Marian the librarian

I went to Portland this weekend, and before the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon (it was, perhaps, the girliest weekend ever: baby shower, wedding planning, and ice skating), I decided to take a yoga class to kill some time. I poked around on line until I found a class at the time I was looking for.

When I unrolled my mat, I had no idea I'd just stepped into the worst yoga class ever. No, really. The worst. I'm not exaggerating even a little tiny wee bit. No hyperbole here. It was the worst. You know how I know it was the worst yoga class ever? We spent about 10 minutes on mountain pose.

Let me repeat. We spent about 10 minutes talking about and practicing for mountain pose. If you've never done yoga, let me explain what mountain pose is: You stand there. Both feet on the ground. Both arms at your sides. That's it. It looks like this:








(I made that drawing myself, in Word. Because apparently my macbook pro didn't come with a drawing program. wtf, apple?)

See, I've taken beginner yoga classes before. At the Bikram studio (which I do not recommend, though that's a separate rant) and at the local park and rec yoga studio. You tell them you're new, and they tell you to watch what everyone else is doing, then they get going. But this? This was a real beginner's class. A beginner's class for 'tards. (Does it make it OK to use that word if I take of the "re"? No? Eh. Sorry.)

But it wasn't just the slow pace (I counted 6 poses in 90 minutes) that made the class so maddening. It was the instructor. Marian. "Marian the librarian," as I heard her say to two of the people in class.

"Oh, are you a librarian?" One woman (the larger lady whose legs started to shake about 15 seconds into warrior 2) asked.

"No," Marian answered, giving her throaty, Erkelish "he he" laugh, "No, I'm a fiction writer."

I think it's appropriate that Marian writes fiction, actually, because I swear the woman stepped out of a Woody Allen movie. She had thick black glasses, shoulder-length, wiry hair, and she pulled her red workout tights up nearly to her bra strap. The tights gave us all a good view of the outlines of her underwear, and those were really fascinating. Not just granny panties, but almost like some sort of support panties, with a belly control panel. Not that Marian had a belly, it just sort of looked like it, the way her T-shirt was stuffed into the top of the tights. The odd thing about the control panties was that they cut across the outside of her hips, creating a definitive crease across the tiny pouches of fat she carried there.

In the first five minutes of class, while Marian was explaining the intricacies of toe-heel placement, a woman squatted down.

"Are you OK? He he. Does your back hurt?" Marian asked.

"Oh, no, it's just, menstrual cramps," the woman said in a stage whisper.

Well, shit. You can't have a woman in yoga class with menstrual cramps. So every five minutes, Marian would leave us all standing around waiting while she demonstrated a new menstrual-positive pose for the bleeder in the corner.

But the laugh. The laugh will haunt my dreams. Every "he" sounded like she was about to choke, and her shoulders would hitch up as she bared her tiny teeth.

"Okay, so, take a strap, and pull it like this. He he. And, oh, oh my. That's not long enough. I guess, he he, I guess, yeah, maybe get an extra strap, he he. And, yeah, connect the two straps, he he."

Because I was a drop-in, I paid $16 for the class. $16! Do you know what I could buy for $16? Five bottles of Three Buck Chuck. Five! That's a lot of bottom-shelf red wine. Plus I'd have a dollar left over to give to the homeless lady down the street.

Can you rue a person, or only rue the day you met them? Because I'm pretty sure I rue Marian.

Marian the librarian

I went to Portland this weekend, and before the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon (it was, perhaps, the girliest weekend ever: baby shower, wedding planning, and ice skating), I decided to take a yoga class to kill some time. I poked around on line until I found a class at the time I was looking for.

When I unrolled my mat, I had no idea I'd just stepped into the worst yoga class ever. No, really. The worst. I'm not exaggerating even a little tiny wee bit. No hyperbole here. It was the worst. You know how I know it was the worst yoga class ever? We spent about 10 minutes on mountain pose.

Let me repeat. We spent about 10 minutes talking about and practicing for mountain pose. If you've never done yoga, let me explain what mountain pose is: You stand there. Both feet on the ground. Both arms at your sides. That's it. It looks like this:








(I made that drawing myself, in Word. Because apparently my macbook pro didn't come with a drawing program. wtf, apple?)

