A New York Escorts Confessions

Barcelonely

Right now, right this very second, I could have been in Barcelona.

I could have been gazing at the melting spires of the Temple of the Sagrada Família. I could have been taking a deep and satisfying siesta. I could have been eating paella, drinking Rioja, heading for the hills or even the Picasso Museum.

Oh and the money I could have made. Money money money worth a month's salary. Money towards a down payment. And the baubles that would have been bought for me. And the luxury I would have luxuriated in--

I have to stop.

Barcelona was being brought to me courtesy of R, a regular, who thought it would be nice to make his upcoming business trip one of pleasure as well. He would have been a swell companion too. He'd have given me some time to myself. He'd have wanted to go to all the must-see museums and clubs and shops.

But here's the problem. He would have also wanted to go to restaurants.

The thing is, R has an eating disorder. Okay, not really. But I certainly have an eating disorder just watching him.

First he has to cut whatever he's eating--everything--into tiny bite size pieces. Then he systematically will down each and every bite one at a time until he clears the plate. Then he will take a piece of bread and clean the plate even more.

And then he'll reach for mine. And he does the same thing with the small little bites all over again.

The small bites even apply to butter, which he cuts to fit his morsels exactly. Oh and I forgot to add? He wipes his mouth with his napkin after each and every one.

It is in a word maddening.

I can deal with it. I can deal with it for one meal at a time. But not three a day for five days. I seriously think I would kill him.

I know it's petty. I know I shouldn't let it bother me. I know I should have my head shrunk. But seriously, the whole thing makes me want to throttle him, makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs, "FOR GOD'S SAKE EAT NORMALLY!" and then poke him with a fork over and over again until he cries Uncle.

And here I thought myself evolved.

My Cousin Myself

My head is spinning. I can barely type.

My cousin just called. She wanted to tell me she tested positive for The Gene. For breast cancer.

If you're a guy, you probably don't know just how frightening this is. Imagine you're at the scariest movie possible. Imagine that Freddy Kruger and Jason and the pod people and dead people are all in it. And suddenly all of them break out of the screen, three-dimensionalize and come after you all at once.

Sylvia's mother died of breast cancer ten years ago. The beast wasn't only coming after her. It was inside of her.

So Sylvia told me she had made a decision. She was going to get a hysterectomy. And after that a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy.

Translation? She was going to get her insides removed. And then she was going to do the same with her breasts.

The operations would immediately cause her to go into menopause.

Sylvia is 25.

Everything she told me came out in one big rush, as if she didn't want me to interrupt and talk her out of it. That was okay actually since I didn't know what to say. What do you say to a thing like that? Oh good, I'm glad you're taking action? Oh well, breasts are overrated anyway? Oh gee, I'm sure you'll find a man without any of the parts that make you a woman?

I know it's not about that. I know I'm sounding cruel. I'm just so beside myself right now I don't even know what I'm saying.

But of course at the time of our conversation I did have to say something. And I did. Something about coming out to be there for the operation. Something about bringing her outrageous thongs so that she could feel like a porn star even on the operating table.

I think that might not have been politically correct actually.

Forgive me. I couldn't come up with anything better. I was distracted.

My grandmother had breast cancer. So did my great aunt.

Could I have the gene too?

Etymologically Correct

Scrotum scrotum scrotum scrotum scrotum scrotum. Vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina. Scrotum vagina scrotum vagina scrotum scrotum scrotum.

America, what the hell is up your butt?

First there was the controversy over author Susan Patron's The Higher Power of Lucky which won the Newberry, the most prestigious honor in children's literature. Only it made the mistake of using the word "scrotum". In referring to a dog. Who had gotten bitten by a rattlesnake.

There was nothing sexual in its context. And yet, a whole bunch of librarians and parents freaked out.

"Some parts of the body are evil and should not be acknowledged. We should be thankful for the Christian librarians who show us the righteous path."

