This weekend is my next to last weekend of teacher training and so far I LOVE IT.  Initially my brain fought with my body during every single practice, because it was HARD.  And DIFFERENT than what I am used to practicing – teachers at this studio hold poses until your legs shake and although my butt hurts constantly it is in a good way.  I have discovered things about my practice and my body that never occurred to me – for example maybe the reason my lower lumbar spine is always slipping and sliding out of place is because I have a ridiculous imbalance of strength between my right and left sides.

I am learning from an E-RYT 500 who trained with Bikram Choudury and with B.K.S. Iyengar…in person.  In the yoga world, that’s like having Slash and the Van Halen guy teach you how to play guitar.  The professor teaching us yoga philosophy has a PhD from Harvard and lectures at the Smithsonian and has an amazing way of making all this stuff seem exciting and accessible.  We’ve also spent a significant amount of time discussing the concept of Atman, and I am delighted to learn that Finding Atman as a concept still makes perfect sense.  (The blog name anyway, maybe not so much the posts.)

The concepts of divine love and uniting our spiritual self have sparked an interest and started to fill a void and I find myself more patient, and able to just…sit…without being antsy, or looking for something to do, or constantly checking email every 5 minutes.  I feel incredibly fortunate to have stumbled on a yoga teacher training of this caliber, and it truly was the right time for me to do it, furthering my belief that things happen when they are supposed to happen.

Initially I was dreading the drive to and from the studio – it’s about 50 minutes from my house.  Thanks to books on CD, the drive time has become a sort of meditative practice in and of itself.  The first book I listened to was Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell.  I’ve listened to and love all his books -they have the kind of logic and examples and pace that make me sad when I get to the last CD – but this one was probably my favorite so far.

The second book I got was The Five People You Meet in Heaven, by Mitch Albom.  Depending on my mood, this book was either heart-warming or unbearably saccharine.  Mostly it was the latter, but the concept is interesting and there is a quote in there about children that will resonate with me forever – “All children are damaged by their handlers – some get fingerprints, some get cracked, and some get shattered.”  (That isn’t a word for word because I am disinclined to go look up and link to the exact quote.)

In my queue are The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan (I think the Omnivore’s Dilemma should be required reading for everyone who eats meat), and Super Freakonomics by Levitt and Dubner.  Currently in my CD player is Raising Boys by Dr. James Dobson.

Now, about that last one.  I read somewhere that it is good for us to listen to and read things that we disagree with – it keeps your brain sharp and engaged.  I’ve always tried to follow that and indeed even seek out material that presents a differing viewpoint.  That is the single reason that I was able to get through the introductory chapters of this book.

Having made it to Chapter 8, I’ve finally been able to stop gnawing on my knuckles/screaming/laughing out loud and can agree with some of what he’s saying.  (SOME.  Not all.  Not even half.)  I often feel like I have no idea what I’m doing with Alex which is why I picked it up in the first place, but the in-your-face approach, blatant disparagement of women in the workplace, and feminism as a dirty word, plus assertions with no hard facts or studies to back them up has been…ahem…hard to swallow.  I think my buddy Malcolm G would disagree with Dr D., who thinks that boys are better at math because they are wired to be that way, since one of the examples in Outliers is a fascinating study of why Asian cultures are so much better at it than Western cultures.  Anyway.

As part of the teacher training, I’ve also read four amazing books that have opened my eyes to the rest of the practice of yoga.  One of the books talks about how to be a student – come to practice with a mind like an empty cup, because any knowledge the teacher gives a student with a half full cup will spill out and is lost.  I have tried to make a concerted effort to approach every day of training and every book with that mindset, and not having to be right about anything has made a huge difference in my daily attitude.  Humility, I think it’s called.  It’s refreshing.

I was that girl.  Granted, I was not the worst of my friends but I still jostled for mirror space with the best of them.

When I was 8, I used to take my $1 allowance down to the drugstore on the corner and buy cheap .99 eyeliners and nail polishes.  I coveted Dr. Scholls clogs and all the makeup that was out of my budget – the Cover Girl and Maybelline and Revlon.  I can still picture the aisle of that store, I loved to just sit in the makeup aisle and drool over all the sparkly, shiny colors.

I still do that, except now I stare at the Sephora catalog and I covet higher end eyeshadow palettes from Urban Decay, liquid eyeliners from Boujois, airy foundations from Smashbox, lipsticks, lip balms, lip glosses – any brand thankyouverymuch.  Skincare from philosophy and Bliss and Aveda; hair products from Bumble and Bumble – I love them ALL.

Unfortunately for me, the painstakingly developed step-by-step daily routine has become somewhat…over-developed.  It is no surprise to anyone that knows me that I am most definitely the highest of high-maintenance.  I require 5 products in the shower alone (shampoo, conditioner, 2 kinds of soap, and facewash) and that’s not counting the deep conditioning or shaving days.  I step out of the shower and layer on face serum, face lotion, eye cream, body lotion, deodorant, tinted sunscreen, and two kinds of hair products.  That’s before I get to makeup, hair dryer, velcro rollers, hairspray, and on and on.

If I’m being honest, I don’t particularly care about becoming lower maintenance or streamlining my routine.  I love these girly things, and when there aren’t kids hanging off my legs I can go from bed to out the door in 35 minutes.

The problem is, it sure is a bitch when I have to get ready away from home.  For one thing trying to remember all this stuff is next to impossible and I’m guaranteed to forget the critical basics, like deodorant or a bra, in my haste to remember three kinds of moisturizer.  It’s also somewhat embarrassing to unpack, repack, and cart all this stuff around in the locker room or at a friend’s house.

This problem has manifested itself, along with all the other emotional and physical stuff that comes up, in my yoga teacher training.  We practice a hot yoga class each morning, then have lecture or posture clinic the rest of the day.  I have to shower after the class.

I can easily reduce the skincare stuff and not wear makeup, but I am not and have never been a wash-and-go-hair kind of girl.  For my professional life, I have a shoulder length cut that requires…something.  I can’t wear a hat because my hair is too short and my ears stick out.  I could try a headband, or bandanna I guess.  Or what about those buff things that Survivor contestants wear?  Could I pull that off?

Suggestions are welcome.  My hair thanks you.

My January items revisited:
Hot yoga twice a week:  Surprisingly, I actually did this one, in addition to my regular classes.  I decided my weeks would run Sunday to Saturday, and was greatly aided by the 8pm classes at my studio that I can attend guilt-free after the kids are in bed.  I almost made excuses, but I think Brett is also enjoying some evening quiet because there was one day when he literally (gently) shoved me out the door (which I was grateful for after the fact).  I’ve found that I am really enjoying being taught, and attending classes as an anonymous student.  I’ve had a few people comment that I’ve lost weight, and this most certainly cannot be attributed to any other physical activity, because my cardio workouts have been sloth-like or non-existent (mostly the latter).

I would like to note that I attended one class where more than FIFTY people were packed into the room, including one guy right in front of me who was twitchy the whole time.  This is notable because fifty people doing hot yoga together is not only super hot, but also panic-attack inducing with how close everyone was to me – literally inches.  But I stayed, and tried very hard not to freak out, and then forced myself to stay in savasana until almost everyone had left.

Pack up the baby swing:  Done!  There is now a big empty space where the baby swing has sat for 3 and a half years.  My womb feels not a twinge.

Organize the photos:  Almost done, and only sort of done well.  I started this project all gung-ho to organize and label places and people so my grandchildren would be able to reconstruct every detail of my fabulous life.  I ran out of labeling steam around the time I got to photos from my sophomore year in college (it should be noted that I opted to ignore high school and earlier and started sorting the college years, so this is really an unimpressive stat).  I did learn some important things about myself though, namely that my hair size grew in proportion to the grade I was in and that I have a tendency to become VERY fat if left unchecked.

Regular blogging: I did better.  Not as often as I would have liked, but in my defense it took me half the month to figure out the iPhoto (and everything else) on my new laptop.

On to February!

I have no motivation to list new things for February.  I resolve to take a day to think about it.

With the phone to my ear, I looked at my kids eating breakfast, and looked at the playroom that I told them they couldn’t play in this morning because the toys were all picked up and I said no.  ”No”, I thought, “you cannot come on Thursday because you do a terrible job and the only reason I keep paying you to clean is because I feel guilty that you are a single mom and haven’t got up the nerve to fire you.”  What I said instead was that she could come earlier than normal so that then she could have the rest of her day free.

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I have known for two weeks now that today Brett wouldn’t be able to get the kids because of a class he’s taking this week.  Tuesday is normally when I teach yoga and two other classes.  When I couldn’t find subs, I lined up a babysitter.  At 11:40 this morning, the babysitter informed me that she was sick. She didn’t mind watching the kids, but she was sick – really sick, runny nose and foggy stuffy head sick. Any mother knows better than to do that, because whatever the occasion, nothing is worse than the aftermath – two sick, cranky kids and an excellent chance that you’ll get it too.