See, I've taken beginner yoga classes before. At the Bikram studio (which I do not recommend, though that's a separate rant) and at the local park and rec yoga studio. You tell them you're new, and they tell you to watch what everyone else is doing, then they get going. But this? This was a real beginner's class. A beginner's class for 'tards. (Does it make it OK to use that word if I take of the "re"? No? Eh. Sorry.)

But it wasn't just the slow pace (I counted 6 poses in 90 minutes) that made the class so maddening. It was the instructor. Marian. "Marian the librarian," as I heard her say to two of the people in class.

"Oh, are you a librarian?" One woman (the larger lady whose legs started to shake about 15 seconds into warrior 2) asked.

"No," Marian answered, giving her throaty, Erkelish "he he" laugh, "No, I'm a fiction writer."

I think it's appropriate that Marian writes fiction, actually, because I swear the woman stepped out of a Woody Allen movie. She had thick black glasses, shoulder-length, wiry hair, and she pulled her red workout tights up nearly to her bra strap. The tights gave us all a good view of the outlines of her underwear, and those were really fascinating. Not just granny panties, but almost like some sort of support panties, with a belly control panel. Not that Marian had a belly, it just sort of looked like it, the way her T-shirt was stuffed into the top of the tights. The odd thing about the control panties was that they cut across the outside of her hips, creating a definitive crease across the tiny pouches of fat she carried there.

In the first five minutes of class, while Marian was explaining the intricacies of toe-heel placement, a woman squatted down.

"Are you OK? He he. Does your back hurt?" Marian asked.

"Oh, no, it's just, menstrual cramps," the woman said in a stage whisper.

Well, shit. You can't have a woman in yoga class with menstrual cramps. So every five minutes, Marian would leave us all standing around waiting while she demonstrated a new menstrual-positive pose for the bleeder in the corner.

But the laugh. The laugh will haunt my dreams. Every "he" sounded like she was about to choke, and her shoulders would hitch up as she bared her tiny teeth.

"Okay, so, take a strap, and pull it like this. He he. And, oh, oh my. That's not long enough. I guess, he he, I guess, yeah, maybe get an extra strap, he he. And, yeah, connect the two straps, he he."

Because I was a drop-in, I paid $16 for the class. $16! Do you know what I could buy for $16? Five bottles of Three Buck Chuck. Five! That's a lot of bottom-shelf red wine. Plus I'd have a dollar left over to give to the homeless lady down the street.

Can you rue a person, or only rue the day you met them? Because I'm pretty sure I rue Marian.

Therapy

My physical therapist quit me.

"I'm really starting to see the frustration you feel with your body," she said, shaking her head. "Cause I'm starting to feel it, too."

This after three months of physical therapy for the plantar fasciitis, the bum hamstring (and the bum neck, though I never expected she could fix that) that has only resulted in putting out my lower back, too.

So she sent me to another therapist. A tiny, older woman who likes to yank my ankles over her head and apply tape and ultrasound to parts of my body, all the while chattering about my pelvis. Apparently, it's all because of my pelvis. (That's what she said.)

So I'm agreeing to another couple of months with the new therapist. I'm also taking the advice of and on my new, Doctor, Hippie M.D., (she sometimes gives homeopathic remedies, in addition to her prescriptions. She mentioned twice on my initial visit that she did paps, if I needed her to. I'm not really sure what that was about.), and I'm trying a new diet that's supposed to be anti-inflammatory.

The diet consists of lean meat, rice, beans, fruit and vegetables. No sugar. No dairy. No caffeine. No butter. No wheat.

I'm only on day four. Generally, in a day, I'm eating a bowl of oats (agave instead of sugar), fish, a salad, a couple of apples, some brown rice, and heaps of veggies. So far the red wine urges haven't gotten murderous, but it's still not much fun. Especially since I have to cut out other potential allergens, like eggs and everything in the nightshade family (eggplant, tomatoes, peppers and potatoes). Try making a decent brown rice pasta sauce without butter or tomatoes. I dare ya.

