I Have a Great Capacity for Like

a) I like the way it feels when you smoosh two pumice stones together and they kind of disintegrate into each other with a crunchy sound.

b) I like eating granola and taking one little piece between my front teeth and and biting it in half.

c) I like breaking up dried mud with a stick in the summertime, preferably under a swing.

d) Speaking of swings, I like the way it looks when I throw my head back and watch the sky come close. go far. come close. go far. come close. go far.

e) I like how some babies have multiple folds of skin under their mouth. Chins, I guess. Baby chins. Anyway, I like to go flub-flub-flub-flub on their chin parts with my pointer finger.

f) I like the way it feels when I'm utterly exhausted and sink into my bed for a good sleep.
g) I like a cold pillow on my face.
h) I like to nap with my shoes on.

i) I like the way a Q-tip feels twisting around in my itchy-spot-ear and
j) the way it makes the world sound muffled

k) Sometimes I like to talk to God by rapping my prayers.
l) I like to think God thinks that's funny.

m) I don't particularly like Suzanna Vega, but I like that my brain player just starting playing "My Name is Luca" right now.

n) I like to stretch my wenis and watch it slowly go back to its original shape.
o) I like to say "wenis."

p) I like to look at a dog's tail wagging and pretend that it's a faceless little worm-like animal with a mind of its own attached to the butt of the dog I'm looking at.

q) I like the sting of a tattoo needle.

r) I like remembering how my grandma used to take my temperature by simply placing her lips on my forehead.

s) I like the fact that ears are bendable.

t) I'm not at all a fan of "bow pose," but I like how when the pose is over and we're told to lay flat on the mat with our heads turned to one side, I can hear my heart thump-thump-thumping loudly in my ear and this always makes me feel alive and happy and a little like giggling.

u) I like to giggle at inappropriate times and at inappropriate places.

v) I like the way copies come out of the copy machine all warm-like and
w) I like to hold warm copies up to my face.

x) I also like to hold a fresh serving of a non-buttered pancake up to my face before eating it.

y) I like the sense of accomplishment I feel when I spray Pledge on things. This is mostly because it smells like I spent a lot of time cleaning. But really I just sprayed some Pledge.

z) I like how God is tricky and funny. And how He's all "Oh, really? You think you want that? Okay...I'll let you want that for a while, but that's not really who you are." And then minutes/days/weeks/months/years pass and the ache for what I wanted has detached itself from my gut and gone to seek someone else who has the wantings. And by degrees, I turn and face what is and I'm like, "Holy shit. This is awesome."

I Wasn't Looking For You

I wasn't looking for your help
your shoulder to lean on
god forbid, your company

I wasn't looking for your
Vodka
your dark apartment
your stink of cigarettes

I wasn't looking for
your dancing hands
to hold my spinning head

your writhing fingers
to tangle in my hair

your twisting tongue
to cut-off my shallow breath

your suffocating weight
to pin me down

I wasn't looking for you

And yes, I cried
I think I did
I felt tears make their way from my
eyes to my ears
filling them up
muffling your sounds

You had me underwater

Shhhh....you said
like you were soothing a baby
Shhh...you said
like what you were doing was kind

I wasn't looking for you

I awoke to an empty apartment
the stink of you
on my skin
in my hair
under my fingernails

I looked around your room
for things to steal
I wanted something to be taken from you
the way you took something from me

I shoved my pockets full of your tips
wads of bills stashed in dresser drawers
change scattered across your floor
I took it from you

I took it from you

Years later, I saw you in a restaurant window
from behind
I knew you from your scar
the place on your head where your hair won't grow
I saw you
and I felt sick

I wasn't looking for you

And now
you send me a "friend request"
on facebook?

You
must
be
fucking
kidding
me.

So we could, what-
Chat about the good old days?
What-
See what we've each been up to
over the past 20 years?

You've
got
to be
fucking
kidding
me.

Man...
I thought you were
pretty sick before.
I had
no
idea.

My Brain-Talk

"These are not cockroaches," I say to myself as I'm moving a semi-crunchy chewed ball of oats around in my mouth. My tongue clears the front of my gums like a windshield wiper and adds the collection to the oat ball being worked on over in the left side of my mouth. Crunch. "That's not a bug. It's oats."

"Seriously? Cockroaches? Come on. I'm trying to eat here." I chastise my brain, because it's the one that pops thoughts like this into my awareness. I can't tell it not to do something, or it just does it more. More cockroaches. Louder cockroaches. I try ignoring it like a bratty child.

"Your hair's rolling up like a curtain. Fwop-fwop-fwop-fwop!" Now, that's kind of funny. And I can eat to that. I imagine my curtain hair spooling up to the top of my head. "Neck sweater." Yes, brain. I agree. A neck sweater would be nice. "Made of lard." Um. Well, that doesn't seem very practical. But, have it your way. "And make soap from it." Now, you got that from Fight Club, which you were just talking about today. "Meatball sobbing. Man boobs." More Fight Club. I'm not impressed. "Helena Bonham Carter." Now you're just naming actor-"Johnny Depp." And he wasn't even in Fight Club.

At any given moment, I can hear my brain-talk. "Crab it, maestro!" Most of it makes little sense to me, "Shine it, boys! Mail it right to your momma!" And some of it makes me laugh.


When I was in art school, I was among other brain-talk people. People's brain-talk thoughts were splattered across canvasses and molded into clay and slowly becoming clear while bathing in chemicals and getting tickled by tongs. Brain-talk was encouraged, if not understood, even if the dialects were different.

"Fifi put sixteen eggs in the green drain. Oh, you green drain!"

Then, I graduated. I borrowed a suit from my mom because, as I understood it, retail managers didn't wear art school clothes. I bought a pair of pantyhose from Walgreen's and set out to be the best damn seller of wicker and wax that I could possibly be.

And my brain-talk followed me, as noted by the time I told a customer (while helping her with some mini salt and pepper shakers), "I'm just a sucker for anything miniature!" I'm not. I'm not even sure what that means. But I said it. "Miniature cow plows in the candy corn pasture, Grandma!" is what I did not say. But I was thinking it. Or something like it. Brain-talk never reveals itself with a single thought.

Hark. Listen closely. Lend me your ear. Do you have a moment?

I stuffed cotton in my brain. In all of the empty spaces in which the thoughts which aren't already attached to something float. Here's where I stuffed the cotton. I shook my head to the left. I shook it to the right.

Silence.

I could not hear the brain-talk.

And this is how I worked for several years, tying papasans to the roofs of cars and wrapping scented candles in tissue. I could not hear the brain-talk while saying, "You're a wonderful person, but you're really not working out here. Good luck to you," or "We have a lot of very qualified applicants. I'll be in touch." Luck be a lady. Workin' hard for the money. Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh touch me. Creature of the night!

Then I left. I left to teach. Kindergarten: gold tooth I wanna be a rapper my daddy sells crack p is for pimps if you wanna know if a gun is real pick it up and do this bang! bang! bang! uhn! she just doodied I got to use it the teacher pooped in the closet? really please. someone help these kids. honey how did you get those marks on your arm your mom what? pinched you? oh my god they are all over your body let's go see the nurse no sweetie I'm taking your bag of sugar because it's not a healthy snack it's okay they aren't saying anything mean about me stop crying it's okay honey, I AM white it's okay.

There was no space in my head for the brain-talk. The cotton was pulled out and the day's events were packed in so tightly that many days I couldn't retrieve the thoughts that said, "Eat." Or "Breathe." Or "Everything is alright."

Three years and goodbye, Latray. Goodbye Sheron. Goodbye and yes I'm leaving you like everyone else has it's just that I can't breathe and my heart is so heavy I drag it around like an albatross and your crack-smokin', prostitutin' parents I can forgive but not those who are supposed to be providing a safe place for you and lending their office out so that you can get whooped with a belt by your auntie while I'm teaching across the hall and SNAP! and SNAP! and SNAP! and SNAP! and Ms Bow-wuh, why you be cryin'?

And I left you because it was inevitable.

And the brain-talk is quiet now so I can sit with that last sentence and see it for what it is. And the brain-talk wants to make sure I see it.

And this is when I realize my brain-talk serves to perhaps busy myself when the thought of what is or what has been is more painful than a dozen jellyfish attached to my ceiling, falling to the floor with a thwap! as they dry up. Thwap!

And I see them.

Thwap! And one hits my head. I flip it over and notice a tiny face inside where its belly would be. (Do jelly fish have bellies?) and I see it wink at me.

Oh, jellyfish. You little flirt.

Seemed Like A Good Idea to Me

My 8th grade students are writing children's books to demonstrate the concepts about light/color that they learned in science class. We were doing a little bit of plot brainstorming the other day, and it became clear that without some intervention, I was setting myself up to read 40 similar (and painful) children's books:

Fluffy, the bunny, wants to know how rainbows are made but he doesn't know, so he sets out to find someone to tell him.

Johnny and Daisy want to know why we see color, but they don't know, so they ask the teacher and she takes them on an adventure to find out. 

Bob, the student, didn't know how prisms worked so he asked someone who did and he found out.

I imagined sitting in Starbucks, the stack of completed children's books piled on the table, and while grading the 28th one, standing up on my chair and yelling "I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!" I imagined tearing the book apart with my teeth and throwing bits of it up into the air, where it takes a gravitational turn down onto the heads of those waiting for their lattes. I imagined using my foot to kick the rest of the books from the table's surface and letting out a terrifying "HEEEEE-YOP!" while doing so. I imagined my hair, sticking to the sides of my face with sweat- the sweat formed from grading so many bad pieces of writing, and I imagined my red grading pen being crushed in my uber-powerful teacher hand, the ink dripping down my forearm.

I imagined the shock on the faces of both baristas and coffeenistas and I imagined making it all come clear for them by yelling, "THESE BOOKS! THEY'RE ALL THE SAME!" I imagined shocked faces turning to faces of concern and empathy as the baristas and coffeenistas understand how terrible it must be to grade the same horrible plot over and over and over. And over.

I snapped out of it and suggested we brainstorm a little more, pointing out that each proposed story was basically like the one before it. And the first one wasn't even that good. Boy doesn't get concept so boy finds someone to explain it.

Students were nodding their heads in agreement, but seemed unsure of how to come up with anything else. "Tell your brain the concept and then see what it does with it," I explain.  "Don't work so hard at it. Just toss it up there and see what happens."

Students started looking upwards, as if trying to see into their brains. The brains appeared to be momentarily inactive.

"Ooh! Ooh! I've got it!" I shouted. "Feel free to steal this one. Okay. So two teenagers are on a date at a drive-in. And the movie is black and white, but has a color component. You know, like "Pleasantville" or "The Wizard of Oz."

"We saw that last year!" a kid yelled.

"Right. Wait for it...So, they're watching the movie and the guy goes' 'Kind of cool how it went from being in black and white to color.' And the girl goes, 'What do you mean?' And he says, "You know, color! When it turned from black and white to all of those colors.' And the girl is all confused and doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Okay," one student said. "I'll use that!"

"No, wait. It gets better!" I explained. "So they get in a big fight about it and the guy ends up getting out of the car and slamming the door and leaving her. And when he does, he says something to the effect of 'I didn't want to go on a date with you anyway! You're a real dog!'"

"Ooooh!" (This was said collectively. In the "you just called to the office" kind of "oooooh!")

"No. Here's the good part," I continued. "After the guy is gone the girl reaches up and, like, pulls her face off. She just reaches under her chin and peels away her face and under it, she's a DOG! An actual DOG! Which makes sense! Because dogs only see in black and white!"

(Silence in the room.)

"See?"

(Stunned faces.)

"Anyone want to use that story idea? It's a good one, right?"

(More silence.)

Then finally:
"Um. Ms. Maret? That's kind of....um...where do you come up with these ideas? That's...."
"Disturbing!" a kid shouted out.
"Just...weird," another kid muttered.
"Really, Maret? Really? She peels her face off? Seriously."
"Yeah, Maret. That's...wow."

"Too much?" I ask. "Okay. Oh! I have another one! How about this: There's this weird substitute teacher guy who is obsessed with plants. Like, plants are his only friends. He's named them all and talks to them all each morning and even dresses some of them."

"Dresses them?"

"Wait for it...So, he gets called in to teach a science class and he's so nervous about it that he brings one of this plants with him. A little potted one. Named Lucy."

"Okaaaay," they mumble, skeptically.

"So, he gets to class and sees in the sub plans that he's supposed to teach about light and energy and stuff- you know, you guys studied that. But he doesn't know anything about it and the kids are filing into the classroom and he's really starting to freak out."

"We had a sub like that once!" a kid exclaims.

"Okay. That's neither here nor there. But, anyway, the kids are all seated now because the bell rang, and with a very nervous and shaky voice he says to the class, "Today....you will be learning....about..." and he hears a tiny voice shout out 'photosynthesis!' It's the plant! Lucy! It talks but only he can hear it! And because she gets her energy from the sun she's able to explain it so the guy is able to teach the lesson."

"Um," a kid says.

"Right? The PLANT talks!" I say, enthusiastically.

"Well, it's better than the girl who peels her face off, but it's still kind of...weird."

"Seriously, Maret. I mean....seriously."

Huh. Seemed like good ideas to me.

A Trip to the Grocery Store

The other night I was in the grocery store and I spotted a large yellow banner hanging over the fish department. In capital black letters were the words "SALMON SALE." "SALMON SALE?!" I thought, having no real interest in salmon but being caught up in the boldness of the sign and the urgency implied by the capital letters.

Turns out I didn't just think it. I must have said it out loud. And not with my "inside voice." Those nearby pivoted to face me as if I had just yelled, "Hey you! Over here!" A slight feeling of embarrassment caused me to shrug my shoulders and point to the sign. "Salmon," I half-whispered. "It's for sale." Awkward silence. "Right over there."

As I slinked my way along the row of wrapped meaty parts, it occurred to me that the non-stop chatter I hear in my head while at the grocery store may actually be coming out. You know. Into the ears of other shoppers. About 50 years too soon, I have become the crazy lady who talks to herself from the store entrance to the checkout lane. How could I not have realized this before?

I decided to not let my thoughts know I was onto them, but rather just listen to them the next time I went shopping at my local grocery store. I'd just kind of go about my shopping business and hear what, if anything, comes out. Maybe the salmon sign produced a surge of excitement that my normal thoughts don't do. Maybe most of the thoughts stay in. Maybe I'm a thought whisperer.

I've observed other teachers and students and know how to record just the facts. I'd probably be a pretty good police officer. Just during the "just the facts, ma'am" parts of their police officeriness. The other parts I'd suck pretty bad at, but I can take down some facts. Below are the facts as I observed them:

Wheels cart towards the produce section. Stops in front of bananas. 

"Okay.....nanners. I need some nanners. Hi, little nanner bunch. Want to go home with me? Of course you do."

Puts bunch of bananas into cart. 

 Wheels over one aisle to the croutons.

"Croutons. Croutons. Croutons. I see you whole grain croutons!" 

Wheels back towards the wall of produce.

"Yellow peeeeeper. Peeeeper. You a squooshy peeeeeeper. No, no, no. Here's one. Oh, aren't you a pretty little peeper? I cut you up, you little peeeeeper. I cut you up and put you in a- oh, look! Beets. I like it, the beets. Why you all tied together, beets? I will eat one of you and set two free."

Seems to forget about yellow peppers altogether and plops a bundle of beets into the cart. Rolls cart over to the apples.

"Foooooo-geeee. I'm gonna eat you up, fuji apples." 

Picks up an apple and squeezes it.

"Girl! You all mushy and shit! You nasty! You know you are. Don't act like you ain't."

Puts apple down. Picks up another.

"That's better. I'll take you! And you! And you!"

Puts three apples in a plastic bag, ties it up, and places in the cart. Wheels cart past the salad bar, through the liquor aisle. Thinks about the time she drank some Malibu Rum with a friend in high school and afterwards thought it might be a good idea to remove the friend's father's antique sword from the wall and run around the house with it. Remembers getting busted. Feels like her choice of not drinking is a good one. Heads past the magazines, and takes a right at the soup aisle.

"Soup. Soup-PAH. Soupy-soup-soup. Where are you zesty chicken? CHEEEEE-kin. Cheeky-cheeky-cheekin. Cheeeeekin soup-PAH. Oh, you funny soup. I see you behind your buddy. Move over buddy, I'm comin' for the cheeckin." 

Does a u-turn in the aisle. Nearly runs into another shopper. Stands on the back of her cart for the final roll

"Wheeeeeeee!"

and makes it to the cereal aisle.

"Gruh-NOLA! I'm gonna get me some gruh-NOLA! Granola in the brown package. Coooome to me! Ah! I see you! You can't hide from me! Get on over here, you little sucker."

 Puts granola in the cart. Wheels down the aisle and turns left towards the dairy section.

"Small package of eggies. A lil' bitty package. Naw, naw, naw. Don't need that big ol' package of eggs. Who eats those many eggs, anyway? Where aaaaare you, little eggs? No little eggs? Okay. No eggs for me!"

Smiles at a woman who was inspecting a carton of eggs.  Heads over to the yogurt.

"I like it the vah-NEELA. Two-a-those, please. One! Two! Okay...next. Let's see. Dog treats. Dog treats. Dog treats. Par-DONE!"

Says, "pardon" to a woman in the yogurt aisle. Zips right over to the pet aisle.

"Someone's in the kitchen with dooooog treats. Someone's in the kitchen I knoooooooow. Someone's in the kitchen with- what the hell are these? Lil' bacon bits? Uhn. Those look nasty. Narsty. Narsty bits. No narsty bits for my dog!"

Picks up a box of dog treats and plops it into the cart. Continues down the aisle. Passes light bulbs and display of pink breast cancer awareness merchandise. 

"Light bulbs? No, don't need 'em. Buh-REST cancer pinky stuff. I see y'alls display of Buh-REST cancer stuff. No need. No needy. Sorry, cancer peeps. No needy the bag or the water bottle. Oh! Look at those fuzzy pink socks, though. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to....WEAR 'EM! But I don't need them. No need."

 Turns left and left again to the snack aisle.

"Get me some almonds. Comin' for you, almonds. There you are! And-uh-one. I gots ya, almonds. I gots your almond backs. Your little almond backs."

Makes a u-turn and left again in the frozen foods aisle.

"Okay....veggies for the stir fry. Gon' stir it up. Steer it up! Little darlin', steer it up! Schteer. Shhhhteer. Shtir-fry. I said shtir fry. I like me the water chestnuts, oh yes, I do. I'm gonna crunch you up, little crunchy watery disks of goodness. Come to me!"

Catches the glance of a fellow shopper who appears to be staring at her in an odd way.

"Got some veggies," she announces to the shopper. "For some stir fry." 
The shopper nods her head slowly and back her cart up a few inches.
"Stir fry and veggies," she continues. "Veg-uh-tuh-buhls."

Another u-turn and she's headed towards the check-out, past the magazines and candy.
"Okay. To the check out. Hello, Demi Moore! I see you. I see you, gum. Don't need it.  Don't need your gum. Don't need your fuzzy socks. Gummy socks. Socksy gum. Gummy-"

She's interrupted by the cashier who says, "Hello, ma'am, and how are you today?"

"Pretty good," she replies, piling her items on the conveyer belt. She refrains from saying "Pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE good," ala Curb Your Enthusiasm, because, let's face it. That would be weird and she wouldn't want the cashier to look at her in a funny way.  That would be embarrassing.

It's Gettin' Hot in Herrrrr

NOTE: After an iliotibial band injury caused me to give up running for a bit, I agreed to try out "bikram yoga," a form of intense yoga that takes place in a room heated to 105 degrees. The class is 90 minutes long and runs through 26 different postures. I am assured that you need not be skilled at yoga to try this. Below are a few initial thoughts after this morning's class. 

*****************************************************

"I haven't been this scantily clad in public since the 1980s."

I know you're supposed to wear, like, next to nothing when doing this type of yoga, but it's just weird to be wearing that little around strangers. I mean, I'm more covered up when a stranger is looking at my hoo-ha, what with that paper dress and all. This morning, as I put on my black I'm-a-boy-swimmer-in-the-1940s shorts and my bright green you-know-as-well-as-I-do-that-this-really-is-just-a-training-bra looking top, I had a moment of doubt.

A few actually, but the one I could identify was this: Remember when it was "Wacky Wednesday" or something of the sort when you were in middle school? And you'd get all dressed up in wacky clothing? And then, as you walked out the door toward the bus with your dad's shirt on backwards and your mom's pantyhose dangling from your head, you'd have this sudden panic, like- "Oh, no. What if I got the date wrong? What if there's not even a Wacky Wednesday and I made the whole thing up in my head?" A million what-ifs that all end in you showing up at school looking like the jackass you've suspected you are all along.

That's how I felt, standing in my kitchen in my boy trunks and training bra and knowing soon I'd be in a room full of strangers in the very same outfit. But I threw on some sweats and headed out the door just the same. It can't be any weirder than a bike meet with all of those clippity-cloppy shoes and spandex shorts and helmets that look like penises. Right?

"Oh, man! I forgot my yoga mat at home! I'm going back for it."

Now, here's the truth. I never imagined I'd ever be one to own a yoga mat. I mean, I'm just not yoga-y. At all. For one, I have hamstrings the size of a toddler in legs the size of a grown woman. This is to say when I bend over, I consider it a great stretch if my palms reach my knees. So, the only thing a yoga mat would do is sit under my bed and mock me each night as I went to sleep.

The one and only time I did yoga was with my beautiful friend Maud. She's yoga-y. And she had her own mat. And while I unrolled my loaner mat and attempted a downward dog to mask the fact that I was sniffing it for foreign and unpleasant odors, Maud rolled her mat out and confidently got right on it. Because it only had a Maud smell. Which she, on some level, identified as her own and kept her from recoiling and choking the vomit back each time a position brought her nostrils to the mat's surface.

I bought my own mat.

Which I left at home, unrolled across my kitchen counter to get rid of the overwhelming scent of paint fumes that I discovered after pulling it out of the package.

"Don't be a mat-snob," I thought to myself as I pulled into my parking space at the yoga studio. "Just rent one. It's, like, $2. Big deal." The $2 wasn't the big deal. It was the fact that I suddenly imagined Ron Jeremy and his hairy, sweaty butt dripping Ron Jeremy sweat all over a mat and then hanging it up for the next person to use. And that next person being me.

I threw my car into reverse and went to retrieve my mat much in the way Nicholas Cage's character went back for the diapers in "Raising Arizona." It was epic.

"Hey. It's not so bad in here. In fact, it kind of feels good."

I made it back in time for the 10:00 a.m. class. I registered, tossed my things in a little cubby, shed my sweats and walked into the studio like it was perfectly normal for me to be walking around in my skivvies with other adults who were also walking around in their skivvies.

The studio itself is a rectangular carpeted room, large mirrors running the length of the long wall in front, and a little mini-raised stage for the instructor. Already there were a good 25 people laying with their backs on their mats, staring at the ceiling. Talking's a no-no in the studio, so it was completely silent. Had there been an ocean nearby and a bright sun overhead, I would have just taken the mat-layers for a group of anti-social tanners, but as it were, they were just adults laying in a room together in their skivvies. I unrolled my mat and joined them.

The heat was...nice, actually. "I'm not sure what everybody's talking about," I thought. "This isn't bad at all. It's like a nice summer day. My friends must be heat-sissies."

10 minutes later:
"Okay. I guess it is a bit warm. But this is totally do-able. No problem."

15 minutes into class:
"Um. Okay. Wait a second, here. This doesn't seem right. Did somebody turn up the heat?"

30 minutes into class:
"I can't...think...straight...mouth dry...fire in lungs...eyes burning...me die now..."

At this point I am totally drenched. Sweat rolling into my eyes. Sweat dripping on the towel under my feet, which is now completely soaked in sweat. Salty sweat rolling down my arms as they're pointed toward the ceiling and sweat making its way into my mouth each time I turn my head. I can't believe my body had this much water to lose. "Well, just get a drink of water, dummy," you might be saying to me through the computer screen.

I would. But we were instructed to only drink water when the instructor says, "Party Time!" which was once. Other than that, we could take a sip in between poses, which amounted to about a millisecond of time. I'd reach for the bottle and..."LIFT YOUR ARMS ABOVE YOUR HEAD AND LOCK YOUR FINGERS..." Dang it. Missed my chance. Next break in directions and I'd reach for the bottle again. "GRIP YOUR ANKLES AND LOCK YOUR KNEES..." My fingers would just touch my pink Camelback water bottle (now filled with warm water) and I'd be directed back into a pose. If I were a yogi, I'd invent the "water pose" which would just look like holding a bottle of water and drinking from it. But, as it were, there was water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.

"You want me to put my what? Where?"

I think it is interesting, if not a little impressive, that some people can contort themselves into a shape not unlike a bowl of wet noodles. I really do. And if you can bend over backwards and then grab your ankles and, oh, I don't know, walk up the side of the wall with your super-yoga strength, I will think that's pretty neat.

I'm just not made like that.

So when the yoga lady said, "Get into tree position," and then folded her leg over the front of herself and grabbed onto her ankle, I thought two things: (1) I've never seen a fucking tree hold onto its foot like that, and (2) There's no way in God's green earth I can get my body to do that.

But I'm determined. And I don't want to be the only tree in the room not holding its foot, so I give it a go.

Grabbing hold of my super-sweaty limbs proved as easy as trying to catch a hyper-active baby that you just lathered in vegetable oil. I might get a toe or part of a heel, but I couldn't get a good grip on any part of my body. Everything was slipping and sliding and begging for mercy. "Well, why didn't you just wipe the sweat off of yourself, dummy?" you might ask.

Good question. But we were told not to do that. You see, the sweat, which at this point is making everyone look like dejected losers in a hillbilly wet t-shirt contest, is supposed to cool us off. No wiping the sweat off. I cheat and use my fingers like a squeegee a couple of times. Other than that, I grab at my toes and ankles and heels the best I can, as instructed. When I finally get a hold of, say, my toe, it's all I can do not to yell, "I GOT IT!" And then like the pop sound in the Chordette's song "Lollipop," my toe slides from my grip once again.


"Savasana= sanskrit for "Haha! Just kidding suckas! You don't get to rest!"

So, picture this: You've been forcing your body to stand in the most unnatural of poses in stifling heat. It's like you went into your granny's attic in the summer- your granny who has no air conditioning- and then stayed up there for over an hour trying to dislodge your arms and legs by wrapping them around your body. No. Let's say someone was forcing you to do this. Like you're in prison or something. A yoga prison.

Then, just when you think you're actually going to die, the prison guard says, "Oh, just kidding. You can lay down and rest." This is called "savasana," you're told. The resting pose. 

