In the midst of helping to pack up Scott’s mom’s house today, and a good long solid run, this happened:

1. Intention, intention, intention. I set an intention for the rest of the year (one of a bunch out there). I don’t just intend it, I know it, feel it, and already have started to live it.
2. Finally figured out the trick to running: keep going.
3. The magnolias are almost ready to bloom. As I rounded a corner on my run today, I saw my favorite magnolia tree, with pink buds peeking out of the tops of their green shells. In another week, or maybe less, it will be flowering. This is one of my very favorite things in this world. Looking up through branches of magnolia blooms into the clear blue sky is falling in love, and breathing, and laughing, and crying, and lust and joy and release and music and art and poetry all wrapped up into one sight.
4. I don’t know what these are, but they are all over the back of Scott’s mom’s new house, and I really like them. They are kind of lotusy.

All this to say that I am not much of a runner. I move slowly, slowly enough that sometimes I wonder if the people around me are wondering why I don’t just walk, because that might actually go faster. Every Spring I get the urge to run, and I do for a month or two, until my back has had enough, and then I stop. This year has been different, though, and it started the first time I got on the treadmill. After a few minutes I was feeling terrible, and I reminded myself that the first mile is always the hardest, and then I thought about all the times I have been in a yoga class and thought that I was going to pass out in the first ten minutes, and then I took a breath, and another, and another, and then suddenly I was having a very powerful ninety minute practice.

Finally, FINALLY I realized how much of my aversion to running was all in my head. I guess there are only so many times that I can stand in front of my students and say, “The mind will give up long before the body does. Let your body show you how strong you are,” and not have it become reality off the mat. I went out on my regular route today – how I managed to plot a route that is almost completely uphill is beyond me – and did my seventy minute walk in fifty minutes. After a fifteen minute walk to warm up, I ran for thirty-five minutes, taking just a two minute break at the top of a particularly gigantic hill. Thirty-five minutes, almost completely hills. This is something I never, ever, thought I would be able to do. Of course, I am starting to think about a 5k now, or maybe splitting a half marathon between running and walking. I will continue to think about this until my back starts to say “no.”

On a related note: yoga nidra. Yoga nidra is essentially a trance state. If you want to get all eastern about it, it is a state of union with divine energy, particularly one’s dharma. If you want to be all western about it, it is guided visualization in a semi-dream state. Either way, it is deeply relaxing and energizing, and I have enjoyed it as part of teacher training.

But, today I GOT it. Before teaching, I did a short meditation, followed by a twenty minute sivasana, during which I did a methodical scan of the body, looking for holding, tension, and sensation, without expectation. I got down to my guts, which were feeling a little funny and saw the side of a mountain, and a tree that grew up in three separate trunks. (It occurs to me that many of my powerful mind/body moments have involved tree imagery.) One trunk was dead and being pulled out of the ground with a rope. Then I saw / heard / felt: I can’t be normal for you, I won’t be normal for you. I am intrigued because it is such an adolescent statement, and I do not know who the you is. But it does tell me that somewhere, some small part of me is still putting on a performance.

Then I taught. Ran. Wrote. Cracked myself up. Worked. Showered. Ate. Life went on in this body.

I can imagine the conversation afterward. I was distracted, officer. Would you be able to focus if you were behind a Dodge Anal? Or a Chrysler DP? What about a Ford Blowjob? See?

It is a silly name for a vehicle, first because of the dirty implications (an FJ Cruiser sounds like a character who is going to show up in my smut sometime), and also because it always makes me think of FootJoy sneakers, which I remember having an FJ stamped on the sides, and being a big deal in the seventies and eighties. A quick googling reveals that FootJoy is still around and now mostly makes golf shoes. A quick googling also reveals that it takes me three or four tries to type “footjoy” instead of “footjob.” You know, because the b and the y are close on the keyboard.

Nonetheless, it was a beautiful day for a drive, and a walk, and a run, and getting the laundry outside to dry. So many firsts today:

1. Running outside: I haven’t done this in almost a year and I completely forgot about hills. Ouch. I did, however, learn that I am in much better shape than I was this time last year, and it is very cool to be coming up on thirty-five and know that I am in better shape than I was last year, and the year before that, and the year before that…

2. Laundry hanging out to dry: First time this year. Hanging laundry outside is one of those small joys, made even sweeter when I walk out to the yard in the morning and can smell nutmeg from the McCormick plant.

3. Sandals: Debut of the pair bought back in January (ok, except for the time I wore them for ten minutes to take that picture in the snow).

