Eye of Newt

I have nearly reached the end of my tolerance for someone telling me his/her opinion about aspects of my life that they find disagreeable.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have done a lot more yoga over the last year.  Disliking yoga until 2016, I was forced into it because of my lower back/spine, and the need to adjust to a primarily low impact lifestyle.  Now, I have come to love yoga and find myself benefiting from all aspects of it.  I have lost weight, I have toned and strengthened my body, and I have found peace and tranquility and a feeling of enlightened joy.

Round about the cauldron go,

In the poisoned entrails throw.

Toad, that under cold stone

Days and nights has thirty-one

Sweltered venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i' th' charmed pot.

I also have experienced someone (who will remain nameless) who has continued to warn me of the dark magic and spiritual mumbo jumbo I can be subjected to by practicing yoga.  I have been told that it is dangerous, that I need to "guard my heart" and even that s/he was "praying for my soul."

This near-exorcism reached its peak when I recently attended a New Moon Social at my neighborhood yoga studio.  The way I described it (which is exactly what it was) was a workshop/yoga class where students are able to recognize the hardships and difficulties in the previous month, and then close that chapter and move onto the next month with a bright and fresh perspective.  It was about positive new outlooks.  I received two days of lecture.

Of all the "dark things" I value in my life, I would not consider yoga one of them.  But somehow, it is being considered a heathen art.  I have never used my voodoo doll but, I am starting to regret that decision almost as much as mentioning I practice yoga on a somewhat regular basis to this judgmental individual.

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the cauldron boil and bake.

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

First of all, this person has never taken yoga or researched it.  S/he discusses what s/he thinks happens in the practice and warns me to stay away.  But stay away form what?  Stay away from feeling strong, confident, listening to your heart, letting go of struggle and inner turmoil?  Hmmm, doesn't sound that dangerous to me.

Secondly, we all have a dark side.  The difference between him/her and myself is that I embrace it.  I don't fight it, push it down, hide it.  I love it just like the other parts of me.  And I have yet to meet someone in my life who has inspired me to change.  This person will not be able to either.

Thirdly, as a non-Christian person, I see pros and cons to its teaching.  A pro is its encouragement of embracing all people, even the poor and destitute, even those who are not the same as you.  To come from a place of love and inclusion.  What this individually is saying to me on a regular basis seems rather exclusive.  Trying to change who I am and what I value rather than accepting me for who I am—how "non-Jesus" of him/her.

Lastly, as most things I love, I usually don't try to push them on anyone.  I love yoga and love if people want to go together to a class, but I am not one to try to force them to do something they do not want to (boyfriend not included).  I love certain types of music, certain clothes, books, even food items, but I am not interested in changing others to do what I do.  This IS the nature of what this person is trying to do with me.  It won't work.  

So if the fact that I practice yoga, I believe in working on yourself, I believe in honoring and respecting yourself, I enjoy seeing pounds drop on the scale, and I enjoy challenging myself makes me a witch, than witch be I! 

Double, double toil and trouble,

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

**Excerpts are from William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act 4, Scene I (as the three witches enter)

I Never Knew What It Was Like, To Be Alone, On A Valentine's Day

Last Saturday, I saw Thirty Seconds to Mars and Muse in concert.  Thirty Seconds to Mars was “meh” but a highlight of their performance was when Jared Leto went out into the crowd and talked of one of his close friends, Chester Bennington.  He spoke about how Chester “always had a smile on his face,” and then went into an acoustic version of “The Kill” amongst the crowd of Thirty Seconds to Mars fans, and fans of music in general.

Tears started streaming down my face.  Losing some of our musicians, such as Chris Cornell, is hard.  But this, I think for a lot of my peers, hit a little closer to home.  I grew up listening to Hybrid Theory on repeat.  I would come home from school and grab my Discman (yup—Discman) and go for a walk.  This was not for exercise or anything else other than just an opportunity to blast the album as loud as I could in my headphones.  It was such a thought-clearing time.

I bought a fake lip ring because of Chester.  I dreamt of being in a rock band because of Chester.  I put blue streaks in my hair because of Chester.  Chester was loved by every girl or boy with inner anguish as a teenager.  Whether it was anger and sadness about not fitting in at school, hating his/her parents, feeling lonely, being confused.  We all had a friend in Chester’s voice.  He not only understood our feelings, but also shouted out and screamed on behalf of all of those that felt they could not speak up for themselves.

In middle school, I wanted to marry Chester.   I had covers of magazines, with his picture on it, in frames around my bedroom.   Now, I have grown out of this worship phase, naturally, but I have never stopped listening to and appreciating his voice and Linkin Park.

What saddened me most about Leto’s dedication to Chester was that like him, I feel like I lost a friend.  If you think about it, I spent more time listening to Chester than a lot of people who have come into (and out of) my life.  Let’s face it, I don’t remember my ex-boyfriends birthday or what my favorite English teacher’s name was in high school.  BUT I know all the words to “Papercut” and I remember that Chester has a tattoo of fish to represent being a Pisces on his arm.