"As a father of a daughter, I am thankful that this is being discussed. Maybe there should be separate shelf in the library where particular books that have questionable content are shelved or maybe some sticker that would alert a parent that there is something in this book that needs to be reviewed beforehand."

Then there was the latest brouhaha over what the Atlantic Theatre in Atlantic Beach, Florida had once called The Hoohah Monologues when a complaining motorist objected to its sign. That would of course be The Vagina Monologues. This time three students in Cross River, New York were initially suspended when they dared to read a passage from the play at an an event sponsored by the school literary magazine.

Remember when writing things like tits and ass on the bathroom wall was the thing that was bad?

We all know we come from Puritan roots in this country. But still it never ceases to amaze me how much people get their panties in a snit when actual biological words are used. What are we so afraid of? How far would a little actual knowledge take us?

Maybe if We The People learned to say "scrotum" and "vagina" aloud we wouldn't have priests abusing little boys on the sly. Maybe there wouldn't be as many teen pregnancies. Maybe there'd be no rape.

At the very least maybe I wouldn't have to listen to the kind of conversation I overheard at a cafe recently:
"Well what do you call it then? In front of Josie?"

"We say "poop" and "sissy".

"'Sissy'? You say "sissy"?

"That's weird. Most parents say "pee" or "pee pee". Although I've heard "wee" and "wee wee" too."

I don't know. In my house we called a BM a BM.

But that's just me.

The War Comes Home

Morning emails are about Daily Candy, sample sales announcements, and how deodorant can absolutely positively cause breast cancer. They're not supposed to be about someone you know. Who's going to Iraq. For six months.

Sean is a psychologist who got his degree through the military. In exchange, his first five years post schooling were to be served on military bases. And that's what he was doing in Washington State. He had another two years to go, and then he and his wife Marianne were going to move back east.

It never occurred to me that east could mean East. As in Middle.

And yet that's what Marianne's email said. Sean had already left. He would be stationed at a base in Iraq. But every once in a while he would have to be "in the field" attending to his patients.

It's an ugly reality that for many of us the war in Iraq is something happening far far away. We read about it every day, we watch the broadcasts, the growing list of documentaries on the subject. We disparage the administration, we go to rallies, we make our votes count in elections.

But seldom do many of us actually know someone who is going to be directly involved. Seldom does it hit home in quite that way, black and white turning deep foreboding colors.

It made me want to do something I never do. Pray.

The Real Estate

Maybe it's because my birthday is coming up and fast. Maybe it's because the market is supposedly in decline. But the fact remains that lately all my dreams have all been about real estate.

There's the one I've told you about--where I open the door to a closet and find a whole other room that I never knew was there--or did know but just forgot about it somehow. There's the one where I own a mansion and every interior design fantasy I've ever had is realized. The leopard room. The spare bedroom with a double whirlpool tub opposite the bed. The meditation room. The one made entirely of crochet and filled with brightly colored hammocks swinging this way and that.

Dreams are funny. Like I know how to or even like crochet.

The need to own something has been bleeding into real life too. I'll go back to a client's apartment and try to slip in questions about how much he paid for what he's got. The cocky ones are all too happy to reply--being able to put out financially, after all, is the equivalent of having a really big dick. And then there's the ones who brag about what a great bargain they got--to the tune of a two-bedroom that's just under 1 million.

I know. It's a little crazy to be thinking about real estate--1 million's worth or otherwise--when I just cried poverty.

There's something I'm wondering about though. Maybe my problem with saving is not really about saving at all. Maybe it's just I never had a concrete goal to save for. To save for a rainy day? To save for medical emergencies? To save for the future? They're all so abstract. Whereas EIK and WFP and four closets--dear God--four--that you can touch.

I wonder what compromises I should make. Does size really matter? Could I stomach spending $580K for a studio apartment just to stick around the Upper West Side? Do I settle for a place in the east 30's in Murry Hill--a neighborhood with so little personality that you might as well live in another city altogether? Do I finally suck it up and make the move to Brooklyn?

Don't I actually need a kid and a dog for that last one?

Spare any change anyone? Like a cool $80,000 for a down payment?

The Skank

"So do you guys like. . .clean your butts?

Eliza did a perfect spit take. Cat made a whoop noise that had everyone in the teahouse looking in our direction. I was laughing too hard to make any noise at all.

"I'm serious," Agatha said. "I mean, do you?"

"How can you be serious about this?" managed Eliza.

"Oh that was a good one. Oh," Cat said, wiping her eyes.

Agatha looked like she was going to start crying any minute. "Well I do," I offered when I was finally able to speak again.

"You mean, with soap?"

"Yeah. Yes. With soap. Why honey?"

"And do you too Cat?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"Does it look like she's trying to entrap you?" I growled. As funny as the topic was, Agatha was nothing if not serious.

"Yes. I clean my butt. With soap."

"Eliza?"

"I--I can't talk about butts. Not when we're eating scones."

"What happened?"

"Okay. Well I was with Marshall. . .you know. And afterwards we took a shower. And he used one of my washcloths to wipe--to clean himself. And I was just like--gross, you know. Because he doesn't live there. I have to wash it. And it has to dry first with like butt stuff--"

Cat began to whoop again. I shot her another look.

"--before I can put it in the hamper. So I was like, um do you have to do that? And he was like, "Well yeah. You got to clean your butt." Like it was a given. And then he said, "Don't you clean your butt? And I said well no--

"You guys come on. I have a chocolate chip scone!"

"--and he was like, what do you mean no? And I got embarrassed so I said, I mean no, I mean I don't use a washcloth. So that was like--it satisfied him and it went away and everything. But then--am I weird? My parents. . .they--it was like a self-cleaning thing. They told me soap could irritate--

By this time there was no helping Cat. She was so red from laughing she had put her whole face into her napkin. Her giggles were catching. I stepped on her foot hard to stop her.

"It doesn't irritate me if that's any help," I said. "It can feel kind of good actually."

"Okay ew. I'm sorry," said Eliza, pushing away her scone for good, "But why would it be self-cleaning? Does a toilet self-clean? Does your mouth self clean?"

"Well I mean some gynos say you're not supposed to douche because the good bacteria--"

"Douche! Bacteria! We're in a restaurant for God's sake." She made a grand gesture and completely knocked over Agatha's tea.

The waitress rushed over. "Oh dear," she said looking right at Agatha. "Do you need some napkins?"

And that was it. We all lost it.

I don't know if Agatha took the waitress up on her offer. I certainly hope for her sake--and Marshall's--that she did.

Global Decommissioning System

So this weekend one of my clients, a forty-something-year-old opthalmologist, called to tell me he was now the proud owner of a driver's license.

Born and bred New Yorkers are America's odd ducks. Unlike the rest of the country, they are raised with the omni-presence of public transportation. Many of them grow up without a need or even a desire to drive since they've already had wheels--the public kind of buses and taxis and trains--since they were old enough to walk.

But B had just bucked convention by learning to drive in middle age. All he wanted to do, he told me, was take the car out for a spin. With me. I imagined a lucrative weekend in the country. Some fancy bed and breakfast with great food and a whirlpool tub. "So where will you be taking me?" I asked.

"I've already thought about that. Definitely Williamsburg."

I tried to explain to B that we could just as easily take a cab if we were only going to Brooklyn. I tried to explain to him that it would certainly eliminate the need to park. "Why would I want to do that?" he cried. "I've been perfecting my parallel parking skills all week."

Novelty, it seemed, was going to win the day.

So on Saturday night, B picked me up in midtown. He plugged in our destination on the GPS system and off we headed for the Westside Highway.

Driving in New York is always a nail-biter even under the best of circumstances. We as passengers are used to taxis risking our safety in order to get us there As Fast As Possible. What we're not used to are just-graduated student drivers. I did everything in my power to get B to focus on the road instead of on my skirt. Luckily I was in for some serious competition. As we approached the end of Manhattan, the GPS suddenly--for lack of a better-word--went beserk.