4. New conditioner: Again, it’s the small joys. After spending an hour or two behind a girl who smelled like Pantene and farts at the TMBG show, my generic Pantene knock-off conditioner from Target was making me cross. Whole Foods’ generic body care products are a dream: cheap, vegan (as far as I can tell), no animal testing, and smell nice in a non-chemical way.

Among all of these firsts, I did finish my homework and some other pressing tasks, but it is possible that Jamie was far more productive than me while I was out enjoying the run, the sun, and the clothesline.

Then I spent the rest of the day freaking out every time I burped, terrified I had food poisoning.

So, every now and then, there is a Thing. I get this Thing into my head, and I will not rest until I find it.  Things have included the perfect backpack, accordions, a gray and black plaid skirt, and tie-dyed socks, to name a few. Lately there have been two Things. First, a blue shirt in the exact shade of blue that looks fantastic on me, you know, that shade of blue that is the exact color of nothing, anywhere in a store in shirt form. Second, days of the week underpants. I have been looking for a while, and after weeding out the options that were either absurdly expensive, or had a giant seam up the back for instant super wedgie (Why are underpants manufacturers doing this? As if thongs weren’t bad enough. Lofty though my ideals may be, I do not need my underwear taking the high road.), I was left with either a pack for $29.99 online -$36.98 with shipping- or a pack for $6.99 at Target.

The issue here is that the ones from Target are from the kids’ department. Every so often, I will buy something from the kids’ department because I can, but I worry that this is extremely creepy, especially when it comes to underpants. The thing is, I just could not see spending $36.98 for seven underpants. Relatively, that is not terribly expensive; it works out to $5.28205714 per… underpant? which is about what one would pay for the more expensive stuff at Target, or the less expensive stuff at Victoria’s Secret. Still, it seems like a lot, as if it should be less expensive because I am buying in bulk. I went back and forth about this for a few days, and then yesterday decided to buy the pack from Target. It’s just pieces of cotton and elastic, I figured, and if I am not supposed to wear them, they should stop making them in my size. Besides, it is not so much that I have gotten that small -proportionally, I still have ample booty- but that kids have gotten larger.

As it turned out, I picked up the wrong pack and had to return them today. I came to my senses, and decided that there will be no misappropriated underpants. I proudly paid for my foil and manicure sticks and left.

Then I changed my mind. Fuck it, it IS just pieces of cotton and elastic. What does it matter which section of the store it comes from? So, I went back to Target, and now I have days of the week underpants, and I am delighted because the Tuesday ones are purple.

I know that there are at least a few of you out there -hi!- wondering if I am going to post pictures of myself in my Misbehaving Tuesday underpants. How could I not?

Maybe the real reason I went back and bought these was that I didn’t want to wait another week to post a picture of myself with underpants on my head.

Other misbehavior: had cookies for lunch, painted toenails, drove around in the sunshine.

One more time:

1. There are people who show up in life and change everything. I think everyone has a few. Some people, just by virtue of being exactly who they are, get into our wiring and shift stuff around, unlock parts of our humor or outlook or soul. It is not a matter of being highly advanced or evolved or enlightened or even the nature of the relationship. How they move through our world tilts it on its axis, and we are irrevocably different once we know them. I have been fortunate to have had three of these people in my life, and I know I have been that person once or twice, maybe more times, who knows? I would love to hear other people’s stories about the folks who showed up and shifted the world.

2. I make people uncomfortable. I suck at small talk, and always have (except for that time when I was drunk for three years). I am content being alone, and if you are not interested in talking about who you are and what is meaningful to you right now, we will not have much to discuss because I do not watch TV. Soul first, fart jokes and boobies later. I have always been this way, but teaching has made me more aware of it, and much more content with it. I am finding that many other teachers -particularly the ones who teach a lot- are like this. (The sucking at small talk part, not necessarily the TV part.) Some of us are more graceful about it than others. I can only hope I will be one of the graceful ones someday.

3. Paradox: the very traits that allow me to create a safe environment for my students are the same traits that make me unsafe for many people I have known, as a friend, a lover, a spouse. Being around someone who sees through your bullshit when you don’t want them to is extremely unsettling. In the context of a yoga class, it is great, though. A teacher who intuits which postures send you into chaos and leads you back in to yourself is a joy. Sometimes I am good at this, sometimes not. But having a person look right through you when you are being clever, knowing that you are just talking to fill space and feel better about yourself feels icky, even if that person loves you. So far, it has been my experience that those people who see through you (ok, see through ME) love me and think I am fine just the way I am. That is tough to accept. What about how smart and funny I am?