Faced with a dilemma that is now impossible to solve without asking someone for help, I run through combinations of scenarios, from canceling the classes altogether to some complicated combination of part time babysitting/part time emergency sub/possibly canceling one and teaching two.  I called my friend Liz who also teaches yoga -she couldn’t sub but was willing to come over and babysit for us.

Trying to figure out what to do for a class that would start in 4 hours while I’m at the car dealership getting my oil changed with only half a phone battery and none of the phone numbers I needed, combined with guilt over things getting screwed up in the first place left me shaky and confused, unable to decide on a course of action.

Why the meltdown over something so minor?  Because I hate asking for help.  I especially hate doing it last minute.  I feel, and part of me knows how irrational this is, that I shouldn’t ever need to ask for things – I should be able to get and do things all on my own.  Before I had kids, I didn’t ask.  Or did only rarely.  Asking for help is humbling, and hard.  Admitting that I need someone else is not a personal failure, logically I know this.  Being this way has made my life and ability to love harder than it needs to be.

It was Brett who made the decision for me, telling me he would leave his training early to come meet me at the gym.  He did it selflessly, without any attempt to make me feel bad about it, all for a few stupid classes that I wouldn’t even make $30 teaching.  Maybe he knows me well enough by now to recognize that the self-flagellation would be worse than anything he could say.

I came home from the dealership having paid too much for an oil change, and trembly with gratitude for the people I called that were willing to help  me to find the cleaning lady still here, only halfway done.  I kept driving past the house, and as I rounded the corner swearing about what to do next I had the first calm, rational thought I’d had in over an hour.

“You could go back there, and tell her you no longer need her services.  You could take care of this right now, instead of coming home to a still half-dirty house and being ticked off as you dust all the things she missed, and next time complaining about the same thing.  You could act like an adult, and handle it.”

So I did.

Three years of kids has changed and shaped me more than the previous thirty.

I am less eager to please people that don’t mean much in the grand scheme of my life.

I am getting better at sorting out who those people are.

I am more likely to say no when I don’t want or don’t have to do something.

I am less of a perfectionist and can recognize when good enough is all that’s required.

I am better equipped to advocate, question, and push when it comes to me and the kids who depend on me.

I am far more affected by stories of child abuse and as a general principle think that abusers should be taken out back and shot.

I still question every day whether full-time work is what I should be doing.

There are days when I thank the heavens that I can go to work.

My birthday has lost some of the cache that used to lead me to celebrate for a full week and tell everyone I knew why I was celebrating.

I still expect cake.

They fit like a glove, in fact they were so glove-like I was concerned they may be a little too tight.  At the moment I emerged from the dressing room, my salesperson, who had made it his mission to convince me that he was my personal shopper and there to serve me walked over.

Him:  So what do you think?

Me:  I’m worried they might be the tiniest bit too tight.

Him:  Hmmm…what kind of work do you do?

Me:  Consulting – think conservative.

Him:  Yes, well maybe…you know what you need to do?

Me:  Lose 10 pounds?

Him (horrified, sucks in breath):  NO GIRL!  I was going to say get those pants let out maybe 1/2 an inch.

Me:  Ha!  I’m more likely to lose 10 pounds than do that.

I bought them anyway because they probably fit, and were on sale, AND they had a matching suit jacket in a beautiful shade of gray.  For the last 15 minutes I’ve been wearing the pants (and yes, still working from home), then twisting around trying to see my ass in the mirror.  Finally I decided to take a picture using the self-timer on my camera.

Pause…

What an eye-opening moment of truth that was. 

Things I learned from the rear-view photograph:

1.  I do not look like I think I do from behind

2.  The pants are probably too tight

3.  I slouch

4.  My dresser is a dusty mess

5.  My highlights are not as blond as I thought and the back of my head is a right mess

6.  Don’t take full-rear view photos anymore

Things I will be forgetting:

1.  How to use the self-timer on the camera

Aaacckk! (you know, Cathy-style) is the first thing that came to mind.

Because I’m in the stage of pregnancy right now that I almost forgot about – the pretty-pretty-pregnancy-horomones-are-leaving-you stage.  The exact same thing happened the first time around, except that time I neatly ended the post-partum uglies by promptly and unexpectedly getting pregnant again.

Exactly three months to the day of giving birth, I started losing CLUMPS of hair.  Not just a few strands here and there, so much hair fell out that after a shower it looked like a gerbil was curled up on the drain.  Three months after that, my hair stopped falling out but then my nails started breaking and my skin started flaking.  Now here I am 8 months later, and I have the double whammy of inch long strands of hair sticking out all around my hair line plus excess grease and zits.