"There are too many highways converging," she said in her matter of fact voice. "Turn around immediately."

"What's she talking about?"

"I think she just rejected your destination." Bravo for her. Maybe we could now go somewhere more interesting? That would end up taking many many hours and would consequently result in many many dollars?

"There's a sign up there for the bridge. I'm just going to follow it."

Good idea on B's part, but not so for our GPS girl. It only seemed to increase her iron-willed determination to get us to turn around. "In 600 feet make a U-turn," she kept repeating over and over. I wondered if she would keep us in circles for the next hour if we actually did follow her advice. The crowning moment was when we were on the bridge and she announced that we should take hard left right into the East River.

We finally got to the restaurant a half-hour after our reservation. While we waited for another table to come up, B felt the need to explain to another customer--a hot blonde I might add--what had happened to us.

"Oh," she replied. "This happened to my father in Amsterdam. He bought a car and the GPS spoke to him in German. He does not speak German. So he took the car to the shop and they fixed it. But after a few times it went back to German again. It was a German car. Perhaps it didn't like the Dutch."

Perhaps. And perhaps for that matter B's own GPS system had gotten as mixed up as his car's. Perhaps that's why later that evening he went over to her table and gave her his card.

Honeybell

"It's Honeybell season," she said.

"Oh"

"Honeybell. You know. Honeybells."

"No. I don't."

"The oranges? You don't know about this?"

"I thought it was a crap year for citrus."

"Not for Honeybells. My mom sends me a case every February. This year she sent me two. I think it's some kind of hint."

"What? To get more vitamin C?"

"No. Now that I have the apartment, you know? Now that I'm not living in a box. She wants me to mate."

Her mom did have a point. Eliza's new place was probably three times the size of her old one. Brand spankin' new, high ceilings, not one, not two, not three, but four closets--one of them walk-in. Beautiful tiling in the kitchen and bathroom. I was in heaven. In her mom's version, heaven probably came with children.

"You have to take some home. Here." She piled me up with five of the oranges. "So here's the thing. You have to eat them first thing in the morning. Standing in the bathtub. Naked. Okay?"

I blinked. I didn't understand this directive. "Why?"

She smiled and nodded. "You'll see."

I woke up the next morning in a crapola mood. Two words: dentist, filling. Need I say more? Then I stumbled to my coffee maker and there they were. Five of them. perfect, orange, Honeybells.

You know, there's something sublime about doing something ridiculous every now and again. Naked, Honeybell, bathtub sounded a whole lot better than dentist, filling, no insurance. So I did just as I was supposed to. I slipped off my nightie, my panties. I stepped into the bath and began to peel. Juice shot off in all directions. I took my first bite. A mouthful of sweetness dribbled down my chin, my neck. I spit the pith out at will, like a little kid with watermelon seeds. My hands were covered in juice. I licked them, licked my lips, felt the stickiness envelop me. I ate away segment by segment by segment, giggling and laughing and screaming each time the juice went shooting out of my mouth. When it was done, I took a long hot shower. It was simple, decadent, absurd, obscene and the best thing I had done in weeks.

Each morning for the following four mornings, I invoked the ritual. Each morning I felt the same--silly, mad, goofy, sexy. It was like the best kind of secret.

A secret though, that needed to be shared. On morning five I called Eliza back. "You were absolutely right."

"About what?" she said.

"About the Honeybells."

"Aren't they amazing?"

"Amazing. Some of the peel went down the drain though. I'm sure that's not good for the plumbing."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know. First thing in the morning. In the bathtub--"

"You really did that?! Oh my God. I was being metaphorical."

"How is that a metaphor?"

"You know. They're juicy." And she began to laugh.

Maybe the joke was on me. But you know what? Man does not live by metaphor alone.