As a sidebar, I am lucky to have people around me who do find me safe. I am pretty much the Volvo of friends. Safest thing going, but a little high maintenance. Nine times out of ten you will have to call me, set up the lunch and get our friendship in for regular service, but I love you for who you are and will stick with you no matter what. When I think about the friends whom I trust and who trust me, there is, with very few exceptions, a common thread: we have taken car trips together. There is something about the forced intimacy of a long drive – nothing to do but talk, and no eye contact, like a confessional, that seeds great friendships.

Ah, so the way these are all related: it is all about willingness to transform. These are all riffs on the observer effect of the soul,* simply that the act of observing something changes it. Being seen and being known is uncomfortable partly because being seen necessitates change. It cannot be any other way. Clutch too tightly around your ideas about your world and yourself and you close the door on being known. It sounds simple, but sometimes things change gently, and sometimes your life blows up. Ultimately, being known, really, really known for who you are, is dependent upon acceptance that who you are could change at any moment just by letting some one in to see. The safety of acceptance, at its core, is embracing the unsafe and volatile nature of the self.

*It sounds way better to talk about Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle here, and this is often how it is used in non-scientific circles, but it would be inaccurate, and that would make my science friends sad. No sad friends.

Enjoy: Those Awesome Chocolate Chip Cookie Scone Things, The Ones With Tahini!

Unfortunately, it is only available as a regular old unisex shirt, and those always look ridiculous on me. The sleeves hit me in a funny place, and the shirts are usually about five inches too long, which would be fine if I wore my t-shirts tucked in, but this is one of many no-nos for the busty gal. With the exception of well made oxford shirts, anything tucked in gives me the shape of an ice cream cone, which does not sound bad because ice cream cones are delicious and lickable, but in practice it is unattractive. And bodysuits? Forget about it. The early nineties were a terror to me, and I cannot forgive American Apparel for bringing back these monstrosities. The only busty gal I knew who looked good in a bodysuit had a figure that could support wearing one a couple of sizes too small, which negated the triangle effect by virtue of being extremely tight, the kind of tight that becomes obscene immediately upon leaving college. On that note, American Apparel: seriously? Bodysuits and high-waisted pants? Good lord, a gal could get a yeast infection just walking past the store.

Bodysuits, even when they looked good, were a pain in the ass, literally. Even when they did not ride up, snapping and unsnapping those things required contortion, and after a few beers, forget about it. Try being drunk in a bathroom stall the size of a veal crate with no TP, and fastening three snaps, in order, between your legs. What were we thinking?

Anyway, since I liked the design of the t-shirt so much but not the style, I decided to get fancy and alter it. I added cuffs, which I sewed by hand, and then got out the heavy artillery to hem the bottom. I have not used my sewing machine since we moved here almost three years ago. The whole project should have taken an hour or less, but since it has been so long since I used the sewing machine, I spent about an hour unpacking the thing and remembering what I was doing with it. For the most part, I am very bad at sewing, but thanks to a determined middle school home ec teacher, I can at least operate a sewing machine (sometimes) and follow a simple pattern, and I always level off cups of flour with the back of a knife.

After some false starts, including a good twenty minutes trying to remember how to wind a bobbin and wasting half a spool of thread in the process (just press that thingy over to the right, it turns out), I got it together. And I must say that I did a great freaking job. Everything is completely straight and secure, and I now have my very own custom tailored tricked out TMBG t-shirt.

My view from behind The Wall of Dude.

Every time I go to a general admission show I get stuck behind the Wall of Dude. The Wall of Dude is four to six guys, all about six feet tall, who stand shoulder to shoulder and do not move for the entire show. It does not matter where I am standing when the show starts. Somehow the Wall of Dude finds me, every time. Last night’s TMBG show at the Recher was no exception.

My view of the stage if I were a foot taller.

Fortunately, the conga line broke out relatively early in the evening. I grabbed on and got moving, but the floor was too crowded, and the conga line terminated at stage right. It was disappointing – what is wrong with people? When They Might Be Giants plays “No One Knows My Plan,” you do not just stand there, you fucking conga. That is the rule. However, once the conga line fell apart, I was fifteen feet from the stage with a much better view for the rest of the show, and I was in a pile of the conga people, so at least they were dancing. Sort of. This is what made me feel kind of out of touch.

The first time I felt my age for the night was when I didn’t get carded. For the past couple of years I have been kidding myself that the reason I do not get carded anymore is that I am with Scott and he is REALLY old, but with him or not, I have not been carded since my mid twenties, except for the brief time I had braces. I know it is ridiculous. I know I do not look nineteen years old, but I feel nineteen, and I am really immature.

Boom! Confetti!