On day four, I don't feel particularly un-inflamed. But (TMI warning) good lord am I regular.

Therapy

My physical therapist quit me.

"I'm really starting to see the frustration you feel with your body," she said, shaking her head. "Cause I'm starting to feel it, too."

This after three months of physical therapy for the plantar fasciitis, the bum hamstring (and the bum neck, though I never expected she could fix that) that has only resulted in putting out my lower back, too.

So she sent me to another therapist. A tiny, older woman who likes to yank my ankles over her head and apply tape and ultrasound to parts of my body, all the while chattering about my pelvis. Apparently, it's all because of my pelvis. (That's what she said.)

So I'm agreeing to another couple of months with the new therapist. I'm also taking the advice of and on my new, Doctor, Hippie M.D., (she sometimes gives homeopathic remedies, in addition to her prescriptions. She mentioned twice on my initial visit that she did paps, if I needed her to. I'm not really sure what that was about.), and I'm trying a new diet that's supposed to be anti-inflammatory.

The diet consists of lean meat, rice, beans, fruit and vegetables. No sugar. No dairy. No caffeine. No butter. No wheat.

I'm only on day four. Generally, in a day, I'm eating a bowl of oats (agave instead of sugar), fish, a salad, a couple of apples, some brown rice, and heaps of veggies. So far the red wine urges haven't gotten murderous, but it's still not much fun. Especially since I have to cut out other potential allergens, like eggs and everything in the nightshade family (eggplant, tomatoes, peppers and potatoes). Try making a decent brown rice pasta sauce without butter or tomatoes. I dare ya.

On day four, I don't feel particularly un-inflamed. But (TMI warning) good lord am I regular.

Getting some restraint

I finally found my motivation to run. It was in my bra.

Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.

Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.

Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.

So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.

Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.

Getting some restraint

I finally found my motivation to run. It was in my bra.

Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.

Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.

Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.

So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.

Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.

Hard days for A-holes

Three days ago, Margaux bit one of Roommie's friends.

Now, when it happens, it's never a real bite. She doesn't bite down, she doesn't chomp. It's more like a ferocious lunging action with teeth bared, so teeth come into contact with skin. After, you could see two marks on his hand; broken skin where she'd gotten him.

Granted, he did lean over her in a vulnerable spot. She was snoozing in bed, and the next thing she knew, a man she barely knew (a man with a beard, no less) was leaning over her, hands coming at her (in reality, he was going to pet Rio). I mean, jeez. If I were dozing off, and got woken up by a giant with a beard, I'd probably lunge at him, too.

Then, last night, she lunged at another friend (bearded, and wearing a hat) who came into the room and surprised her. Immediately afterward, she dropped her ears and cowered. She knew it was wrong.

So today, when I wanted to take her to get her vaccines updated, I was nervous about the vet staff. I took two anti-doggie-anxiety pills I'd gotten from a friend, and fed them to Margaux in a half of a hot dog.

Two hours later, she was three sheets to the wind. Red-eyed, dry mouthed, and dizzy. It was kind of cute, but pretty pathetic. She had a good sideways stagger that I recognized from a few of my own experiences, and her back legs kept nearly giving out. I probably should have just given her one of the pills, rather than two.

When some friends came over this evening, we let her out of her room and instructed her to lie down on her bed. When she stood up and walked toward a man she has only met a few times, I told her to go back to her bed, and he said, "No, it's all right." I should have said, "No, it's not." But I didn't. Roommie's always trying to get me to trust her more, so I watched as he pet her. Just as he was talking about how cute she is, and asking what kind of dog she is, she went for him. He was wearing a hat.

Later, as I punished her -- she had to sit with an upturned bowl and watch and smell while the other two dogs ate their dinners -- I felt awful. She looked so sad with her red-rimmed eyes. She wants to be good, I know. And in fairness, she was drunk, and that wasn't her fault.

But it's strange. I used to think it was so simple. If you have a dog that bites, you put it down. But that was before I met Margaux.

Eff.