Un-unbejeanable

Alas, all good things must truly come to an end.

Remember those jeans I got fixed at denimtherapy.com? Well look at 'em now. I know. Makes me want to weep.

These rips are not the ones denimtherapy.com patched up so nicely mind you. No no no--these are brand spankin' new rips. That fabric was determined to go and no kick-ass fix-up was going to stop it.

I thought of resending them to get patched up. But come on. Who am I, Sisyphus?

Coochie Coochie Coo

So check this out. Have any of you heard about the ohmibod? A.k.a the vibrator that attaches to your ipod? My first reaction was, um. . .why? But the more I read about it, the more I thought well, why not?

The trick here is not only do you get your own 'personalized experience' set to your own personalized music, you also get to feel your own music. Literally. The ohmibod shakes and buzzes and moves and grooves to the beat of whatever you play. Now what penis can do that?

It also solves the problem that I have with many a vibrator--that annoying buzzing sound. It ruins my concentration. Like the new Rabbit, the one that's waterproof? You push the on button on the cock portion and it sounds like you're putting on windshield wipers. Total killjoy.

I might just have to order myself a late Vday gift. . .

What Not To Wear

So there I was after class at a new-to-me yoga studio sans fur-collared hoodie. Even though I reserve the right to wear what I want, the sting of that last yoga teacher's remark was still with me. I wasn't taking chances.

Anyway, class was pretty hard and I was consequently pretty zoned out. So I wasn't really paying attention when I went about my business stripping down to my skivvies in the ladies dressing room.

Okay my dear male readers. If the thought of "period panties" is going to give you the "ick" factor, you may want to click off this post and quickly. But for all you realists out there, you know what I mean. We ladies all of us have a forlorn bunch of undies that we wear when it's that time, mostly because we don't care what happens to them. Or because something has already happened to them, thereby relegating them to one-week-per-month status.

Flashback. A long while ago I was seeing this guy Juan who had a bit of a personalization fix. He bought me child barrettes that screamed Alexa in sky blue with little unicorns. He got me a matching scarf and hat also with my name all over them. Juan never seemed to get it that in New York we prize our anonymity.

But Juan wasn't content to scream only my identity. One Valentine's Day he topped himself by giving me a very special thong. That said his name on it. In Swarovski crystals.

They were in a word, retarded. But how he loved to see me in them! Until I accidentally (not so accidentally?) soiled them. And he broke up with me.

Those skivvies were making an appearance front and center when I went to change at the yoga studio. And because of a much delayed trip to the laundry room, I was also sporting socks that Emma gave me for Christmas. The ones that came up past my knees. And had little pictures of Malteses. All over them.

When I looked up, my latest yoga teacher had her hand over her mouth in a not completely successful effort to stop laughing at me.

Am I the queen of yogic wardrobe malfunctions or what?

PB&P

I try not to think about Cincinnati too much. It was just too sad of a time for me, too mixed with confusion and fear and just plain zoning out. But there was one bright light amidst the darkness. Z.

Z and I met--I should say slammed into one another--while I was walking Clarice, Pete's Maltese. It all started when Z's Australian Shepherd took a flying leap right at me and knocked me into a bench.

"Hey! No! Sorry. Doesn't get out much. Stop it."

"That's alright."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine really. Hello. What's his name?"

"His name is Beez. He's Beez."

"Bees? Like in, wait, as in buzzing and pollinating?"

"No Beez. With a Z. Short for Beezelbub"

. . .you're dog is the devil?

He took a great sigh. "Sometimes."

While Z and I had been preoccupied with trying to get the muddy paw prints off of my coat and making sure I hadn't busted a heel, something else entirely was going on below us. Apparently Clarice and Beez had already gone through sniffing each other's butts. They had breezed by sniffing each other's underside. And now Beez was fully mounted and giving Clarice the works.

"Didn't I say he doesn't get out much? Beez really. Show some restraint".

Rather than dashing away, as she probably should have given that Beez had a good 35 pounds on her, Clarice turned and presented her backside. Beez didn't hesitate to take the invitation.

"Jesus. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. She seems to be. . .sort of into it."

"Is she fixed?"

"I don't know. I think so. She's my brother's. Is he?"

"Yeah. . ."

The way he said it I had to laugh. Well really, why not? They were dogs. Where was the impropriety? So when Beez mounted her the third time, neither of made a move to stop them.

Nor did we stop them the next time. Or the next. We kept letting them have their way with each other. In the park. In the street. Behind the art museum. Daily. Twice daily. Pete wanted to know why Clarice no longer wanted to go for walks with the kids. I didn't have the heart to tell him she was way past PG and was heading towards XXX.

All the while this was going on, it was hard not to recognize the subtext. Z was clearly itching to play Clarice and Beez with me and him. The thought had crossed my mind. Z was funny. I was up for laughs. But penetration? I felt so locked inside of myself I didn't think it was possible.

Of course when Z called me the other day and told me he was coming to the city, that was a whole different ball game. Before I had even gotten all the way into the executive apartment Z had me thrust up against the wall hard. I dug my heels into his backside, arched into him. He came with his full weight on me. I grabbed his shoulders for support as we slid down to the floor.

"Hi," he said finally.

"Hi"

"I knew it was going to be good."

"Oh yeah? How's that?"

"Beez couldn't get enough of Clarice."

"Oh then I guess you should be fucking my brother, huh?"

He laughed, then asked if I wanted a drink. I said yes--hell yes, actually--and he ducked into the kitchen. He was back not two minutes later. With an opened jar of peanut butter and a knife.

"That doesn't look like a drink."

"Some people like PB&J. I like PB&P."

". . .Pussy?"

"I warmed it up. . ."

The knife was serrated. The peanut butter, smooth, oily, hard little nuggets here and there going over me. He caressed me with the blade, sometimes making tiny swirls, tracing every curve, every peak. Thin strokes, thick strokes. He unbuttoned my shirt, pulled back my bra, bit at my nipple. It began to melt. There were nuts tangled in my hair, on the soft creases of my thighs, on my lips, down between my cheeks, inside. He coated his fingers, pushed into me, the tightness oozing, rubbing me up to my belly. Melting all over, the smell of PB and P, rich and dank and deep. His tongue on me suddenly, his warm mouth, his teeth like the serrated blade. His fingers inside me harder everywhere. More and more fingers until I came with a force, this sexy, feral, stickiness, coating me, filling me. And his mouth was on mine. I tasted me and peanut butter. And him.

"Why peanut butter?" I said finally, whispering, tasting the sweat and salt on my upper lip.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Dogs like it." He smiled.

That they do.

The Darndest Things

I was in a bad mood. I had been forced to spend 2 1/2 hours at a very bad very long play that wouldn't couldn't didn't end. It was freezing outside when we finally got let out. The subsequent line in every store that I went into was way beyond long. Want a bottle of wine? Wait twenty minutes to pay. A bag of gourmet popcorn? We're out of everything but plain.

And I was about to go to a Superbowl party where I was going to be the only one who actually wanted to watch the game. Egads.

But a funny thing happened on the way to said fete. I ended up walking behind a mother and her small son--a pair who were definitely going slower than the unspoken but perfectly obvious New York City minimum sidewalk speed (MSS). Shards of ice made it impossible to circle around them, so I ended up. . .well, eavesdropping.

"There was a man naked in that cab."

"Oh?" the mother said in response. "Watch the ice honey."

"He wasn't wearing anything. Not even shoes. Do you think he was cold?"

"Uh huh." Then she took a moment to consider."Well he must have been wearing something sweetheart. People don't go naked in cabs. Even in New York."

"He was naked and his toes were painted red."

"But are you sure he was actually naked sweetie?"

"Yes. He was carrying a briefcase and a newspaper. Why was he naked mommy?"

She turned around to look back at him. Even I was starting to buy his story by this point. He was either a good little actor or there really had been a naked man in that cab.

That sort of made me wonder. I thought back to my own experience in the back of many a cab. The endless number of blowjobs, the finger fucking, the fucking forwards, backwards, sideways for that matter. But never naked. Clothes were always kept on. That was kind of the point, wasn't it, the hiding of it?

So why would there be a naked man in a cab? On a cold day like today?

"Maybe he was homeless?" theorized the mother. "How would you feel if you were homeless and naked?

"I'd get a cab," said the little boy wisely.

Wine? $23. Popcorn? $3.50. Real New York City theatre? Priceless.

A Diamond Is A Girl's Best Friend.

Okay, I don't know how it happened. But I am but so broke.

It doesn't make any sense. I really think I made more money last year than ever before. I didn't take any expensive vacations. I can't think of what major purchases I made. Clothes here and there for sure. No new baubles that I bought myself. No new plasma screens or antique chest of drawers. I'm not falling into debt through my shoes a la Carrie Bradshaw. It does beg the question--what in God's name did I buy?

I have got to put myself on a budget this year. Something strict but livable, so I don't blow it in the first week. Does this mean no more soy capuccinos? Will I have to invest in one of those $2000 espresso machines just so I don't go to Starbucks? Will I be stuck only buying at sample sales or vintage shops? That would make me so very blue.

So very blue in fact that all I've been doing this morning is trolling the internet. Should I sign onto some racket to make an extra $10,000 a month sending out envelopes of some kind? Should I combine escorting with selling Mary Kay?

Somehow while I was trolling I stumbled onto the Life Gem site. At first it looks like an ordinary on line jewelry store. UNTIL YOU REALIZE THEY ARE SELLING DIAMONDS MADE FROM DEAD PEOPLE! I kid you not. Take a look.

I was horrified. I was disgusted. And then I started wondering--if I sign their contract, can I get an advance on the value of. . . me?

Fur

It's been so cold in New York that I've dug into the bottom of my sweater piles to bring out the big guns. My oversized sweaters from Ireland. My turtlenecks from L.L. Bean. My long silk underwear. Now if only I could find a hat that doesn't make me look like an extra for the muppets, I'd be in business.

It's been hard to get to yoga when it's this cold, but the last thing in the world I want to do is give those winter five a chance to creep back to my hips. So the other day I bundled up as best I could and headed for the studio.

Usually the room there tends to be pretty warm, but nothing but nothing will stop this kind of cold from seeping through the windows. Luckily my favorite cold weather hoodie did just the trick. It's an old black light wool sweater with a fur lined hood, cozy and worn in and yummy through and through. After a few warrior ones and twos, I was able to even take it off for a while.

The class was fabulous, taught by a new teacher I'd never had before. We did these quad openers that just. . .I don't know. Released some kind of demon from my legs that had taken up residence there. That was followed by tons and tons of hip openers. By shivasana at the end of class, I was a new woman altogether. I cuddled back into my hoodie and enjoyed the release.

Usually I don't interact too much with yoga teachers outside of class. There's this thing that happens with so many of them--this jostling of all the students to talk to them, or hang with them. It all strikes me as a little too culty for my taste. But this time, I was moved to say something. After all, a good yoga class on a cold day make Alexa a very sweet and open girl.

"Thank you so much," I said coming up to her while she was standing with a bunch of students and extending my hand. "Your class was really really so great. What other days do you teach here?"

As she turned to me, her bright face suddenly went from completely open to completely closed. She glared at me. Her gaze went so deep I thought I was truly going to fall over. And then she said in a low, firm growl, "If you ever, ever wear fur in my class again I will ask you to leave."

And she turned on her heel. And she flipped her ponytail. And she marched off in disgust.

Clearly the demon from my thigh had taken up residence somewhere else. Unbelievable, right? I mean, can you believe her nerve?!