TiVo Lady

Yoga Malpractice

Granted that I was the oldest one in last week's Philadelphia yoga class.  And granted that I was a stress-filled wreck.  And granted that my hearing is so bad that you practically have to yell in my ear if you want me to hear you say something.  And granted that I took the class at a gym and not a yoga studio.  (This picture is a hint--but only if you live in Philadelphia.)  Still...

Here's what the teacher did:

1. Spent most of the time watching herself do poses in the mirror,
2. Paid little, if any, attention to the students,
3. Never used the correct names for the poses, except for "down dog,"
4. Refused to speak louder, even when I asked her, politely,
5. Didn't notice that half of the class was also unable to hear her softly murmured, pretentiously presented instructions,
6. Made us do difficult poses, like pigeon, early in the class, long before we were sufficiently warmed up.

Okay, granted that I was sore for two days. 

On the other hand, I needed the stress relief.  And I was the oldest, but by no means the worst in the class.  Though I couldn't do several of the poses--which I think she invented by herself--a few of which I'd never seen before, even after taking yoga for more than ten years in suburban New York.

The good news:  I never have to go back there again.  (I hope:  But never say never.)

P.S.  Returned home to a Teetering Tower of TiVo, most of it mediocre. 

Bad Shoe Shopper, World Class

I set a new record yesterday in the Bad Shoe Shopper category.  Desperate for a pair of comfortable summer shoes that weren't my ancient Adidas thongs,I braved TJ Max.  A serious error in judgment, for several reasons.  First, nobody helps you there.  Second, there's very little choice.  Third, the choices are terrible.  Fourth, they treat you like a criminal for wanting to buy something.  Fifth, I hate shopping.  (Just threw that in there, though it's probably not the fault of TJ Max.)

Feeling Discount Shopper's Pressure--I've got to buy something, the price is so right--I forced myself to walk around the store in the semi-ugly Naturalizer shoes I tried on, clopping all the while with the security tag hitting the floor with every step.  They felt okay, though I did notice they were digging into the top of my left foot.  Hey, so what?  This is a Bargain!

Bought the shoes.  Walked out of the store.  Did errands.  Left foot red from irritation by top of so-called comfy sandal.  Started to limp.  Thirty-eight minutes after buying the shoes, I was back in the store to return them.  A World's Record for shoe return?

I'll have to call Guinness.

Chair Pose

There's this pose in yoga called "chair pose," and I think of it every time I use a public toilet.

See, in chair pose, you hold your arms out straight in front of you, then you bend your knees, and go into a deep, deep crouch.  It's exactly like what women do when they're trying to use a public toilet without actually sitting down.  This takes strong thigh muscles, a great resolve, and an ability not to splash.

So, there I was in chair pose, in the middle-of-hardly-anywhere Massachusetts, in an "Italian Restaurant and Pub" (odd combination, no?) Ladies Room.  Very tiny it was, the stall, barely room to do the crouch.  This was staring me in the face.  Advertisements!!  Not grafitti, but honest-to-God adverts.  Presumably paid for.  It's out of focus because it was literally three inches from my stuck-in-chair-pose nose.

Who in their right mind would pay attention to an ad while performing this particular bodily function?  Not me, that's for sure.

Seeing "Sex and the City" tonight.  I don't even care if it's terrible.  So what?  Stay tuned.

Boomer Activities. . .

Along with the ability to watch ridiculous amounts of TiVo whenever we want, Boomer Life also involves plenty of medical detours.  There are:  doctor's appointments, prescription refills, physical therapy, yoga class, Pilates class, chiropractor visits, orthopedics appointments, massage therapists, acupuncture visits, prayers.  All of this is aimed at one basic goal:  to get the damn Boomer Body in some semblance of working order, or to attempt to turn back the clock to the good old days, when we were 37 years old, say, or even 43.

If you are married, then you have to double these efforts--half for you, half for spouse.  Today, I'm doing the drill for my other half.  Non-TiVo Hubby needs some minor surgery today, so I have to drive him to the hospital. Sit and wait.  Hand him off.  Run around doing errands and getting some work done.  Then showing up at the exact right moment to retrieve him, shovel him in the car, and deliver him to our bed, where he will remain, immobilized and proudly helpless for approximately one week.  That's seven days.  One hundred sixty-eight hours.  Ten thousand and eighty minutes.  And every single one of those minutes will require me to be a hand-maiden to his temporary disability.

But that's okay.  I'm making a large deposit in the Favor Bank, to be repaid someday, when I am equally incapacitated.  Hopefully, though, it won't be too soon.

By the way, this is a "Before" picture, believe it or not.  We haven't gone to the hospital yet.

Boomer of the Week, No, the Year!

In yesterday's New York Times, there's a story about another teacher going up into space.  The only other one, Christa McAuliffe, was killed when the Challenger blew up during takeoff.  The teacher, Barbara Morgan, was McAuliffe's understudy and friend, and apparently is as eager as ever to go into space.  All of this is nice, but the really amazing part --buried in the second to last paragraph, is that Ms. Morgan is 55. 

Yes:  astronaut-teacher, first time in space, fifty-five years old.  A Boomer is She, though certainly in great shape.  I can't say how thrilling and heartening this is to me.  And I have new-found respect and fondness for NASA, which apparently does not mind when their flight specialists approach near-geezerhood.

In other news, real life news, my books arrived today.  In boxes.  In four boxes.  Gulp.  The books exist--not just a single, lonely, one-time-only copy, but in bulk.  Gulp.

See?

I can no longer avoid Facing the (publishing) Music:  Give Birth to Book, Get Judged.  Meanwhile, appearance on the Today show looms, and I've got nothing to wear yet.  Shopping trip immanent:  Panic looms!   

Anybody want to buy a book?  Or two??                             

My Icon of Me

So, if you had to make an icon of yourself, what would it look like?  Think of this question as a Life Exercise.  If you lived in Los Angeles, you'd pay thousands of dollars to someone who'd ask exactly this question.

It's all about identity.  And, as a Boomer Issue, this is no minor problem.  The issue also has to do with Boomer Bodies:  How do you think you look?  Or want to look?  Or wish you looked?  Anyway, I had to ask myself this question recently, as I was redesigning my main Website.  Or, rather, paying Greg to redesign my site.

Here's my answer, for me that is.  This is Greg's rendition of me, me and my leetle dog, Kippy.  I really like it.