Chester had a whole family, but he also had such a large extended family in all his fans.  In thinking about it, I have been listening to Linkin Park since 2000.  For 17 years I have not stopped downloading their albums or keeping up with their tour and singles.  If I haven’t stopped yet, I don’t think I ever will.  The only thing that may change is that I am not sure I will ever be able to listen to “My December” without crying.

Chester, all your fans, even us 31 year old women, miss you terribly and will always need your voice and your music. 

I Am Not A Large?

For many years, I shopped for clothes at maybe 2-3 different stores.  These were my staple stores to buy clothes for school, then for internships, and even into my early working years.  I would go up to the racks of clothes, and you know how they are set up—they start with the smallest sizes and move backwards to the largest sizes.  I always pushed all the front sizes aside and went for the Large and X-Large.  ALWAYS.  These were my go-to sizes.  Most of my shirts, dresses, and pants were these larger sizes. 

Not being these sizes anymore sounds awesome but it is funny how old habits die hard.  I find it very difficult to go into a store and grab a different size.  I still go to the biggest sizes first.  Those who have never had a body image issue or self-confidence issue with how they look will NOT understand why but I will try to explain it the best I can.

Having bought one size for so long, it is hard to believe that my body changed drastically enough to adjust my size.  Sometimes I feel like I may have lost weight, but not enough to actually affect the clothing I wear.  I don’t always see the difference when I look in the mirror so I think, it must just be a slight change.

When I grab these smaller sizes, whether it is just one size difference or 3 sizes difference from what I used to wear, I think I am kidding myself.  There is a part of me that thinks I am just trying to squeeze into smaller sizes to make myself feel better but, in fact, I am still a Large.  As if someone is going to walk up to me as I am grabbing a piece of clothing and say, “excuse me, Miss, I think you grabbed the wrong size.” 

As an example, there was a recent time that I needed a dress for a work event.  I went to a store where I would often shop and found a dress on a rack.  I grabbed a Large and went to try it on.  It looked ridiculous.  Way too big for me.  I decided instead of going back and forth, in and out of the dressing room, I would get a Medium and a Small.  The Medium also looked too big.  I tried on the Small and it fit perfectly.  So my response was “this sizing is off.”  I just could not fathom that I was a Small.  So I left the dressing room and grabbed another of the same dress in the Small.  There was a defect and the dress was labeled wrong.  But it ended up fitting the same way.

I bought the dress and tried it on numerous times.  How can this fit me?  I cannot be a small.  I am still a Large.  Single White Female?  Large White Female.  Where many people shop for clothes, find the size that fits, and move on without a second thought, my head and body are often times not on the same page, arguing, making it impossible to settle at ease on a simple decision like the dress.

Some that are reading this (MOM) would say that I am attributing to much importance to the size on the tags of my clothing.  That is 100% true.  However, when a person is not-so body image confident, there is a lot of credit given to the size one wears. 

I am writing this not so much to brag (because as I have explained, most of the times I don’t actually think any transformation or progress has even occurred so what would I brag about?) but also to let people know that there are different degrees of self confidence and different degrees of insecurities and we all show them in our own unique ways.  One of my insecurities manifests in struggling to buy clothes and thinking there are defects when clothes fit me that wouldn’t have done so 4-5 years ago.  Maybe I still think I need that bigger size because I think I still am that person 4-5 years ago. 

But none of us are.  None of us are the same as person we were 4-5 years ago and I think that is a great thing.  We progress in all ways and struggle with some progressions more than others.  That’s growth.  So, when I choose to eat a burger when I want a burger and a salad when I want a salad, rather than eating Atkins shakes and pineapple 5 days a week, and pizza and brownies on the weekends, that is a progression.  Working on understanding that no one is judging me when I don’t get that salad and I do get that burger is a progression.  Recognizing that health is balance and not overhaul is progression.  Not counting calories anymore, rather than limiting myself to less than 900 calories is progression.

So the lesson of this story—love your crazy self appreciate progress and growth (no matter how small or hard-to-grasp it may be), and if the clothes fit, wear them!

Rant

I am sure you have all seen the new shirts coming from Dumb and Dumber (also known as Kendall and Kylie) that have their images plastered over classic rock and hip hop images such as 2Pac, Metallica, Ozzy Osbourne, and Kiss. 

I cannot even begin to tell you how angry this makes me. 

First of all, these shirts are selling for $125.  Any rocker or concert-goer knows that the typical cost of a rock tee is at max, $40 and maybe $50 if it has some bells and whistles to it.  $125 is outrageous.  Explain to me why I would pay $85 extra to have a hoe’s image covering up my favorite band’s logo.  That’s like asking me to pay extra for ice cream that’s wrapped up in baby spinach—it ruins the initial product.

