One Size Fits All
It’s no secret – (because I have no secrets – I’ve written 256 posts over the last two years; there is no detail of my life not in print) – that I like big girl underpants.
High in the waist and low on the legs – the kind that make me look like I am in an early episode of Mad Men. The kind that make me want to explain to the cashier, “I’m buying them for my grandma.”
I’m all about Style. Fashion is my life – right after naps, anyway. A lot of people believe that fashion is superficial. And I’m one of those people. Superficial in that, if it’s not on the surface, it doesn’t have to be fashionable. I can wear comfy panties under skinny jeans – as long as they don’t show.
But I DO have one pair of sexy panties. I bought them when I first lost weight, thinking that it would be nice to have sexy underwear. The tags were still on them one year later, so I obviously liked the THOUGHT of sexy underwear more than the actual WEARING of sexy underwear.
But I did eventually wear my sexy panties.
Last month, I went shopping for a bathing suit. My husband really wanted me to buy a bikini. And I promised that I’d buy one. (I didn’t promise that I would wear one.)
And I couldn’t go shopping for a bikini in panties that could double as a parachute.
And besides, I was a little late in getting my laundry done.
I bought a bikini. (That still has the tags on. But when I wear it I’ll be sure to let you know.)
When I was undressing for bed that night, my husband noticed – oh yes he did – my underwear.
“Those are some sexy panties!” he said enthusiastically.
The next morning, when I came down for breakfast, he was still in a complimentary mood.
“You look great in those jeans,” he said. “What size are they?”
Yeah, that’s kind of a weird question, but my husband and I are so focused on healthy eating and weight loss, that it was not completely weird.
Until he wrote down my answer.
We’ve been married a long time. He has only ever written down my size at Christmas time.
And I knew. He was going to buy me panties – and not the kind I was wearing this morning.
When a man buys a woman underwear, you can be sure you are going to end up with a porn costume.
The best approach is the direct one. Subtlety and skimpy panties do not necessarily go together.
“Are you thinking that I should wear sexy underwear more often?”
“Yup. Every day. I’ll pick some out for you. Size four.”
Uh-oh.
How do you explain women’s clothing sizes to a man?
Men have two sizing methods: Inches (36 waist, 17 1/2 neck) or S,M,L XL.
But ladies’ stuff is different.
Yes, Women have S, M, L, XL.
But then we also have Misses (4, 6, 8,10,, etc.) or Juniors (5, 7, 9 11 etc.). And then there are Petites. And Womens.
And we have inches in bra sizes: 34, 36, 38. We just complicate it a little more since we seem to have a lot more variation in cup size than men do in penis size. Whatever size it is, it seems to fit in their underpants okay.
And women’s jeans are sometimes sized by waist and length inches, like men’s jeans. Only whoever is measuring the waist is using a really small tape.
But how do I explain underpants sizing?
“Ummm, just because my pants are size four, doesn’t mean my panties are size four.”
“Why not?”
“Well because most stores don’t even carry a size 4 – which would be teensy-weensy. Underpants are usually 5, 6, 7, 8.”
“So then a 5?”
“I’m more comfortable in a 6.”
“Are thongs supposed to be comfortable?”
teensy-weensy
The Perils of a Long Marriage
A while ago, I started to recognize the symptoms that I have been married a long time.
I am beginning to sound like my husband.
Like when I said to the salesman at the kitchen shop, “I might be tempted to buy this skillet if you could give me a ten percent discount.”
Uh-oh, I thought afterwards.
And I was even more scared after I complained about a car that had parked too close to me. It made it really difficult to get out of my parking space and I have a hard enough time of that already. (My mother looks for four spots – think of the letters HH – so she can pull through with plenty of room and never have to back up. I am sure I am just a few years away from that.)
Anyway, I was griping about this close-parker (like Seinfeld’s close-talker) and I said, “It was a piece-of-shit Mopar.”
Holy crap, it even sounded like my husband’s voice.
It is just a matter of time before I hear myself talking about the idiots at the bank.
And then it is only a short hop from there to asking the McDonald’s kid, “Can you put some ice in my coffee so I don’t scald myself and sue you?”
Yikes.
But I just found that it works the other way too.
My husband and I received a wedding invitation, and he was really excited about dressing up. (It appears that I may not be the only one in my family who secretly wants to be a princess.) To be fair (which I rarely am), over the last year my husband has been my inspiration in eating healthy food and getting in shape. And he has discovered what I have known since age four – that it is fun to buy clothes and look great.
So he bought himself a gorgeous new outfit. Honestly, it was nicer than what I was planning to wear. Which was fabulous news – because I got to shopping again.
And two days before the wedding, he said to me over breakfast:
“I’m really stressed. I have a hair appointment today, and I’m so afraid that the hairdresser will screw it up, and I’ll look stupid.”
This is me at the salon. But just picture someone a bit balder, and I don’t have to draw a new illustration.
New York Report
Last week I went into The City (yup, that’s what we call in out here in East BumF**k) with a friend to see a Broadway play.
We saw “Motown: The Musical”. I love Motown. I loved Motown even before I loved The Beatles. The music in this show was spectacular – although sometimes it was just Snippets of Spectacular. They crammed in as many numbers as they could – but I would have liked to have heard a few more all the way through. Since it already ran about three hours, I’m thinking they could have cut Rick James and added one more stanza of just about anything else. But I am being picky. It was outstanding music. (And dialogue as corny as the play I wrote in fourth grade.)
But that’s not even the topic of this post.
I am here to report on the latest New York styles.
As soon as I got off the train, I could see that fashion had changed A LOT!
Everyone was dressed in FLAGS. Flag T-shirts. Flag pants, Flag hats.
But then I realized that it was Puerto Rico Day, and everyone was going to the parade.
Thank goodness. Because this was a fashion bandwagon I wouldn’t have been too keen to jump on.
Once we got a further up 42nd Street, the styles definitely took a turn for the better.
Lots of skirts. It’s nice to know that skirts are back. But then again, I only have two – a denim skirt for casual, and a high-waisted red mini that is my Statement Skirt. I guess that makes my denim skirt my Non-Statement Skirt. So I am all set for both speaking and non-speaking occasions.
The best skirt I saw, though, wasn’t a mini. It was quite long and full. But not a maxi. More like Audrey Hepburn in the fifties. And the wearer had the perfect little jersey top – striped and fitted and boatnecked. She was ready for Paris in New York, and I was too. I am just waiting for the day when I can scan a stranger with my phone and the clothes she is wearing pop up in my cell phone to purchase. In my size. On sale. Free shipping. I am thinking this app is probably just six months away.
The most intriguing outfit I saw was not the Naked Singing Cowboy in Times Square. (although he was a close second.)
We had brunch at a French restaurant on Ninth Avenue. And the hostess had amazing style.
She was wearing skinny ankle pants with ballet flats. Me too! I score in the Big Apple again!
But the similarity stopped at the waist.
Our hostess was wearing a little black camisole with a racerback. She had visible bra straps from a non-racerback bra.
I can’t get used to visible bra straps. It has been one of my main goals in life to always make sure my bra straps are hidden. I remember a kid teasing me when I was about thirteen because my bra strap was peeking out from my sleeveless blouse. I was mortified. No one will ever see my bra strap again. It is a sight just too terrible to endure.
However, this hostess looked really great. The racerback top with the straight bra straps on either side – somehow it suited her.
But the crazy-adorable thing was the sweater this woman wore with her camisole. It was a wrap sweater – the kind that has no buttons, just long tails that you tie. That type of sweater looks really sweet except I usually hate the big bulky knot at the waist. I don’t need any more bulk there, thank you.
Now, you may be thinking: How did Nancy know about the girl’s visible bra straps and racerback cami, if she was wearing a sweater?
Because she had her sweater on BACKWARDS!
That’s right – she had turned her sweater around so it covered her completely in the front, and swooped around loosely with the bulky knot at her pretty (and tiny) butt!
The effect was adorable!
She also had short-short hair and a perfect complexion and weighed 105 lbs and was maybe 26. She looked like a ballerina.
Who knew that backwards could be so fashion forward?
I was entranced.
After a trip to New York, I always try to incorporate the styles I see – in a manner appropriate for East Bumf**k, of course.
But I can’t copy the backward sweater.
Once you are over 60, you no longer look like a ballerina if you wear your sweater backwards.
You look like you forgot your meds.
I Get To Be A Princess
A couple of months ago, I reminisced about being eight years old and wanting to be Miss America. (When Nineteen Was Far Away.)
I wanted to wear a gown and a tiara, and I thought that just maybe 2013 might be my year.
And I was right!
Last week my grand-niece (or is it great-niece? I never know which is correct) had a birthday party.
She turned five.
And she had a very special birthday party.
A princess party.
I never had the opportunity to attend a theme party when I was a kid. As a matter of fact, they didn’t even have theme parties when I was a kid.
So I was excited.
Now my great-nephew (grand-nephew?) had a theme birthday party last month for his third birthday. It was a basketball party. I did not dress up.
But a princess party?
I was determined to make the most of this event.
I got online and found a gown on EBay for $14.97. When I opened the box, there was a plastic rose taped to the tissue paper. This was one classy dress.
And it fit. Perfectly.
Then I found a website that sold tiaras for parties. They had 82 different tiaras to choose from. I picked one for $3.12.
Wanting to ensure that everyone felt special, I ordered a dozen tiaras. Make that thirteen, since I ordered a fancier one for the birthday girl. I wanted to look like a princess, but I figured the five-year-old birthday girl should still get the best tiara.
(Besides, it didn’t match my gown.)
And on Saturday, I got to be a princess.
It was exactly like Cinderella. And I mean EXACTLY – since I had to clean the house in the morning before I went to the party.
I dressed in my gown. I put my hair up and affixed the tiara. I wore my good pearls and high heels. I took extra pains with my makeup, and I even put on my false eyelashes – which is no easy feat.
I drove myself to the party, although I considered having my husband drive me there in the convertible. It would have been nice to sit up on the back and wave to the people.
**
Princess Nancy
Secret Agent
I am a hoarder of confidential information.
You may think I don’t have many secrets – after all, I have shared my colonoscopy with you.
And you’ve read about my bad boyfriends, my bad haircuts, my bad habits, my bad career choices.
And you’ve met every member of my family, past and present – who are not bad in any way at all.
Yes, I’m having a very nice ordinary life and it appears I have shared every moment and every trivial thought with a multitude of people I don’t even know.
So not so.
I’m secretive.
I’m keeping important secrets from my husband.
I’ve already shared one instance where I kept essential info from my husband – (since of course I keep nothing from you guys; only from hubby). It was the time he was a little upset because I didn’t tell him the air conditioning wasn’t working. When I speculated that the recent power outage had screwed up the air-conditioning, he was caught by surprise.
“Why didn’t you tell me that the air-conditioning was out?”
If you missed that episode, you may be thinking he was out of town or something. But no, he was sitting right next to me in the extremely warm house.
My bad.
But time passes.
All was forgiven.
But this week, my secretive nature led me to the unforgivable. I repeatedly deprived him of critical information.
First, I hid the lint roller. This is a vital implement in my house, since we have four cats.
“I looked everywhere,” he said. “And I ended up having to use half a roll of scotch tape.”
So I showed him where the lint roller was, which happened to be on the counter by the phone where it always is.
“Why did you put it in the corner?” he asked.
I don’t know. I guess I am just sneaky.
Second, I kept him unaware of crucial data that had a horrible impact on his plans. By that I mean: The Weather Report.
He couldn’t mow the lawn. “Why didn’t you tell me it was supposed to rain?”
Because he didn’t have the security clearance for that classified information, that’s why.
And worst of all, he had no access to life-saving medicine.
As we were getting ready for bed last night, Hubby said, “You know, I had something in my eye today, and there were no eyedrops anywhere.”
I opened the medicine cabinet that I admit is difficult to access, since it is slightly to the left of his sink. On the third shelf – which I again admit is slightly higher than eye level – were the eyedrops, which I keep in its original box, since the bottle is small and the label is tiny.
“Why do you have the box facing sideways and not forwards?” he asked. “How am I supposed to find it?”
Which is a really good question.
I think I will have to apply for early retirement.
I have to be home to turn the little box around for him.
**
The Popular Table, Part 2
In the summer of 1969 – the summer between high school and college – there occurred an event so enormous it changed my life forever.
I know what you are thinking – Apollo 11 – the moon landing! The triumph of science and exploration!
Umm. No.
Woodstock!
I wasn’t there.
In fact, I was so oblivious, I didn’t even know it had occurred until after it was over.
But that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a turning point in my life.
Once somebody more “with-it” clued me in (which was basically everyone in the whole world, including my Mom and Dad), I embraced the Woodstock Nation with my whole heart and soul.
I embraced Richie Havens and Joe Cocker. And Crosby, Stills and Nash (…but not “and Young’ yet…that came later… but then he became my new favorite…mostly because I had a boyfriend who looked like him, and I could tell myself that my boyfriend was not incredibly homely… he just looked like Neil Young…)
But anyway.
I became a full-fledged hippie.
Okay, not really.
I became a hippie in the “dress like a hippie” sense.
How I loved the clothes!
I had bell bottoms where I cut the seams from the knee down and added more material (in a contrasting fabric) to make them really wide. And I had long flowing tunics. I had altered a pattern by adding extra material to in the sleeves…. (yes, I added extra to everything – and I could get away with it, since I still weighed 96 lbs). I could buy one yard of material and two hours later I had a new flowy top.
(The above paragraph makes me sound like a fabulous designer and seamstress. I feel the need to clarify this. I had a sewing machine that went backwards and forwards, and I could do that – go backwards and forwards on the sewing machine, if I added a ton of swear words.)
And I wore headbands. Not Hillary Clinton headbands. Pocahontas headbands.
Oh yeah, my favorite headband was a studded leather headband that had long braided tails down the back. Which was as close as I could get to long hair. Although I had long longed for long (I think that is actually grammatically correct) hair parted down the middle, and had every intention all my life to grow my hair out, I didn’t actually have the patience for the growing out part. So I just permed it like crazy, and went with the afro-hippie style. And I had an African boyfriend for a very short time who showed me how to make my ‘do’ really big.
Woodstock changed The Popular Table.
I no longer yearned to sit with the fair-isle-sweater set. I wanted to sit with the moccasin-and-love-bead set.
And I was perfectly attired to do so.
Except for one thing.
The Woodstock Generation didn’t really care that I had a good Woodstock costume. It turns out I had the perfect clothes for people who didn’t care about clothes.
A girl in my dorm wore her father’s pajama top, and she was welcome at The Hippie Popular Table.
I wrote decent poetry, and I marched in anti-war protests, so I was closer to fitting in than my sweet but pathetic high-school self.
But I was still a nervous, shy little girl with a shitload of brains and not an ounce of charisma.
So I watched The Popular Table from my own table of sweet smart misfits.
In amazing jeans.
(I wish I had a photo of my Hippie self. For some strange reason, it appears that no photos exist. I asked my mother why. It seems that my parents were waiting me out.)
The Popular Table, Part 1
I had excellent friends in high school.
They were smart and funny and generous. We went to basketball games, and talked about boys, and complained about parents. We sat at the same lunch table every day and laughed and cried over our tunafish sandwiches.
But still, there was this tiny disloyal part of me that wanted to sit at a different table.
The Popular Table.
That was the table two up and one over to the left from where I sat. That was where Janie sat. With Beth and Libby and Marcia and Jeanie.
How I longed to have sloppy joes with those girls.
There were five levels to the social hierarchy that was high school.
1. The Very Popular. This is where Janie was Princess. She held court. Janie was blond and blue-eyed and unblemished.. She had fair isle sweaters to match her heather a-line skirts. She had expensive loafers. And most amazing to me, her house had ivy growing on it.
Janie and her friends had all the main parts in every play and every club and every dance. They held the starring roles in Life.
2. The Fairly Popular. This was the next echelon. The girls in this group were pretty enough to have attention from the athletes, or had some special talent that got them the supporting roles in plays and runner-up recognition in talent competitions. They usually had dates. They didn’t sit at the Popular Table, but they giggled with the Very Popular in the hallways and bathrooms. They could move through the other strata both up and down – without self-consciousness or cross-contamination.
3. The Acceptably Average. This was most kids, including me. We sometimes had boyfriends, but mostly we just dreamed about boyfriends. We had two good outfits and three more that were pretty bad, but we could get through the week. We always did our homework. Most of our parents were hard-working factory folks who didn’t chauffeur us around. We walked.
4. The Oddballs. Artsy-types lived here. And the nice, but very shy. The girls whose parents didn’t speak English. The girls who wore clothes their mothers made. These were interesting people. I liked these girls. Of all my Acceptably Average group, I was the one most likely to cross the line occasionally into the Oddball category. I wrote poetry – good enough poetry to win little awards, but that made me precariously close to Oddball.
But I didn’t want to permanently join the Oddball group. I wanted to sit at the Popular Table. I wore a record-short-skirt to my 1969 National Honor Society induction. I thought it might thrust me to the Popular Table. But it was a statement better suited to the Oddball Table.
5. The Ostracized. There is always someone at the bottom rung of the ladder. It’s unfair, but who ever said high school was fair? These were the girls with absolutely no social skills. Or on the other hand, had such an abundance of social skills that antibiotics were often required.
There was one girl in my homeroom with huge breasts, and she squeezed the left one quite emphatically every morning during the Pledge of Allegiance. I wanted to tell her to stop it, that the boys laughed at her, but I couldn’t be seen with her. I just hope she married someone with an appreciation for her breasts and her patriotism.
I wish that high school was like a morality play (or a Hollywood movie) – where the Very Popular are also very nasty and get their come-uppance one day. And get fat. And that the Ostracized transform into swans.
But Real Life isn’t usually like that.
Most of the pretty girls are still pretty. Most of the ostracized are still outcasts. The oddballs are still eccentric. And the average are still average.
Almost no one is a mean girl. Most everyone – at every table – is just A Girl.
I remember getting a call from my best Acceptably Average girlfriend the day my grandmother died. Karen couldn’t wait to tell me about Biology class. Janie the Magnificent asked Karen where I was, and Karen told her about my grandmother’s passing. “That’s too bad,” said Janie. “I like Nancy. She’s cute.” Well, ohmygod! Karen and I were both thrilled. Janie thought I was cute. It’s been forty-four years, and I still remember it.
And I admit it. I’m still trying to sit at the Popular Table.
But I have also realized that the Oddball Table is really fun.
The Horrible, Though Imaginary, Family Secret
My maternal grandparents came to the US from Poland before World War I. They came separately – they didn’t meet until they were here for several years. As a matter of fact, my grandfather met and married someone else first, a young woman who died in the Great Influenza Pandemic of 1918. I don’t know her name. But my mother thinks that she was a friend of my grandmother, and that is how Dziadzi (Grandpa) met Babci (Grandma).
Mom, Babci, Dziadzi, my two sisters and me (the baby on Babci’s lap), 1951.
Babci, whose name was Agata (Agatha), came to this country in 1912, when she was about 19. The Titanic sank in 1912, so I am glad that she managed to avoid that boat. She came with a girlfriend, I think. No family.
She was mysterious to me. Long black hair that she wound into a bun with long hairpins and even a hairnet. She drank whiskey sometimes. And she didn’t go to church, even though that was a mortal sin. I don’t think she had much formal education, and her English was limited, but she sat with the Polish language newspaper and a magnifying glass for a long time every day. I found this suspicious.
But then again, she made pretty dresses for me and my sisters with a treadle sewing machine. And she baked wonderful raisin bread, although she prepared meals that I thought were just awful – I would love to taste one of her Sunday dinners now to see whether I would love it now, or whether she truly was a horrible cook.
My mother told me that Babci resented the limited opportunities for a women back then. She hated housework, and did not make my mother or my aunt help her. “You’ll be doing this boring stuff the rest of your life,” she told my mother. And yet, when my mother decided to attend nurses’ training after high school, Babci was against it. She thought that women should accept their lot in life. This from a girl who left everything and everyone to come to a new country to start a new life. Yes, she was a mystery.
The imaginary scandal happened when I was about eight. I had a teacher who was obsessed with Communism. This nun told us little children repeatedly that the Communists were on their way, and their first target would be us Catholics. Once she brought us over to the church and showed us where the communion hosts were kept. So that if the time came, we could run to the church and eat them before the Communists could desecrate them. She warned us that the Commies might kill us, and we should be prepared. “They will want you to renounce God. But you won’t.” (Secretly, I thought I would.)
The Communist menace and my sweet, enigmatic grandmother coalesced for me that summer.
I always spent a week in July with Babci and Dziadzi. How I loved being an only child for a week, even if I couldn’t stand blood sausage and the apartment was always about 100 degrees. Babci bought me paper dolls and lacy anklets and comic books and Hershey bars. And I would watch her let down her long hair every night, and wonder about her.
And one day, I went to the bank with Babci.
And the sign on the bank building said: “People’s Bank”.
People’s Bank!
Oh my God, that’s when I knew.
My Grandma was a communist!
I’ve Changed My Mind
About eight years ago, my husband and I moved to the country.
Okay, not “country’ country. We’re one mile from the highway. But it’s a very second-rate highway.
And there’s a sheep farm down the road.
And watching those sheep, and driving around our little patch of rural Connecticut, I have been overcome with desire.
Desire to be a farmer.
And I am positive I would make an outstanding farmer.
Except for one thing.
It’s not the hours. Everyone talks about how you have to get up really early in the morning. But I have turned my cats from nocturnal creatures into dayturnal creatures. They sleep at night now and don’t get up at the crack of dawn. Well, Merlin gets up before dawn, but he is senile. And he’s only up between five and six a.m. He sleeps the other 23 hours. So he doesn’t count. The other cats sleep till seven. They just want to be like me. I am sure the cows would feel the same way.
And it’s not the manure. Shoveling shit is a natural part of life. And I babysat once for my nephew when he had diarrhea. No horse could be worse. Besides, this would be my husband’s job.
Not the aroma. I’ve notice with the neighbor’s sheep that they are not exactly sweet-smelling. But my neighbor is about ninety-five. He doesn’t understand that those sheep just need the right cologne. I recently received a sample of Isaac Mizrahi’s new scent, Fabulous. I think it would be perfect.
Not the field work either. Sure, I’ve seen “Places In The Heart.” But I won’t grow cotton. This is Connecticut. Just vegetables. Right now, I plant my couple of raised beds by hand. With a field, I’ll have a tractor. So…Piece of cake.
And I like weeding. It is a kind of meditation to me. And I can work on my tan at the same time.
The financial struggle doesn’t worry me either. I’ve worked in budgets and finance my whole career. I understand that you have to cover all your costs. My $19.95 cucumbers will be so worth it.
No. there is only one thing that keeps me from taking up farming.
Chickens.
Have you heard those animals?
They are screamers. And for no reason at all.
The llama dealer at the local country fair told us that llamas will scream to protect the other farm animals.
Chickens just like to hear themselves.
