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When life resembles a cartoon…

24 Dec

Last weekend the weather was gorgeous, so I set out on a walk to get a bit of exercise. About two blocks south of my house, I slipped on something and almost fell. It happened so suddenly, I grabbed at a wrought iron fence to keep my footing, which explains how I didn’t end up completely biting it, but instead walked away with a significant bruise on my forearm.

Being across the street from the dog park, I mentally cringed as I turned to see what I had stepped in, imaging a pile of dog crap with a a footprint impressed in the middle of it. Instead, I found a smeared banana.

Yes, a banana. The fruit part. Not the peel. As if someone had peeled a banana and the banana fell out onto the sidewalk, and they just shrugged and kept walking. (Or, perhaps it was deliberate, and they were hiding in a nearby bush with a FlipCam.)

I stood there for a full minute with my mouth agape. I thought this only happened in the cartoons. Specifically, to Wile E. Coyote. Not to a human, and definitely anywhere but (potentially) in the produce aisle of a supermarket. Not on an urban street in the middle of December.

Having had a week to reflect on it, I’ve decided that – like how it’s good luck when a bird poops on you – slipping on a banana is a good omen for the year ahead. Because otherwise? I’m going to waste a lot of time looking out for the RoadRunner.

Next time, I'll be prepared.

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Wart: that’s such an ugly word.

21 Dec

Wart = Bad. Warthog = Better. Proof that bacon makes everything better.

Monday, for the first time in a long time, I headed to the pool to swim some laps. I’m pretty sure I pulled or tore a muscle in my shoulder at yoga last Thursday, so I was viewing the pool as “physical therapy” without a co-pay.

Unfortunately, I’m slightly out of practice, so when I got there I realized I hadn’t brought flipflops. Might seem like a minor detail, but when you’re swimming at an old public inner-city pool (that smells more like urine than chlorine), flipflops are actually clutch.

I sat down on the lockerroom bench and emptied my bag out, hoping that somehow, a microscopic/expandable flipflop was hidden in there. Even if there was just one – I was willing to hop. No dice. So I had to make a decision: walk the bare floor anyway, for the sake of a workout (aka physical therapy), or throw in the towel and return home?

Actually, lava would be preferable.

I decided to go for it. And as soon as I put my foot on the nasty tile floor, I swear I could feel plantar wart spores attaching themselves to the ball of my foot, much like how parasitic worms burrow through skin in Third World countries. Ack! 

When you think microbes are leeching onto you, you can’t help but look odd. And I did.

I came bursting out of the locker room like my ass was on fire and canonballed into the water faster than a fourth grader, but the real oddity came after showering, when I stood on the bench (as opposed to the floor) to dry off and get dressed. Which might not seem that weird until you realize that I was essentially putting my naked lady-parts directly at eye-level with everyone else in the locker room.

Even more awkward? In an attempt to explain why I was playing “The Floor Is Lava,” to a fellow swimmer, I pointed down and said, “I don’t want to get warts.” Only to realize that it might not have been clear that I was pointing at my feet.

I think I’ll stick with yoga.

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Just another hot Saturday night, out on the town.

7 Dec

His & Hers: Saturday Night Fashion

Apparently, I am officially Old As Shit. I hadn’t realized this until Alan and I – desperate to watch the MSU/Wisconsin championship game this Saturday – ventured to the bar next to my condo.

Quick back-story: I don’t own a television. It’s usually not a big deal, but when there’s a live sporting event (that determines if your team will go to the Rose Bowl), the system kind of breaks down. To his credit, Alan tried to be cool about missing the game (It’s OK, I’ll watch the DVR of it when I get home in the morning), but he’d had a pretty stressful Saturday, so I thought an attempt was at least in order.

“Let’s go see if Local 16 has it on. If so, we’ll order a drink and sit at the bar to watch it.” Alan seemed enthusiastic, so we both pulled on hoodies and headed out. Mind you, only minutes before we’d been sitting around in pajamas (by which I mean men’s t-shirts and boxer shorts) watching something on Netflix, so our idea of dressing up for a Saturday night out meant adding shoes and hoodies. Klassy, with a K.

So we rolled into Local 16, and after a few minutes, we gathered that no one sitting at the bar actually cared what football game was broadcast, so we took control of the remote and changed the channel. We Are Sparta!

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A Tip for the Yogis

27 Nov
Little Kitteh says “Namewste.”

For the yoga teachers who read my blog, let me offer you a tip: Keep the chanting simple.

We usually open and close class with a single group “OM.” I’ll admit, the first time I attended a yoga class, it freaked me out. For a minute I thought I’d accidentally joined a cult and they were going to shave my hair off while my eyes were closed.

But then I started to dig it. There’s something pretty powerful about people united in purpose, joining their voices together. It’s a good reminder of the interconnectedness of all life.

So now I’m cool with an OM, or even three OMs if we have an enthusiastic instructor, though sometimes I can’t stop my mind from focusing on the one clearly tone deaf person who seems to be willfully trying to create discord. (<–BTW, just me or does it seem like that word should be spelled “dischord?”)

However, one thing I am decidedly NOT cool with are the instructors who try to get all creative and work in full chants. I’ll use what is perhaps the simplest of chants to explain why chants – in general – are a bad idea.

Let’s take, “Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.” It’s an invocation of peace, which is nice in theory. And the words are simple and easy to remember. The thing that makes it a mess is that the first two “shantis” go down tonally (like “Mary” in “Mary Had a Little Lamb) but the third “shanti” goes up.

While that seems pretty simple, inevitably there will be a new person in class who doesn’t know that. They try to play along and go with the crowd. They are timid on the first “Shanti” but then more confident on the second one since it’s a repetition of the first. But then, just when they’ve worked themselves up to full participation and go to belt out that third “Shanti,” the rest of the class throws a curve ball.

Now do you understand why it's called Porky Piggin?

It’s like we all told the person it was “No Pants Friday” but then when he shows up Porky Piggin, the rest of us are fully clothed.

This exact thing happened today, and the poor dude who got orphaned on the third “Shanti” scrambled to try to get his pitch to match the rest of the class. The result was that he sounded like Peter Brady when his voice was changing. And it struck me as ridiculously funny. So I started laughing. To the point where I had tears coming out my eyes.

When we opened our eyes and bowed to say “Namaste” (meaning “the light in me bows to the light in you”), I remained face-down on my mat, shaking with laughter. Someone else from class is probably home right now, writing her own blog entry about the crazy girl that was so moved by her practice, she wept.

I guess it depends how you define “moved.”

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From the Archives: Swimming Stream of Consciousness

11 Nov

Today, as the final day of my stay-cation, I was thinking about swimming for a little exercise, but I didn’t really feel like exercising. And since I’m participating in NaNoWriMo, I have a whole new appreciation for effective procrastination. So I combined the two (wanting to swim but not actually exercise + procrastination) and found myseld perusing the PP archives, having decided that READING about swimming would effectively take care of all desires at once.

Which is how I stumbled upon an old post that both provides frightening insight into how my brain works, and also cured me of any urge to walk to the pool today. Since it’s Friday, I figure you’re all looking to piss away a bit more time than usual during your lunch break, so here’s a repost from September 2010.

This locker room is what I would expect to find in a prison.

Except with more people in it.

And probably lice.

Soap on a rope!

Wow. That is one naked woman.

Why is she sitting on a chair in the shower?

Note to self: don’t ever sit naked on a chair in a public shower. Gross.

I’m glad the lifeguard didn’t ask for my ID today.

I must look urban.

I wonder if they would’ve stopped Alan.

Wow. The water is WARM.

I bet I’ll overheat.

Sweating in the water is weird.

But it happens.

Why does that sign say “Water Running?”

I don’t SEE any water running.

<Four laps later>

Ah ha! They mean “water running” as in “people running” in the water.

Not the water running.

That’s embarrassing. I’ve been here a half dozen times looking for running water.

That explains why the fat woman always hangs out in this lane and doesn’t swim.

Although actually, she’s not running. She’s water-standing.

I wonder if I’ll get kicked out of this lane?

I am hot.

I wonder if the water tastes saltier because I am sweating?

Is my key still stuck to my head?

<Patting back of head while breast-stroking>

It is! Good!

What would I do if it wasn’t there?

How ironic would that be?

If by trying to protect my stuff, I end up losing the  key.

Which would be worse: having someone steal my stuff because I left the key to my lock on the deck, or not being able to get to my stuff because I tied the key to my goggles and it fell off and disappeared into the pool drain?

Not sure.

Those girls have on the exact same suit.

I wonder if they’re on a team together?

If they are, then it’s not a good team because I’m faster than them.

I wonder if the lifeguard would actually notice if someone drowned?

Are they allowed to talk on their cell phones on duty?

I bet they are breaking the rules.

<Scanning bottom of pool to make sure no swimmers need to be rescued.>

How weird that I can’t wait to get out of the water to cool down.

I bet that’s why that woman was sitting on a chair in the shower: heat stroke.

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