Hi. Misc for you today.
1. I need some perspective here. I never thought of myself as a grouchy old lady who hates kids– I love kids! I’m loaning my body to one!– but our neighborhood’s roving band of kiddies is working on my last nerve. So, we live in a townhouse community, meaning we knew we were taking a hit on privacy… and I would forgive a reasonable amount of trespassing because it’s hard for all of us not to be all up in each other’s bidness… but I was not prepared to have groups of kids playing in our driveway (running between the cars!) and corralling right in front of our big living room window. (Our window is big and low, so when they do this and we’re on the couch, we’re eye level and separated by like 9 feet. It’s really uncomfortable). I do not even know who to whine to because I have no freaking idea what adults these effers belong to.
Yesterday it reached new levels of crazitude. Some kiddie was again playing right up at the window, and Chooch is understandably flipping the eff out, and the window was open… this kid turns right to the screen and starts, like, interacting with Chooch! THEN he starts calling over to ME, sitting innocently at my desk in my living room! I mean the kid was a sweetheart, just asking a bunch of questions about Chooch, but WTF… going up to strangers’ windows and starting conversations with them between the screen?! What if I was Jerry Sandusky??
I don’t know… do you agree that’s inappropriate kid behavior or am I being grouchy? I remember being a kid and being tempted every day to cut through yards to shorten my walk from the bus stop… except I was TERRIFIED at the thought of it and assumed I’d be shot immediately. I think once I did cut through a yard because, I don’t know, there was a tornado or something… and I was consumed with guilt and thought I was on the fast track to a life of crime and jail time. And here these guys are having parties in my flowerbed! KIDS TODAY.
2. Holy poo, I am a walking pregnancy stereotype right now. You know I’ve never really felt strong cravings in that I’ve needed something specific NOW (except maybe for french toast day that I mentioned)… but there have been a handful of foods that I’ve been oddly attracted to and eaten irregularly large amounts of (chocolate milk, grilled cheese and tomato soup, bread dipped in olive oil, garlic bread). NOM. Also sort of on that list is burgers… I’ve had a few burgers in these last few months that have been life-changingly delicious, and a few that have nauseated me horribly. So strange. Anyway… boring… I just want to put on the official record that last night I ate two turkey burgers and two bowls of ice cream for desert. The two bowls of ice cream may have also been topped with oreos. 5.5 oreos. Possibly 6.5 oreos, the math is hazy. If I get to January without turning into Honey Boo Boo’s mom, I will be really proud of myself.
3. UGH Pennsylvania Yoga blows. It’s so exhausting to start from scratch finding classes and teachers you like, especially since I’m already picky and now extra critical having been teacher trained. (Ugh I am also doubling down on finding actual classes to teach. It’s no longer cute that I haven’t made money doing so yet!). In the event any of these unnamed institutions want to hire my fine self, the below complaining will self destruct.
So, first I excitedly tried out a prenatal class. We have one prenatal place in the area so I was pretty determined to love it. MEH. The flow made zero sense to me. Newsflash, instructor chick… poses that require your tummy to fold flat against your thighs are rendered impossible when a fetus has gone and occupied that space! Forward fold to a runner’s lunge? Huh? IT NO WORK. Umm, we also all hung out in eagle pose forever. I mean the poor 3rd trimester chicks couldn’t even get their leg over their belly; I could still manage to wrench my leg over but I’m standing there wondering why I’m CLAMPING my legs together in a prenatal class. Dude if I have any chance of birthing without getting sliced open like a salmon, then I have 3 months to stretch my Justin Bieber hips into BURTHIN’ hips. Hit me with some squats or something. Sheesh. Oh, we also finished class in a deep supine twist which, as I was taught at least, is flat out bad for pregs. I left pretty bummed.
I went to another place and it was otay but nothing to write home about. I am excited that earlier this week I think I found a studio that might be “the one.” One hypothesis I have about the Yoga “scene” around here– sorry to use that word, I sound like a douche– is that while there are not a lot of people who do it, the people who go are GUNG. HO. Like, everyone knows each other and it has been truly awkward walking into these classes because everyone gawks at me, and I get the impression they don’t see a lot of new faces. Like, the class earlier this week, there were I think 7 people in the class… me plus a handful of other women, all most definitely in their mid to late 40′s, maybe older. And while I have to stick to the company line that Yoga is not a competition, I must say these broads making menopause jokes totally kicked my butt! I mean they are popping up into headstands in the middle of the room, shooting from crow to chatarunga, plopping down into full splits (or whatever the sanskrit name is)… mostly while I’m gazing in amazement from the comfort of my child’s pose (wide legged of course.) I remarked to the teacher afterwards what a strong class it was, and she’s all “Yea, we’ve all been doing this class together for like 10, 15 years.” Dayum, Pennsylvanians!
Sadly, I’ve had the best experience doing my own practice on my back deck while praying nobody happens to walk by and get an eyeful of me in a sports bra doing goddess pose. With a big old bump. It’s the stuff nightmares are made of. And probably would get me a HOA citation or something.