You may be thinking that I could move them further away from the house. But our neighbor 10 acres down the lane has chickens – and I can hear them right now. I might, however, re-train my chickens to just quiet down, just like I could train the cows to sleep late. I can shush with some authority. In college, I thought for a while I might make a good librarian.
But back to chickens. I just discovered something about chickens that is intolerable.
My neighbor gave us eighteen eggs last week. Farm fresh – laid that morning.
And –
EEEYEWW!!!
The eggs have disgusting stuff all over them.
“Don’t wash them until you are ready to eat them,” my neighbor said. “The coating is a natural protection”.
Protection???
I scrubbed them with a brillo pad and dish soap. For like fifteen minutes.
And I am never touching chicken twat goo again.
Yech
I’m Exhausted
My exercise schedule is wearing me out.
Not the exercise.
The schedule.
I readily admit that I am not the busiest person in the world. Every single person with a kid or a grandkid is busier than I am.
But still.
How in the world am I supposed to obtain a gorgeous body that my husband will desire and also find time to actually see my husband and give him a chance to desire me?
Never mind keep track of it all.
When I added Zumba to my Yoga practice, I found the perfect (for me) combination. Strength, flexibility and serenity punctuated with sexy calorie-burning abandon.
So for the last year I have gone to Yoga on Monday night, and Zumba on Thursday night and Saturday morning. Busy, but manageable. Complaints from my husband are almost manageable.
Perfect (enough).
Then two weeks ago, my gym decided to cancel the Saturday morning Zumba class. Because they had a great new offering: Boot Camp.
Zumba makes me smile. I am sure that Boot Camp would make me cry.
So I have to change my schedule. My schedule that has worked for me (and almost worked for my husband) for the last year.
The only other Zumba class during non-work hours is Wednesday night. Zumba two nights in a row.
But okay.
I tried it this week. It worked great, if you don’t count the humongous leg cramp I had at 10PM and then again at 2AM. But I am sure my calves will eventually adjust.
Only Wednesday night is the night I have dinner with my mother. But I can switch Mom to Monday.
Only Monday is Yoga night. But I can switch Yoga to the Saturday morning that is now free because I will not go to Boot Camp.
I attend Yoga at a regular Yoga studio and not the gym. My gym offers Yoga – they even have one of the same teachers from the Yoga studio. But Yoga at the gym is weird. My gym shares a building with the local bowling alley. Their group fitness classes are held on the second floor. Above the bowling alley. When we are Zumba-ing, we are really loud and can’t hear anything else. But Yoga is really quiet and you hear a lot of bowling going on. I end up giggling during Shavasana,
So I pay extra for the correct ambiance.
And my Yoga studio offers a multitude of classes. Four on Saturday mornings.
The only thing is – those Saturday morning classes are either beginner or advanced. My current Monday night class is Intermediate.
It took me eleven years to get out of the beginner’s class. I’m not embarrassed too much about that – Yoga is not a competition. And besides, it just shows how patient I am – which is a fine Yoga quality. But to go back to beginner’s classes after eleven years does hurt a little.
So I am now going to the advanced class. It is Hot Yoga. The studio is heated to about 95 degrees and the Vinyasa (flow) is very challenging. It was a miracle this week that I didn’t puke. But I’m considering that to be a good omen.
But it does induce a slightly non-Yoga attribute: Aggravation. There is not enough parking on Saturday mornings.
There are only two Intermediate classes – on Monday and Wednesday nights. But now I am Zumba-ing on Wednesday. And I’ve moved my mother to Monday. I could move Mom to Tuesday, and go back to Monday Yoga, but then I am not home on
Monday – Yoga
Tuesday – Mom
Wednesday – Zumba
Thursday – Zumba
My husband would not be happy.
So I will stick with Saturday morning Yoga and Monday evening Mama.
And of course I will settle into the new schedule eventually.
But not this week.
Because the gym cancelled the Wednesday night Zumba class.
They need the room for the bowling banquet.
notquiteold 