Cirque De Sol Klutz

Last Friday my husband and I went on a very Metropolitan-style date. We went to a couple's Yoga class and then to a Sushi Restaurant with another very "Metro" type couple.
Couple's Yoga was one of the only times we have ever tried Yoga. It is not as though we don't exercise, we are very physically active. We run; we love the speed and competition of out- running each other, although my husband always out-runs me, he is almost a full foot taller than me, which means his legs are at least two feet longer than any part of my body. We lift-weights; we like to boast to each other about how many reps or how much weight we added to that particular workout, my husband also out-lifts me. But we don't do Yoga or any other shape-shifting exercise. Up until a couple of years ago, if I heard the phrase"Downward-facing dog" or "Sun Pose", I would have looked around for an actual dog staring down at something and then perhaps looked out a window to see if the sun was doing something unusual.
To us, Yoga and Pilate's were in the same grouping as Vegetarian and Vegan or any other concept, we thought needed subtitles of explanation.
We have since been enlightened.
Which brings us to my first couple's Yoga date night.
The room we were to exercise in was warm and inviting. In fact, several times I leaned over to my other half and whispered, "How much do you think it will cost to turn our bedroom into a Yoga room?"
He replied, "Too much."
The instructor was a small woman who could bend herself in half. Repeatedly, usually after I asked for a guesstimate of how much my husband really thought the bedroom makeover would cost, and which child we could sell to cover expenses, I would whisper, " I wish I could bend in half" and Brian would respond sheepishly, "I wish you could, too."
By the way, I feel like I should explain that I would never actually sell either one of my children. I am always, always kidding, unless I have had a stressful week and the children have systematically frayed, squashed and pulled apart my every last nerve, in which a relaxing, Yoga room makeover could relieve this stress...but back to the date.
Yoga was being taught by Gumby and she had a Gumby partner. The pair were exactly alike, the same flexibility, the same height, the same hair color, the same body type and were the same gender. Women.
The two were masters of Shape-shifting. With any pose, they were able to replicate it. I was awed and inspired.
But no matter how beautiful the exercised looked done by the Gumbies, mine and my husband's translation was terrible.
The class was instructed to stand back to back and lace fingers together with their mate and do a certain stretch resembling the beginning of a cart wheel. Legs spread out, arms extended full to the sides, fingers entwined.
Brian's arms were thrown out to his sides. As were mine.
Our backs were lined up the best we could manage, never cheek-to-cheek, more like cheek-to-mid-back.
I couldn't reach his fingers, so I grabbed his forearms. As we stretched to one side, Brian yelped. I had unwittingly scalped his arms while intensely trying to force my body into position. I adjusted and grasped his elbows instead. It was a lot less painful for him, but unfortunately a lot less beautiful and stream lined.
Pose after pose, we stumbled over each other. He would yelp, I would yelp.
There was a pose where each of us outstretched our hands in front, facing each other. We were instructed to hold hands and bend deep, to use the pull of each other's weight to equalize our balance and rest merely inches from the floor mat.
Did I mention Brian out weighs me by almost 60 lbs?
Brian was in a compromising position, trying to use my weight to balance himself out, holding my hands, when he fell backwards, I, of course fell forwards. Thank goodness we were using the ultra thin Yoga mats, and I have a slight over-bite! We can't afford a Rhinoplasty...
We tried and we tried. Pose after pose.
After a while, we began giggling, at first out of embarrassment of our inability, and then because Gumby and Gumby continued demonstrating gravity defying acts and expected us to follow suite.
Towards the end of the hour and a half session the two instructors showed the class of far better Yoga-istas (I know this isn't a word, I don't know what else to call professional Yoga attendees) performed the most amazing act.
The assistant G (assistant Gumby) leaned over and did the "down-ward facing dog" pose, which is essentially placing your hands out on the mat, slightly wider than the width of your hips, and then having your legs mirror it behind you. I can almost do this without bending my knees, which is the goal, by the way.
Then the Head G, did a type of a hand stand and landed her legs on top of the back of her partner.
I was stunned.
Brian was frightened.
The class began trying it. Many of them succeeded, seamlessly.
How hard could it be?
Brian did the "down-ward dog" first.
Luckily for me, he can't straighten his knees, so when I did my clumsy hand stand, I didn't have as far to fall back.
Brian grunted as my legs went flying back and struck him in the kidneys, I was proud we kind-of resembled what the instructors and the rest of the class were doing.
Next it was my turn to "down-ward dog".
To tell the truth, I was afraid.
Brian is stronger than me, so he could probably hold a hand stand longer then I can. I was concern with which the velocity and impact of his fall would make on my back.
I was right. It hurt like Hell.
My sweet husband is perfect in almost every way. Emotionally, and Physically.
But he has one flaw. His toes are like long spindly fingers and when his toenails aren't clipped, they become talons.
Picture the impact of free-falling claws weighing 180+ lbs puncturing your back as you are suspended above a thin blue mat, outstretched on all fours with no way of protecting yourself.
Ouch!
Like I said. It hurt like Hell!
The next trapeze act involved doing a hand stand over your partner's hunched back, landing on their back, your legs on either side of their head and then pulling yourself to a sitting position still on your partner,s back and then landing standing up in front of your partner.
You have read correctly. It was how I described.
Brian was game.
My body shivered with fear.
We tried it, me half-heartily. I was still wounded from the old-toenail-puncture-to-my-back pose. I could more then imagine holding Brian up on my back while his legs are giving me a half-nelson.
We gave it a try, grunting and falling and whining and falling.
We didn't ever succeed in this pose. And I have to say, I am fine with that.
Astonishing, Sushi wasn't the new thing we tried that night. The exercise was.
Over all, I enjoyed trying something new. And we will try another Yoga class in the near future, but perhaps, not a couple's one.
For now, I like the non-contact sport of running and weights.