People are going to buy these shirts.  They are going to ask their mommies and daddies for money to buy these shirts.  Their parents are going to think these girls are some sort of entrepreneurial role models (an excuse they are going to tell themselves while they are just being lazy and avoiding the lesson here to teach their daughters that exploiting yourself will not get you ANYWHERE) and the young people will buy them.  They will not know anything of the music that has been mutilated and think they are hot shit.

There is a shirt with Kendall’s image over a Doors shirt.  THE DOORS?!?!?  I don’t even like The Doors but God Damn—they are untouchable rock royalty. 

So what is most irksome about this?  I think it is the real idea behind it.  The idea that a Metallica t-shirt is great and all, but slap Kylie’s big ass over it and it is worth more money.  And on top of that, fuckers will buy it!  More will buy it than if they sold a vintage Metallica tee for that same price.  #icanteven.

This whole family thinks they are above.  Above and beyond respect of legends.  Because they think they are legendary.  And we aren’t really proving them wrong.  The fact that Billboard’s Instagram posts pictures of Kim Kardashian (NOT a musician) as often as they post images of actual artists just shows their influence over industries they should stay the fuck out of.  Billboard is a music industry source.  Not a dumbass hoe source.  Get the fuck out of my feed, Kim!

So, in short, I take true offense to anyone who will buy one of these altruistic shirts.  I will never buy one and I disown any friend or family member who would.  Not only as a fan of some of these artists, but as a fan of all music and someone who respects all most artists in the industry, I find this to be so disrespectful and true proof that they (they meaning the worst family to come to television) don’t understand what rock is all about. 

Get your ass out of my face, Kendall.  Fuck you and your family!

Give Me Novocaine

In a few days, it will be a year since I have been having spine/back/hip issues.  One whole fucking year.  The only positive that has come out of this whole experience has been finding yoga, and making it such a huge part of my life.  Otherwise, I miss feeling like I can move my body however I want.  To feel like I need to think through activities before saying “sure” or “let’s go” is not something I have experience with.

After much acupuncture, a cortisone shot, and many many pain pills and creams, I decided to switch doctors.  The “Pain Management Specialist” I was seeing was totally unhelpful.  Every visit was “keep icing it.” 

Dude! I am going to become a human popsicle if I keep icing my back.  I was making a pretty regular routine of putting an ice pack in the back of my pants and holding it in place with the elastic waistband of my sweatpants.  I kept it there until the right side of my butt was numb and then I took it out.   Not a habit I want to get used to.

The new doctor  I started seeing recently is an Orthopedic Surgeon.  He recommended a nerve test which I experienced this week.  What fun! 

For this test, I had to lay down in bright blue, paper shorts, while the doctor attached electronic sensors with cords attached to them to my feet and legs.  “You ready to get shocked?” he asked.

“No.  Not at all,” I said.

He laughed.  And I did not. 

“Well at least your hair is already frizzy.”

Dick.

Then he took a contraption that looked like a Wii remote with two large prongs that distributed the zaps.  The shocks weren’t bad.  They made my legs and feet move without my control.  Then he moved to the second part.

“I am sure I mentioned the next part of the test with the needles.”

My eyes bulged.  He certainly DID NOT!

I had to lay face down and he stuck a needle into my muscles.  I had to have the muscle relaxed and then flexed.  The idea is to see if my muscles are working more than they should, to compensate for the injury.  He stuck the needle in my calf, thigh and then my butt.  Yes, I had to flex my butt. 

He left the room and came back to discuss.  He said, “there was a finding.” There was a muscle making up for the injury in my spine and the best solution was surgery.

“Would you be able to have surgery this summer,” he asked.

I started crying.  Like, little-girl-dropped-her-ice-cream-crying.  He was asking me questions and all I could do was use hand gestures and shake my head.   He got up and gave me gauze to wipe my eyes (he didn’t have tissues which makes me think most people don’t act like a crazy toddler when they are in this office).  He told me the surgery is minor and I would be able to be as active as I was before the injury. 

I am taking some time to ponder this idea of surgery.  In the meantime, more cortisone and trying physical therapy.  He walked me out and carried my backpack (again, girl who dropped her ice cream) and told me to email him with questions, updates or anything else.  Part of me wonders if I should shoot him over a quick email: “Sorry I burst into tears after you poked my butt” . . .wait, that doesn’t sound right.

Anyway, denial is considered toxic.  One should address situations directly.  Face things head on.   Well, for right now, denial is sweet.  I choose to enjoy a short time of addressing the situation by ignoring its existence.  For the rest of the week, I shall pretend I am perfectly content leading a low-impact life and find comfort in yoga, sunshine and vodka.

And for all those reading this, enjoy your own type of denial with the perfect playlist: