The other night my friend Betsy and I met up for dinner at a mussels bar in Cleveland Park. There’s another location, closer to our homes, but we’d deliberately chosen this one so we could get some exercise walking the 5 miles roundtrip.
As we walked home, just south of the National Zoo, we had to wait for a light to change at a crosswalk. We were standing there, chatting, when – all of a sudden – a loud robot voice said, “You may now cross the street. You may now cross the street.” Or something to that effect.
It was unexpected and creepy – and loud enough that it made us both jump. “What the hell is that?” I asked, as we both looked around, slowly realizing that we weren’t actually being assaulted by a bossy robot.
“I almost dropped my purse,” Betsy commented.
And that got us to speculating how funny it would’ve been if we’d both thrown our purses on the ground and run away screaming, as if we’d been mugged. I pictured her explaining it to her husband.
“What happened, where’s your purse?” I imagined him asking.
“I don’t want to alarm you,” she’d respond, “but I was mugged tonight. By a crossing signal.”
It’s been a while since I posted about yoga, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t gone. I’ve just behaved myself. And haven’t had any instructors who could double as 1970s porn stars to write about. Yes, we’re all grateful.
And yet… here we are.
Yoga Girl in class, being graceful.
The other week, I attended a fairly crowded class. As we moved through poses, we had to be careful to not accidentally touch our neighbors. In fact, when we all kicked up into Warrior Three (which looks like this) the girl in front of me would’ve knocked my teeth out, had I not approached the pose from a defensive fighting stance, hands blocking my face.
If you aren’t familiar with the practice of yoga, when done properly, it’s both a mental and physical practice. The idea is to let go of your thoughts and be “present,” channeling “loving kindness” to all other forms of life. So instead of shooting daggers at the girl for almost donkey-kicking my face, I was supposed to be sending nice thoughts her way. Let’s just agree that I probably need more practice.
In any case, I accidentally got my revenge. At the end of the class, everyone sprawled out on their mats for savasana, also known as “corpse pose.” You lie there, eyes closed, arms and legs flopped out, experiencing some of the most intense relaxation known to occur without an anesthesiologist. (Too bad Michael Jackson didn’t try yoga first. He’d still be alive.)
If she’d opened her eyes…
As we settled on to our mats and closed our eyes, the instructor gave few last-minute instructions. “Roll your head from side to side, until it naturally settles in a place of balance,” he began. Then, “Windshield-wiper your feet, allowing them to come to rest in a place of ease.”
I windshield-wipered my feet aggressively, quickly flicking them left to right, only realizing as I did so that my feet were touching the head of the girl on the mat “down-river” from my own. I definitely got a couple good back-and-forths in before it registered what I was doing. Which was: basically giving her a scalp massage with my feet.
Donkey Kong: You are welcome. Now that was Loving Kindness.
Last year I remember seeing a study that claimed “tired driving” is as dangerous as “drunk driving.” While I certainly didn’t set out to provide another data point for their research, yesterday I helped prove that exhaustion does lead to impaired judgment.
Monday night I went to bed at 11pm, had insomnia and woke up at 2:30am. And never fell back asleep.
Right? You did that math, didn’t you? 3.5 hours of sleep.
Unlike (seemingly) most of the adult population, I do not have children, am not retired and am not in college, so I’m not sure what to do with a night that nets fewer than six hours of sleep.
If you must know, I ended up accepting defeat, grabbing my laptop and plowing through a pile of work from 4-8am. (I’m sure a lot of DC government workers would’ve made the exact same decision. Right.)
But it’s kind of creepy when you realize you’ve already put in almost half of a traditional work day and few of your North American colleagues are even online yet. It’s like arriving at the zoo before they’ve released the animals from their cages. Or even built the cages.
So I was in the kitchen, serving up my second lunch when Alan started striking out blindly, trying to find the snooze button in the bedroom. I felt mildly European, as if I were in a time zone five hours ahead. Unfortunately, Alan didn’t think I sounded even a petit peu French when I tried to greet him with an accent. He was mainly confused. Sigh.
It’s difficult being a morning person. No one gets me.
Anyway, as the day progressed, the “edge” I’d felt by starting my über-early quickly faded. By 11am, I was ready for a nap. (Unfortunately, I was booked solid and am running up against aggressive deadlines, so that urge couldn’t be indulged. Also? I think companies generally frown on mid-day napping.)
At 3pm, I fetched ice for my caffeinated soda from the stacked dryer unit in my kitchen. I was literally standing there with my hand patting around in the empty dryer, thinking, “What did I come here for?” when I remembered: ice cubes. And had to do a 180-degree turn to locate the freezer.
Then later, on my next caffeine push, I caught myself just before I almost poured Egg Beaters in my tea instead of Half & Half. In my defense – the cartons are the same size and similar colors.
So back to that study… while I didn’t get behind the wheel, from my in-home testing, I think it’s safe to confirm that exhaustion leads to poor judgment and impaired function. I mean, you tell me – have you ever gone to a party and looked for ice in a dryer?
Separately, it makes me think we’ve been a bit quick to judge Diane Sawyer, whose face is one of the most common search results when you search Google for “drunk or tired” images. I don’t know… what do you think? Is she drunk, or simply tired:
I know. It’s Turkey Eve and I should be writing some profound post about everything I’m grateful for for which I’m grateful. (Note to self: add “good grammar” to that list!)
Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to rain on the season – I’m practically rolling in gratitude over here. In fact, my friend Margaret and I have been wrapping up each day by texting each other three things that make the gratitude list. Sometimes it’s quite serious, like “the health of my family” and other times it’s more of a stretch, like when I gave thanks for working from home so I could see what it looks like when a toilet flushes through my vent fan.
Before you get high and mighty, I’d like to remind you: this is NOT the season of judgment. It’s all still sincere gratitude, even if some of it’s perhaps a bit back-handed.
Note to self: Trademark “back-handed gratitude” and start a blog with ironic thank you notes.
Anyway, I’m not writing about Thanksgiving because I have something more timely to tell you about: My Dentist Appointment.
Ah yes, the dentist. If you’ve read pithypants for any amount of time, you know I have a bit of a flossing issue, and it’s forced me to become something of a liar when I visit the dentist. (Not ringing any bells? Check out this post. Or this one. Or even this one. Maybe the better term is “chronic liar.”)
This time, however, I thought I had my story down PAT. I’m taking nine pills a day to reduce inflammation from my immune system attacking my intestines. Can’t we suppose my gums might be a bit puffy as a result? Regardless of my flossing regimen? I mean, my mouth is kind of part of my digestive tract, is it not?
So I walked in, all cocky, ready to roll my eyes when the flossing lecture commenced.
I should have known. Dentists are like brilliant criminals. They’re unpredictable.
This time, instead of chastising me for flossing, my hygienist took another approach. “I just got back from some continuing education classes,” she began. “Do you know what works?”
I grunted since her hands were in my mouth. I intended my grunt to express, “What are you talking about? WHAT works? For WHAT?” But apparently she interpreted it as, “No! Do tell!” because she continued without letting me speak.
“Medical tape,” she explained. “The kind you can pick up in the pharmacy, from the bandage aisle? I don’t have sleep apnea or anything, but it gets the job done.”
My head was reeling. What the hell was she talking about? Then it clicked: Breath-right strips! She had just discovered how to open her nostrils at night. But she was using some DIY kit to achieve the same goal.
But before I could settled into this theory, she threw me for a loop. “Yep. Just put a piece of tape over your mouth before you go to sleep. Just regular medical tape. Like what you’d use to set a finger. Put it across your mouth from top to bottom to hold it shut.”
Holiday gift for my hygienist?
I’m pretty sure my eyebrows frowned in a WHAT YOU TALKIN’ ‘BOUT, WILLIS kind of way. But because she wasn’t really listening, she continued. “You can place another piece across it, to form an X if you’re worried it won’t be strong enough. It really works.”
I must’ve been scowling fiercely enough that she finally understood me, because she elaborated, “For the mouth breathing? Right?”
WAIT. You couldn’t remember that I prefer cinnamon toothpaste to mint, but you immediately think of me as a mouth-breather upon sight?
Also? You didn’t think the appropriate solution was to try to get me to breathe better through my nose? You went straight to pinning my mouth shut? What if I have a deviated septum or something? What if I CAN’T breathe through my nose? Are you trying to kill me, lady???
About that time, I started to look around nervously, eyeing the sharp dental tools. Was it really safe for this lady to essentially be armed with ice picks? What kind of screening process did they use around here? Did they know she tapes her mouth shut and looks like Frankenstein when she’s not in the office?
Or maybe that’s part of the master plan. Perhaps after they’ve busted a person in three lies, they decide it’s time for emotional waterboarding?
In any case, it beats flossing. So… I guess I’m good for another six months.
As we walked home, just south of the National Zoo, we had to wait for a light to change at a crosswalk. We were standing there, chatting, when – all of a sudden – a loud robot voice said, “You may now cross the street. You may now cross the street.” Or something to that effect.
pithypants 