Embarrassing Moment # 5,000,000 and counting

I can't believe I can still have embarrassing moments. I tell you, I have experienced every excruciating moment in all happenstance. I thought, for one very naive second, how many more could I possibly have? You name the moment; I have experienced it, and probably did it naked with astonished witnesses. I wish I could have these experiences by myself. I wish I had the luxury of taking a deep breath and whispering, "Whew, at least no one saw me..." This never happens. There is always, always, always an audience. It's a wonder I go out in public anymore.
What I have found is that if I tell the moment to people who weren't there, I can tell my side. Show how I am the victim put my spin on it. And the truth is, this particular experience isn't as bad as the one I alluded to above about the nakedness and the astonished on-lookers. I just feel incredibly stupid.
So that is why I have my ranting blog. So I can express myself and then hopefully move on-with my luck, into something a lot more devastating.
With this big build up I will disclose and move on...hopefully, very hopefully.
For the last several weeks, I haven't felt well. I can't pin point the reason exactly, although I really believe a Hawaiian Vacation during a Utah winter could do wonders.
Last week I went to a new M.D. She asked me a bunch of questions and then the next day I had to go back and get many vials of blood drawn. I hate Doctors. I hate having my blood drawn.
The day after the great siphoning my Doc called me and said, "I don't know what's wrong but, you are extremely anemic and I want to know if you are hemorrhaging during your periods."
This is a puzzle considering I had a full hysterectomy about 11 years ago. Can your female plumbing grow back?
I responded with, "No. I had a hysterectomy, they can't grow back can they?" thinking I was being funny. The Doctor didn't think I was at all funny, "No they don't grow back."
She then asked me to come in and pick up a "Stool-Sample-Card to check for bleeding."
My first knee-jerk reaction was, "Gross!"
My second reaction was, “its cancer, I know it."
The third reaction was "I'm OK, I don't need a Stool-Sample-Card, I'll just walk it off."
After almost a week, my husband convinced me to go in and pick up the card.
I walked into the waiting room where a bunch, I mean a bunch of people were waiting.
Every waiting room chair was filled with a waiting person and it was dead silent.
I waited too, behind a woman who had an appointment.
I finally stepped up in line and told the receptionist, wearing scrubs so I wasn't sure who she was really. A receptionist wearing scrubs, a nurse manning the receptionist desk, perhaps a Doctor? I wasn't sure.
I told her what I wanted, except I couldn't remember what it was called and asked for the piece of paper I was suppose to poop in.
She wrinkled her forehead and asked me, "What?"
I leaned in, “I need that thing to test my poop for blood. That paper thingy..."
She figured out what I needed, so did, unfortunately, the silent waiting room. I wish I had remembered the simple three word explanation of "Stool-Sample-Card". Why didn't I remember that? How hard is it to remember that? I chalk it up to stage fright.
The receptionist/nurse/maybe a Doctor, lead me to a small room in the back.
She took out an envelope and showed me the sample card. She showed me the instructions on the back. She told me, that all though the card states that it could be mailed, the Doctors would really much rather I bring it in.
I understood the request. Who wants a Bio hazard flying through the mail?
The woman then began pulling out surgical gloves, four actually "Here, you'll need these, and here's a hat..."
I looked at the "hat" she pulled down from one of the shelves. It was plastic, too.
"Why do I need to wear a hat?" I asked.
She looked at me weird, and turned it brim-side up, "It's not really a hat. You put it between the toilet seat lids to catch the sample in it."
Groan! Double Groan!
I am such a moron!
I know this woman laughed at me all day. I know she told people about the freak-show who came in and asked for a paper to poop in and then asked why they needed to wear a hat while taking a dump!
I feel so stupid. Look at me! Look at my beautiful dinner gloves and hat! Won't I be the envy of all in the bathroom stall?
Groan...

Facebook Angst

Being newly inducted to the web-stream lifestyle, I recently signed up for facebook. My friend has been detailing me to the delights of the Facebook phenomena. So with the help of my personal computer aid, aka my husband, I was set up with an account.
It was breath taking, to say the very least. First I had to find a picture. To my chagrin, I hate all of my pictures, that is why I always take the pictures and am rarely in the picture. I read some where that to get the perfect smile, and facial expression every time, one should say the word, "sex" instead of "cheese". When you say the word "sex", endorphins are said to release instantaneously and you will have the perfect picture every time. I admit I have tried it. I have noticed a difference in the resulted photo, but, when I am getting my picture taken, I am usually not alone. For the most part I have my 11 year old daughter or my 7 year old son either sitting on my lap or within ear shot. So me whispering, "sex" within ear shot of my kids seems very unsavory and down right creepy, especially when my 11 year old knows what sex is. My face in the photo may turn out fine but the horrified look across my daughter's face, kind of ruins the family photo anyway.
My husband and I settled on a picture. We had to crop it. He wasn't willing to photo shop me about 10 pounds leaner, but it was an acceptable picture. Unfortunately, we couldn't crop out my son entirely, so you see this little part of his eye leaning on my shoulder. I felt like a butcher, cropping out my son, leaving only a little bit of his bright brown eye.
Next in my induction to the computer age, I had to search for people. Who else is on facebook?
We came up with several names, and I was elated. I had a surge of utopia with the possibilities of who I could find. I felt very much like a detective, a snoop, maybe a bit of a reporter. I loved it.
As fast as the elation was upon me, I was informed that I could find as many people as I would like, but the people I find have to agree to be my "friend". I couldn't just find them, I had to ask permission to be their "friend".
Horrified I began to ask. Person after person.
I began having flash backs to elementary school, passing notes, pleading with kids to check a box, "am I your friend or not? Check yes or check no".
What if I was denied? What if on Facebook, the ultimate lined-paper note, I was denied?
I remember lining up during P.E. in Junior High School and waiting to be picked for teams. It usually pertained to Dodge ball (a truly barbaric, ritualistic hunting game) in which at the beginning, no one worried. It wasn't until the number of people chosen out numbered the people waiting to be chosen that the pit of my stomach began heaving. Sweat began beading and the chaos of the situation seemed like a distant echo, compared to the pounding of my heartbeat. I would be chosen, but only out of default.
Sitting at my computer last night, I sat and waited. Will I be chosen? Can I be able to with stand the public humiliation of being denied someones "friend".
I didn't sleep last night. Visions of being picked last, or not picked at all loomed through my dreams.
This morning, after I got my kids off to school, I immediately logged on to my facebook page, finding no results, yet.
I hate the neediness I have developed waiting. I hate that it suddenly means so much to be accepted, still, and I am a married woman of two, in my thirties.
So this is my angst. To be wanted enough for someone to check the "yes" box.
Maybe in my forties, I will have out grown it.