and not because I do yoga in a hot room, but because I've learned how to engage my muscles so intensely. The difference between running and yoga is that when you run, you do blow off your steam, and when you do yoga, you harness it inwards.

For me, getting to this place took years of practice, getting to a point where my anxiety and competitive nature were literally destroying my life, and getting laid off. I had the "good" fortune to be laid off in the summer (no jobs!), during the worst recession in history (no jobs!), with a skill set that's not-so-saleable in the current economy (too many writers!) That meant that I had to come face-to-face with the fact that no matter how driven I was, the car was out of gas. That obstacle enabled me to deepen my yoga practice and make some major shifts in my life and persona.

That's some major shifts. But now, it's September. And I can feel the weight of that two-sided coin, ambition, in my pocket. Why two-sided? Because ambition can lead us toward new adventures, intellectual growth and slots on Oprah! But it can also lead to the two other As: Anxiety and Anger.

Now no one really wants to admit this, but ask yourself: doesn't your anxiety kind of make you feel like you're getting somewhere, even when you're not? For many people, I think anxiety can be a motivator. But sometimes it fails us, or makes us completely f*&^ing miserable. If you're at that point, even if you hate breathing, your hamstrings or the idea of not working a 70 hour week, yoga can help.

Yoga can teach you to take what would be epic anxiety and focus on the immediate details that you can control. Most of anxiety is the urge to fix things that are abstract and totally our of our realm of jurisdiction. But when we pay attention to the task at hand, and get really really good at fixing the problems that are right in front of us, we get closer to the big goals without even realizing it.

Basically, this 5-year old I know said it in a nutshell:

Kid: Why does my dad always worry about everything?
Me: I guess because he loves you...and because he's a big worrier.
Kid: It's not good to be a big worrier.
Me: Why?
Kid: When you're a big worrier, you get hurt. It's better to be a small worrier.
Me: Why?
Kid: When you're a small worrier, you don't get hurt. Only when you're a big worrier do you get hurt.

Although I'm not sure my little friend understood what she was saying, I thought it was brilliant. We can worry, but we just need worry small. I believe that Yoga doesn't want to destroy your anxiety. Yoga just wants to have a nice open dialogue with your anxiety. And this new section, "The Wired Warrior," will be devoted to facilitating that dialogue. So what if you love to work hard, stay connected and check your email 40 times an hour? You still learn about how yoga and present moment mindfulness can make you work better.

The Wired Warrior doesn't want you to disconnect, or stop worrying. It wants you worry more effectively, with less psychosomatic headaches and neck pain. Every few days, I'll be sharing work-related and real-life-related dilemmas, with an explanation of yoga can prevent you from breaking things and hating people. Feel free to leave questions/comments or tweet @wickedrb.

The Days of Atonement 3.0: I'll Change for You

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 15:43:00 +0000

Today marks the end of the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashannah, and the beginning of the 10 Days of Atonement, when Jews scramble around trying to apologize for stuff they did wrong this year, hoping to be signed and sealed in the Book of Life. Catholics can understand this as 240 hours straight of Confession, during which everyone is your Priest.

About 6 years ago when I officially decided that organized religion was not for me, I gave up the apology thing. But, as I am wont to do, I took it to an extreme. Not only did I not apologize, I made a large production of claiming not to have done anything wrong at all. I know what you're thinking: how can you be so perfect and so self-deprecating at the same time? Well, it's just one of my many gifts....

I couldn't remember why I had this volatile counter-reaction, but the subject was on my mind because this year, for the first time in a while, it occurred to me that I probably did hurt some people in the past 12 months. I started to think that maybe it was time to say, "I'm sorry."

Suedehead*Morrisey

Then, on Friday, I woke up at 4 am and reached over for my BlackBerry to find an email from someone I hadn't spoken to in four years. She was my best friend from high school, and in her email, she reminded me that when I was a teenager, I would run around "always trying to apologize...for all the (nonexistent) ways" I had wronged people. She told me that at the time she'd found this sweet but silly, but now had come to understand the benefit of a time for introspection and apology.

She went on to ask for my forgiveness for thing that happened four years ago (the reason we haven't talked in four years.) But she made me realize that if I'm going to re-engage with the Days of Atonement, I want to employ a new Business model. A Web 3.0 business model.

Basically, just because I have the tools to communicate with an audience for the purposes of apology doesn't mean that a particular message right for each member of that audience. My harsh counter reaction was based on recognizing how inappropriate my mass, reckless apologies were. On the other hand, my friend's message to me, which was four years in the making, was highly specific, and highly appropriate in terms of timing and theme.

There are certainly some people I've wronged this year, but many of them are people that I don't ever want to speak to again. There's no benefit to me calling up some dude and saying, "Remember how I was really awkward on that date because I wasn't sure if I liked you, and then it turned out I didn't like you, and you didn't like me either, but I'm sorry if I led you on in anyway, even if we're never going to speak again?"

Similarly, if I fought with my roommates in July and then resolved the issue at the end of August, there's also no point in having another conversation about everything I might have done wrong because we've been over that. Apologizing again is irrelevant, and a waste of time.

As I see it, this methodology is analogous of the media's need to move towards a different way of communicating. Previously, online publishers could assume that there was content and information that should be mass distributed to everyone. Web 2.0 enabled social media, user contributions and more openness, but this free-for-all pales in comparison with receiving a piece of communication (like that email from my friend) that is timely, highly relevant, and tailored to mindset and ideology of the recipient.

For me personally, I've noticed that I can look back at the people I've offended and recognize what tendencies led to my behavior. In most cases, the present moment awareness I've been studying in yoga could have prevented a lot of misunderstandings. The same goes for the Internet: When companies fail to succeed, it is because of inattention to market, audience, and the specific reality of current data. In fact, the semantic Web is just a highly technical, digitalized form of mindfullness. Both I, and any successful Web site, should not be apologizing for what already happened, but thinking about how to adapt--and fast.

So, unless it's highly appropriate, I'm still not going to apologize. But I am going to commit to being more 3.0 in the next year. And that means clearer messages, with more careful attention to my audience. Or maybe just a lot more yoga.

*If you feel that I have offended you this year, please leave a comment and I will get back to you. Being offended by this shameless ploy to draw blog comments does not count for this year, but can be credited towards next year's apologies.*

How to Earn A Living as A Yoga Teacher

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 18:34:00 +0000

"My grandfather once told me that there are two kinds of people; those who do the work and those who take the credit. He told me to be in the first group; there is much less competition."-Indira Gandhi

The other night, while having a marketing meeting for a new Haunted House downtown some friends of mine are building, I took advantage of a lull in conversation to continue freaking out about my future. One of my friends (again, she's happily employed AND lives alone, so who is she to talk BUT) kindly assured me, "It's great that you're becoming a yoga teacher. No one is at all worried except you."

Of course, I'm not actually worried about it, either, because I know this is something I've dreamed about doing for years. But sometimes, helplessly, I slip into that career-driven mentality and when I say out loud, "I'm doing a yoga teacher training" I hear a voice in my head that says, "you're unemployed and it's pretty pathetic that you never even bothered to take the LSAT." Then, yesterday, I read this article on doublex.com titled, Can you earn a living as a yoga teacher? The answer is: not very easily.

For a split second after reading this article, I felt more concerned. But as I've plunged into the philosophy reading required for the training, I have slowly started to realize: I can't earn a living without becoming a yoga teacher.

Contrary to popular belief, yoga, unlike true Buddhism, does not require, or even suggest that you give up ambition. Entering into a very deep yoga practice (which is essentially what a teacher training is) is a way to get clearer perspective on your path. Whether you are employed or not, entering into a healthy relationship with your desires, ambitions and abilities is necessary for progress. For some people progress is measured in whether or not they make vice-president, and for others progress is measure in how far they go in the study of yoga.

But even people who seek to achieve great heights in yoga are constantly struggling with the ego and ambition. This can lead to injuries, or a sloppy practice, if you push through an "edge" in your practice when you should be pausing, says Joel Kramer. That philosophy applies to all aspects of life, including your career. And pause is necessary, because "the more slowly and carefully you treat your early edges, the deeper your final edge will be."

Now, Kramer confirms that ambition is an inevitable fact of life and mind, and even trying to eliminate it is an ambition itself. But we can avoid its ill effects if we pay more attention to our behavior and actions as we reach for our goals, rather than whether we have achieved perfection.

Unfortunately, in real life, our bosses want to know whether or not we've completed a task, and how well we've done it. We compete with our peers, our co-workers, and ourselves and if we don't succeed greatly, there are tangible repercussions. However, in a yoga practice, you can't really create the full manifestation of a pose without being in tune to those "early edges." I think that same idea applies to our careers: awareness of obstacles and behaviors will lead us to fuller success later.

At least that's what I'm going to keep telling myself, for as long as I'm unemployed.

Lehman Brothers: A Fairy Tale

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 18:00:00 +0000

The New York Times has made this fabulous video called "Wall Street: One Year Later" in honor of the one year "anniversary" of the fall of Lehman Brothers. Being interested in society, history and sentimentality, I was totally riveted by this video. The thing that struck me the most was watching all the people leave Lehman Brothers sobbing and flipping out. Obviously, they were crying because of what had happened to them personally, and could never have foreseen that a year later, the unemployment rate would be at 10 percent, entire industries would be disappearing, and Commerce Bank would be merging with TD North. (Seriously, as a creature of habit, I'm traumatized.)

I was also traumatized by the fall of Lehman Brothers, because it forced me to change my life plan. When I had first graduated college and was working in theater and hoping to someday be an actress or a "writer" (whatever the hell that means) I used to walk by the Lehman Brothers building and whisper under my breath, "Marry me, marry me, marry me, Lehman Brothers, please!"

It was mostly a joke. (As my friend C., who at the time worked for Bear Sterns pointed out, "your life isn't funny. You deliberately write your life so it sounds funny.") But it wasn't totally a joke. I wanted to do one socially acceptable thing (marry a finance guy) so that I could lead the creative, alternative life I wanted. Doesn't every banker want a wife who is a yoga teacher/blogger in clothes from 1972? Wouldn't that just be a perfect balance for both of us?

I got over this fantasy though, and as soon as I had a job of my own, I became less interested in living the so-called artistic life, and had very little desire to marry--or speak to--an investment banker. (Unless he had capital to invest in our little start-up...)

Of course, as luck would have it, things changed. And in a very roundabout way, it turned out that Lehman Brothers did give me the life I wanted, but not by marrying me. I realized this when I ran into my cousin and his wife last week on my way MoMA to see the Water Lilies. They are both employed by one of those other investment-type places, have graduate degrees, and are pregnant (well, they're not both pregnant, but whatever.)

Catching them up briefly on my life, I explained that I was becoming a yoga teacher, was desperately afraid that I'd never have another "real" job and was probably a disgrace to our entire family. "In short," I scoffed. "My parents are absolutely thrilled and delighted that they bothered to send me to college."

"First of all," my cousin assured me. "You are not a disgrace to our family. Second of all, you're not alone. There are a lot of people in your situation."

I eyed him suspiciously. "People who went to college? And didn't even slack off there?"

"Yes. This is the worst economic crisis in history. No offense, but even people who were a lot higher up than you are in your situation."

"Ok." I paused. "But if you hear of any jobs at [Investment Company], let me know. Or if you find me a potential rich husband...let me know. Basically, anyway you can figure out to get me health insurance, let me know about it." They promised to keep their eyes peeled, and got on the bus.

Walking towards the museum, I suddenly remembered all those years back when I prayed for Lehman Brothers (any of them) to marry me so I could become a yoga teacher and a freelance writer without looking like a total F*ck up. Now, thanks to Lehman Brothers, I can be yoga teacher and a freelance writer like I always wanted and I just look like a realistic product of our times.

Someone was just telling me last night that we set ourselves goals as a way to move forward, but quite frequently, we're not the same people we thought we were when we reach them. This isn't a bad thing--because in becoming new people, we learn a lot and grow. We never would have changed if we hadn't set the goal in the first place, but we should really focus on being mindful of how we behave while we're on the path. If we pay attention to our goal-achieving behavior, we won't feel as deceived or regretful if our destination doesn't look the way we thought it would.

And that's why this blog has no formal concluding sentence. Wasn't the journey enough? Namaste.

The Coolest Girl in New York City

noreply@blogger.com (RB) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 13:26:00 +0000

Ever since I went to San Francisco in August, I've been a bit down on New York. San Francisco, I found, had so many great things about it: skinny boys, skinny boys with tattoos, skinny pale boys, skinny pale boys with tattoos, skinny pale boys with dark hair and tattoos, skinny pale boys with tattoos on bikes...the list goes on.

But seriously, despite my beloved cousin assuring me that people had left hate mail about her bad parking job on her car not once but twice at her food co-op, I couldn't believe that everyone in SF wasn't as awesome as they seemed. I met a girl at a restaurant who happily tasted our appetizer and told me to call about job hunting if I wanted to move. I met a guy a bar called Zeitgeist who invited me to come live with him if I wanted to move. (As long we could "test our chemistry" before the night was over...details...details...) I met a kid from New Jersey at the farmer's market who picked up moved to an apple farm. I love apple farms. I loved SF.

Before I went there, my Travel Partner had warned me that I probably wouldn't like it, because I moved at a 10 pace, and in San Francisco everyone moved at a 3. While I was there, I discovered that I would much rather move at a 3 than at 10. When I came back to New York, I surveyed all the 8 million people who live here and thought, "I hate you." It's not a very generous thought for someone who is about to start a Yoga Teacher Training today (booya, reclaiming Sept 11), but we're all human. Plus, it's not my job as a future yoga teacher to make everyone in New York less of a pretentious jerk, right?

But then, on Wednesday night, I met the coolest girl in New York. We'll call her Suzy. I was standing on Amsterdam ave, outside of Haru (coolest Sushi in NY) across from Brother Jimmy's (coolest bar in NY) with my brother, coolest human in the Galaxy when Suzy and a friend of hers walked up to us.

Turns out my brother knew them from college, and that Suzy was in grad school near where my brother was living in the city.

"Cool." He whipped out his BlackBerry. "We should hang out some time."
Suzy sputtered good-naturedly. "Why would you say that to me? We're not going to hang out."
"Huh?"
"Seriously, I don't know even know why you'd say that to me, because we're never actually going to hang out."
I started laughing, hard. "Wow, you are probably the realest person in New York," I told her.
"Fine," smiled my brother who was also amused. "Do I have your number?"
"Who cares?" Suzy was laughing too. "What would we do if we hung out?"
"You guys could get coffee," I suggested. I really liked this girl.
"We can't get coffee!" She cried. "What we would we talk about? Nothing."
I turned to Suzy's companion. "She's amazing. I love her. Is she drunk?"
They both laughed. Suzy was totally sober.
"Well," I declared. "I'm really interested in what you're doing in Grad school. You should hang with me. See, Brother, Sally and I are going to hang out. Your name was Sally, right?"
"Suzy."
A grin slid over Brother's face as he shrugged his shoulders at his friends. "I guess it runs in the family."

So, yes, I am cut from the same cloth as my brother. (Thank God!) But I did find a reason to like New York. Since I realized that I sort of stopped liking New York on September 11th, 2001, I feel like this is great timing. Plus, if there's one thing New York teaches you it's that nothing solves your problems like a girl whose name you can't remember.