Add to that picture the end of the day mascara-flakies, the newly formed frown wrinkles between my eyebrows and then hold it up next to this air-brushed, clean-smelling, chubby perfection:

Oy.  Or GAAAH, if you prefer.

Although, I’m generally pretty happy with my appearance, when I start feeling you know, BLAAAHH, I tend to do one thing:  SPEND MONEY TO FIX IT.  Usually I throw it at getting my hair cut and highlighted, sometimes on new makeup, or skin treatments but this time there’s a little something else that I’ve been thinking about.

Dare I say it?

Botox.

I’m a big fan of “offense is the best defense” school of beauty – get it before it gets you.  But in this case, am I still aging gracefully if I pay for poison to be injected right between my eyes?  Or am I one step away from becoming Joan Rivers? 

Perhaps I should try going shorter and blonder first.  Or new mascara.

Would you do it?  HAVE YOU?

So this is it!  2009!  Woot!  However, I’m not SAYING I’m trying to lose a few pounds and I don’t need diet cheerleaders, because if I pay too much attention to it, the diet will become needy.  And hungry.

Being a sensible fitness professional, I know there are two ways to lose weight: binge and purge or starve.  Ha! I jest…it’s Sl!m Fast or Dulco!ax.  Ha ha!

All righty…I guess that leaves eat less or exercise more.  The sucky part about that, (besides eating less (boo!) and exercising more (hiss!)) is that even if you’re doing everything right, you’ll plateau in your quest to fit into your size 8s.  Which means then you have to exercise even more and eat even less until eventually you’re doing nothing but running on the treadmill while consuming your daily allowance of 10 grapes and a handful of vitamins.

Which is why I’ve hatched a cunning plan – I will only do one or the other.  Because if I go crazy upfront with the exercise AND start eating healthier, what will I do when I hit the dreaded plateau?  I’m lucky now if I can find 30 minutes to do the 30-Day-Shred.  Not that I’ve actually done it, but I have WATCHED it.  While sitting on the couch eating a popsicle.

Why has no one else thought of this?  This could be how I get my book deal.  I shall call it “Just Do One (Or The Other).”

On the plus side for getting more exercise, my co-workers have decided to train for a half marathon.  On the flip side, I hate to run.  But, I work harder when I train with a group, which is the reason I teach group fitness classes and the reason I agreed to the running club.  Left to my own devices I will watch fitness videos on the couch, see above.

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to find that the past 8 months of virtually NO cardio has not hurt my running skillz in the least.  Apparently a steady schedule of power yoga and core strength has been keeping me in better shape than I thought. 

Or it could be that running with a merry, motley band of slightly overweight, ex-military folks who are at least 10 years older than me isn’t quite the same as say, getting my ass kicked by a drill instructor.  Or Jillian.  Definite ego boost, though.

On the plus side for eating better, thanks to the CrockPot Lady  I discovered over the holidays that you really can take a hunk of frozen chicken and dump it in the crockpot with a cup of broth or a bottle of BBQ sauce and it makes a delightful dinner.  Good for me because the less contact chicken and I have before actual consumption occurs, the better.  I think that I don’t ever want to see thawed chicken again.

I think this will work as long as I’m careful to offset: workout days mean extra dessert, rest days mean water instead of wine. Genius, no?

I started to get annoyed.  I wanted to tell her to get over herself and her stupid drama and quit whining about her prAAHHHblems already.  Now I watch for the express purpose of getting annoyed at her and yelling at the TV, “Just SHUT UP already!”

This has been somewhat of a drama filled week.  After Monday’s entry where I started plowing through 2009 GOING AFTER WHAT I WANT, I’ve lost a little steam.  My boss was surprisingly great about the part time thing, and very supportive.  Boss #2 was a little less so, with talk about ‘what we do for one person we have to do for everyone’ which kind of makes me want to scream. 

Because it wasn’t this theoretical “EVERYONE” that did the research, worked out a plan to make it happen, and most importantly ASKED to go part time – IT WAS ME.  ME! 

Are we not adults, instead of kids in a candy store who don’t know what we want until we see what someone else has?  And then pointing at the other kids ice cream and complaining that he has a bigger scoop so then everyone has to give back their ice cream so the whiner in the corner doesn’t get upset? 

(And yes, I know the answer but it makes for a good rant.)

The fear I had about losing my professional edge by appearing to not be able to hack it as a both mom and full-time employee was immediately realized.  Whether intentional or accidental, for reasons unknown I was left off the invite to an after hours dinner with a bunch of partners that is happening next week.  I was on the conference call where they talked about it, and I am always invited to these to-dos.  I usually go, but I don’t particularly want to go to this one, so there is really no reason to ask other than a perverse curiousity about whether I was purposely not invited.

Bottom line is, I got my way.  Sort of.  They haven’t said I CAN’T do it, so I’m doing it until someone tells me not to.

Tuesday’s entry was going to be about my plan to get back in shape.  Then my grandma died Tuesday morning and I found myself unable to write a word.  I couldn’t even post a status update on Facebook because everything I thought of seemed insignificant and stupid. 

And I had road-terror, which is like road rage but in reverse, where every stupid driver is out to get me and by the time I arrive at my destination I’m jumping out of my skin.

Today I found out a friend of mine lost her baby, at 5 months pregnant.  After I talked to her, I found myself wandering around the house, staring at my sleeping kids who I am so lucky to have healthy and happy (and with easy pregnancies and deliveries to boot); and thinking, “Why not me?” 

Sometimes I think that things are too perfect, and I don’t really appreciate how perfect and easy I have it.  Every aspect of my life could be much worse in a million different ways.  So why isn’t it?  Why do I find myself acting like Merideth-freaking-Grey making everything more difficult than it needs to be?  She annoys me, and I wonder just how annoying I am.

It’s January and I always have to make a special anti-funk effort this month anyway, just because it’s nasty and rainy outside and my skin is dry and…and…and see there it is.  Annoying, no?

Someone tell me a joke.  Or smack me upside the head.  Because I don’t want to become that whiny bitch.

I could wear the only dress that fits and head off a boob disaster by putting a camisole under it, but if I wear that one I also need a girdle so if I’m going shopping anyway I might as well…

Try to find the time to visit just one! more! store! after failed visits to three large department stores, two discount department stores, and a Fashion Bug of all places (note to self: FB=tacky, no wonder they are going out of business), OR

Wear the exact same outfit of velvet pants and dressy top that I felt underdressed in last year.

It is times like this that I wish I were a guy because the amount of time Brett has spent contemplating his holiday party outfit and worrying about how he’s going to hobble around in 3 inch heels that are a size too small because he is too cheap to buy shoes AND a dress is approximately ZERO.

I’ve got to be honest here, I’m leaning toward wearing the same outfit because even if I feel underdressed, those velvet pants are like pajama bottoms, which equals lot of room for cake and alcohol.  Plus everyone will be jealous of my obvious comfort level as they slowly strain the seams of their bridesmaid dresses.

Staying true to myself, I’ve also gone and compounded the potential for disaster by 1) making an appointment at the MAC counter to get my makeup done and 2) contemplating going and getting a spray tan to offset the leftover baby chubby, because everyone knows that fat rolls look better and muscles (what are they?) look more defined WHEN THEY ARE TAN. 

And because when you’re uncomfortable in your clothes, what better way to feel worse than with a streaky, unnatural orange glow under a faceful of makeup that looks like you ran into a box of Crayolas?

This is also the season of client holiday parties, a.k.a. mandatory fun.  Last week we were “reminded” by our team leads to “enjoy our customer’s holiday festivities, but remember not to charge your time while partaking in party activities”. 

In that spirit I ask you, does anyone ACTUALLY WANT to participate in potlucks if it prolongs the workday by another 90 minutes?  I used to, back before I was saddled with the guilt of a working mother.  Now a potluck means the client enjoys three hours of slinging food that I prepared into their pieholes while I show my face, grab a few noodles from one of the fifteen different kinds of pasta salad, and race back to my desk to eat it.

The last few years of potlucks have found me signing up to bring a dish, then forgetting about it until either 10pm the night before or more likely the morning of when all my co-workers start slogging in with CrockPots and cookie platters. 

This year, thanks to my new food porn site and before my stressed elf side kicked in (which it obviously has), I was going to make this delicious looking stuffing.  Then I checked the list today and discovered that even though I signed up first (FIRST!!) someone else who doesn’t even know me or my dismal cooking abilities stepped right all over my toes and signed up to bring…stuffing.  Asshat. 

So screw you, now I’m bringing a veggie tray and you can feel guilty with all those carrots and celery sticks staring you in the face while you ingest 10,000 calories worth of mashed potatoes that you might as well have smeared directly on your ass.

I must admit, just writing this made me feel better, and a vodka tonic or two three will go a long way toward erasing any discomfort about being underdressed.  So jammy bottoms, pale skin, and hooker face it will be…

Happy freakin’ holidays!