So, old: Kids today, they just don’t know how to be ridiculous. I have seen TMBG at least six times over the past twenty years (Philly 1992, Boston 1994, Lancaster 1996, Chicago 2004, and Baltimore 2007 and 2010), and what I have always loved about their shows is the singular experience of being squished in with a thousand new friends, and jumping up and down for two solid hours because that is all you can do at their shows, just jump and be thoroughly silly. Once I was close to the stage, there were kids around me -and yes, I was separated from Scott at this point, and surrounded by people young enough that they could have been my kids, and no, I did not care one bit about being the crazy old lady having a hyperspaz- and the kids were into it, but it was not the frenzy of unbridled goofiness I remember. The occasional bursts of confetti helped, but once the confetti settled to the floor, it was just me jumping around like an idiot behind a girl who smelled like Pantene and farts and did little more than shift from left to right for an hour.

This is not to say the crowd wasn’t into it and wasn’t fun. It is still a geekier, sillier, more obsessive crowd than one finds at an average rock show, and TMBG put on a hell of a show. Highlights:

1. Opening with a song about the periodic table of the elements.
2. We were in sock puppet prison! I wish I could find decent video of the Avatars of They. It was hilarious. This one isn’t great, but it gives an idea of the silliness.
3. Don’t Let’s Start, Turn Around, Hearing Aid, Memo to Human Resources, Dr. Worm, and of course Istanbul, and Birdhouse in Your Soul.
4. Both Johns cursing on stage. If you’ve been to Their shows, you know this is a rarity. Flansburgh saying, “We are fucking psyched,” may be one of my favorite moments from any show, ever.
5. The trumpet / euphonium player was just amazing.

Purple socks, flaming shoes. I match for no one.

As if that weren’t enough, Ted’s COMPLETE DOMINANCE OF THE INTERWEBS has caused a tenfold jump in traffic on this here blog, and the day is not even over yet.

So, hi everyone! Thanks for stopping by. Now that all of these people are looking, I am having a bit of performance anxiety. Ok. Deep breath. Funny and thought provoking in 3…2…1…

Victoria’s Secret finally got around to making more than three bras in my size. As I have lamented many times, being a little woman with big boobs is not nearly as glamorous as it sounds. Comfy bra tops and dresses are out, it is difficult to find cute bras that fit, and the ones that are out there are usually extremely expensive and often uncomfortable. Victoria’s Secret caught on, at least to the extent that they now make lots of cute bras in my size, but unfortunately, they don’t have them in stores. So, last week I ordered a bunch of bras online to try on at home.

Of the four, two fit nicely, one did not, and one’s promise of “ultimate lift” ultimately made me look like I have four boobs.

The crazy thing about the tittimonster from boobulon 4 bra was that it included these:

That’s right. Implants. Only they get implanted in the bra, instead of in the boob. I am a D cup. The last thing I need is an extra set of boobs in my bra, in addition to the copious padding already in these contraptions. Apparently the “secret” of Victoria’s Secret is the secret ingredient: a full roll of toilet paper in every cup.

That aside, I am delighted to have options from another major retailer. Victoria’s Secret, for all of your puffy lipped models and thoroughly unnatural hooter hoisting, I salute you, and on behalf of all little women with big boobs, I thank you for your support.

I am sort of kidding about this, but the more I think about it, the more I think there is something to it. The doshas are one of a zillion different frameworks out there for making sense of the play between mind, body, and the rest of the world. And now I know: Vata is my dosha of misbehaving, and also the dosha of underpants.

As for my actual misbehaving today, I took a nice long time getting myself moving this morning, sleeping in with wonderful, gorgeous dreams that have no business on a reputable blog, or this one either. But, oh, there were… things. Dream things. My vata garments for the misbehaving day were purple, as were my seasonally inappropriate open-toe shoes. I shirked the mountain of work before me this afternoon in favor of painting my toenails and talking with an old friend for an hour and six minutes. (Hi, Josh!) I tried very hard to buy some festive underthings, but it just didn’t work out. I stopped at Target for sanitizing wipes, and spent some time perusing the undie bins, but alas the stash was somewhat disappointing. For one thing, many of the funkier styles are either thongs or have seams up the back, and I just cannot bring myself to wear anything engineered to give me a wedgie. Call me old fashioned, but as far as I am concerned, wearing a thong is like putting a middle school bully in my pants.

I write about underwear a lot. Well, I like it. And shoes. In fact, with fabulous things on beneath and below, I think I could very happily wear the same jeans and shirt every day (Ok, throw in a vintage sundress from time to time. With fabulous underthings and shoes. That, too. Is it summer yet?)

And so another Misbehaving Tuesday draws to a close. Vata is balanced, and it is time to dig into some of that work before I go back to those gorgeous dreams.