It takes about 3 seconds for you to lay down and about 5 seconds later you're snapped out of it with instructions to do a quick sit up and immediately get into another pose. I guess we could all mutiny. We could just lay there and refuse to get up, like when your mom would tell you to go up for a nap and then you'd fall to the floor and weave your arms through the dining room chair and then she'd drag you up the stairs with your arms still woven through that chair and it would thump thump thump all the way up the stairs but, by golly, you were not going to give up.

You could do that.


But you don't. And neither does anyone else. We're all slaves. Slaves to the yoga. And these little "savasana" periods only show us what resting people do. We are not resting people.


"My last thoughts before I (almost) died."

About two-thirds of the way through, I thought about dying. I mean to say if I could have chosen to do it right then and there, I might have. A quick look around the room told me I wasn't alone. Several people were down for the count, sprawled across their mats like bodies on a Civil War field. Chests rising and falling in rapid succession and looks of defeat on their faces. 

We were told we could sit out a pose if we absolutely needed to. Many people absolutely needed to. And I wasn't far behind them. 

But, hell. I ran a half-marathon two weeks ago and found it a delightful experience. "If you can run a half-marathon," my friends assured me, "you can definitely do bikram yoga." Really? Because the half-marathon was no test of endurance like this 90 minutes was. I've had kidney stones. Twice. I tried to think about that as I was in my final leg-wobbling, sweat-producing, dignity-stealing poses. This can't be as bad as kidney stones, can it? It was. I've never had a baby, but I imagined giving babies might be more unpleasant and a greater test of endurance. I began to imagine I was giving birth. To a little sweat baby. That seemed to help.

When finally the last pose ended and we were told to get into the non-restful resting pose for the last time, I crossed my arms over my chest and felt my heart pounding in its cage. I swear I could hear my heated blood swooshing through my veins. Every part of me was covered in sweat and had the world tilted slightly, I imagined I could just slide my way down Clayton Road to my home, without any trouble. My lungs took in the hot air in shallow breaths, not unlike what it feels like to wake up in the middle of the night to find you've accidentally wrapped your head in all of your blankets and have been gasping for air for God knows how long. Others began stepping over me and making their way out of the room. I could feel the cool air rush in and slap the bottoms of my exposed feet each time the studio door opened.

"I did it," I thought. "I did it."

I'll be back.

How to Dance at 6 a.m.

It's best to wake up with a crabby attitude. Trust me. It will make the transformation even more amazing.

Upon getting out of bed, stub your toe on your bed frame, if you can. Utter something like, "Fucking bed frame!" and as you bend down to inspect the damage to your foot, look up to the ceiling and wonder what God has against you. A little victimization will go a long way in preparing for your 6 a.m. dance session.

Take your dog outside to pee and unleash your short temper when your dog gets too sidetracked by a squirrel. "Oh, for chrissake! Just pee, already! Fucking squirrel!" Look over at your neighbor's house and judge them a bit. For anything. It doesn't really matter what. "Seriously. How the fuck can you stand to have curtains like that in your windows?" Use the word "fuck" a lot. And feel superior. Feel superior for using the word "fuck" three times before 5:40 a.m. Briefly look up at the sky and feel God judging you for your bad language. "What? What?! Well, if you didn't want me using foul language, you should have made me a bird. Or a fish. Or something." Consider for a short moment that God may have heard you and is currently planning on sending you back as a bird or a fish. Become angry about that. Feel a little picked on by God. "Stupid fucking fish."

Take your dog back inside and feed it. You may want to say something like, "I don't know how you eat this shit every morning" as you deposit a scoop of dog food into your dog's dish. Remember for a split second how you, too, ate dog food once when you were about nine. You ate a lot of it. Pick up one of the pieces of dog food and sniff it. Scowl and drop it back into the dish with a clink!

5:46 a.m. Hop in the shower. While in there, read the text on your shampoo bottle: "Hello Hydration," "I'll have a moisture-tini," "Drinks on me!" Become irritated that your shampoo is trying to get you drunk. Feel superior to the shampoo because you no longer drink and it's too dumb to realize that. "Stupid fucking shampoo." Briefly picture the advertisers for this company in a board room, high-fiving each other for their clever use of words. Curl your lip in disgust. Accidentally get the taste of shampoo in your mouth.  Spit it out while shouting "Are you fucking kidding me?!" only it will sound more like, "Ah you fuhk-uh kihh me?!"

Drop the soap on the same toe you stubbed and gauge it with your toenail. Pick it up only to find hair wrapped around it. "Oh, that is just fucking gross." Look up at the ceiling and picture God laughing at you. With a group of famous dead people who are also laughing at you. "I'm in the shower, for chrissake! A little privacy, PLEASE?!"

Nick yourself with your razor a few times. On the ankles, if you can.

5:52. Dry off. Battle with your contact lenses and they flip inside out and leap from your fingers onto the sink. Brush your teeth with such a frenzy that you accidentally jab yourself in the gum with the end of your toothbrush. Entertain your resentment about having to brush your teeth each and every morning. "Being a human is stupid. Stupid fucking teeth." Dress yourself if you're up to it.

Grab your hairbrush and head into the kitchen where your portable cd player sits on your kitchen counter. Hair dripping wet and face like a pasty zombie, hit play.*

*Note: While there are many appropriate song choices, the following have been proven to work for the purpose of this how-to:

-You Should Be Dancing (Bee Gees)
-I Wish (Stevie Wonder)
-That's Not My Name (Ting-Tings)
-Everybody (Rock Your Body)- (Backstreet Boys)
-Root Down (Beastie Boys)
-Girls and Boys (Blur)
-Harder Better Faster Stronger (Daft Punk)
-Rio (Duran Duran)
-Shining Star (Earth Wind & Fire)
-Breakout (Foo Fighters)
-Been Caught Stealing (Jane's Addiction)

For the purpose of a shared experience, let's use the Stevie Wonder tune.
I'd suggest pausing here to open a new window on your computer. Search the song. Begin to play it. Continue reading.

Okay. Back in the kitchen. Still crabby.
Silence.
Hit play.
Click.
Quick bass-like notes introduce the beat: bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum.
Stand still, but let your eyebrows bob up and down to this part. For the first 16 notes.

Unmistakably, feel the energy of the bobbing eyebrows travel down your cheeks, around your neck to the top of your spine, down the spine to your now wiggling backside. The music has reached your backside. At the same time your shoulders begin a back and forth counter-movement to your hips and your toes, even the very one that was stubbed, begin their own little individual dance moves.

All of this happens very quickly.

By the time Stevie Wonder starts to sing, your hairbrush is raised to your mouth. You've dramatically looked this way and that. Your number is about to begin You're ready.

"Lookin' back on when I- was a little nappy headed boy!"
You fling your wet hair back and forth.
"And my only worry- was for Christmas what would be my toy!"
This, you direct to the refrigerator.
"Even though we sometimes- would not get a thaaaang,"
Your toaster is pointed at.
"We were happy with the- joy the day with bring!"
Your hands (and hairbrush) are raised to the ceiling.

The next verse has you really cutting loose. Perhaps you circle through the house, the building joy too much to contain to one single room. See your dog curled up on the couch. Sing a line or two to him:

"Tryin' your best to bring the- water to your eyes. Thinking it might stop her- from whoopin' your behind!"
Playfully pat your dog's butt. Kiss him on the head. Oh, you love this dog!

By the time the chorus comes, feel free to hop onto the couch. You may find that with the continued hopping, it's hard to catch your breath and sing at the same time, but it's totally worth it. Sing. Sing at loudly as you can:

"I WISH THOSE DAYS" (hip shake/head turn) "COULD" (hip shake/head turn) "COME BACK ONCE MORE! WHY DID THOSE DAYS" (hip shake/head turn) "EH-" (hip shake/head turn) "-VER HAVE TO GO?"

Continue in this manner, picking up your dog at one point and bounce-dancing him around the house. If you'd rather continue jumping on the couch for the entire song because it feels good and it's making your stomach feel fluttery, do that. If you feel compelled to try out some robot moves or even drop to the floor to see about spinning on your back, well, you can do this, too. Maybe you'll want to experiment with different frozen facial expressions every 4 beats of the song. This you may do while stopping in front of the mirror in your front room. This will make you love having a face that moves and you will be happy for your face.

Look up to the ceiling and manage to think "Thank you God for my movable face!" while continuing to sing the lyrics. "Thank you, Stevie Wonder, for this awesome song!" Continue dancing. "Wheeee! I have my own house to sing and dance in at 6 in the morning! Thank you, Universe!" Dance and sing. Sing and dance. Feel the sting of your earlier razor blade nicks and look down at your ankles. "Wheeee! My ankles are making me dance! Dance ankles! Dance!" Thank God for giving you ankles. Ankles are cute. You never noticed that before.

This song has a fade-out, as opposed to an abrupt ending, so you will most likely find yourself giggling and dancing and spinning and out of breath before you notice the song is over.

Look up to the ceiling, and past it. Up and up and up, where you picture God looking down on you. Smiling. Laughing. High-fiving a group of famous dead people. And non-famous ones that you once knew and loved. "Hey, everybody!" The next song starts. "Welcome to my 6 a.m. dance party!" The beat begins and off you go again.  

It's going to be a great day.