My new thing and weight loss

Bikram makes me hot and wet

Sweat gushing out of every square millimeter of my body.  And buckets of it.  They call it 90 minutes of torture so you can live to be 90.  I'm sold.  Bikram Yoga.  I Love it.  Clair's got a new thing.  Don't roll your eyes.  For all you 'been-there-done-thats' allow me this account for posterity.  

So it's 20 degrees in Va. on a Tuesday night -my children are on their 4th snow day and I'm feeling all independent and motivated to go do something new all by myself - praise God (that's a shout out to the righties in our midst).  I brave the elements and escape the compound that usually feels like a home.  Plus Beth recommended it and edgy and cool are my new aspirations.  

I walk in and for brief moment I fantasized I was in LA. Plus everyone there looks fierce.  Like they'd growl if you were ALLOWED TO SPEAK in the Yoga room that's heated to 107 degrees.  The website says the less you wear the better and they're not kidding.  We're all lined up in three rows between two lines of tape all OCD'ish (which I kind of like).  You aren't supposed to leave the room for the full 90 minutes even if you need to sit out for some the poses because there's a natural air conditioner that trips on inside your body after a certain amount of time.  I think you have to be soaked with sweat and reach around 3,000 internal degrees but IT DID HAPPEN FOR ME so I GET IT.  Why did I like it so?

• I get off on the mental focus required not to completely lose it.  I expect the panic feeling that kept knocking on the door of my personal space will subside over time.  I WILL HAVE ENOUGH AIR.  I WILL.  I WILL.  I WILL.
• I love to sweat.  My body doesn't do it much and with this, buckets poured out of my body.
• I like the freedom of being uninhibited.  There is no room for a big ego in that room.  Of course I wore lipstick (don't tell anybody) and wanted my hair to be all sassy and chose a cool work-out get-up for this.  But by the end I wish I had had only pasties and a thong on - only covering my essentials.  AND I DIDN'T CARE THAT MY ABS LOOK LIKE I'VE BIRTHED 3 BIG ASS BABIES.  Complete freedom.  Everyone else felt it too.  Lots of bare jiggly middles.  This is about survival, folks.  I still aspire for rock hard abs.  But for 90 minutes last Tuesday I was free from that and was just who I am NOW and it felt GOOD. 
  

Anyway, session two is today.  One thing I wasn't prepared for - and I am not even close to a prude - was the completely naked ladies in the locker room.  Of course you need to get down to nothin' to redress in dry clothes but some people brush their hair or talk on their cell phone or hold a conversation between strip and redress.   And, you - girl in the red thong - your stuff is all that, you are hot and gorgeous and you should be proud but could you bend over a little farther from my stuff?  Thanks.

My new weight loss technique...

All you dogs, keep your ass out of the pantry.

What's your new thing?

Pimpin'

What's a pimp?

Imagine my reaction when my 9-year-old daughter says to her sister:  "Oh, Jane.  You're my pimp." Jane said thank you and they hugged.  Cripes.  

I tell the children it's not a term of endearment or affection and not to go slinging it out there in public.  They are under the impression it means 'friend', 'homey', 'buddy', 'partner' - etc.  How on earth they got that idea I do not know, but I am then faced with the challenge of telling them what a pimp actually is...  

I take the high road and tell them I'll explain 'later' but  DO NOT EVER CALL ANYONE A PIMP.  They look at me weird and move on.

According to thefreedictionary a pimp is one who finds customers for prostitutes.  Or  the procurement of business for prostitutes.

I have heard expressions like... 

'pimp my ride' or 'my room's all pimped-out in cheetah prints'.  

  

Apparently pimp also means (verb) to push the limits of good taste and reason and (adjective) gaudy, tacky, flashy, too much.  In 1983 I was all pimped-out in my pink Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.  In 2010 I may as well have pimped Jack to the nearest bitch in heat.  Take a look at this...

For God's sake.  Has he no shame?  Have I no shame?  Can't a dog just take a nap around here? Here I am exploiting his privates for my own giggle.  I guess I am a pimp.

This pimp went to the gym in the aftermath of a major winter storm and rode 15 miles on the bike at level 15 and ran 4 at 6.6 pace (good for me).  I then came home to learn school's out again tomorrow.  Kathleen's pimp is happy.

Tomorrow I think I'll try Bikram Yoga where it's 107 degrees.  Thanks for idea, Beth.  You're my pimp.

Who's your pimp?

    

     

The 40-year-old Virgin - WINNER

Impossible!

According to onebadrunner sex is better if you are 40+.  Though I totally agree, shocking a party full of thirty-somethings may not have been the smoothest move.  For that envelope-pushing behavior I am sending a box of Kashi granola bars.  Xenia's grandmother deserves a nod for shocking her family with news of her vibrator use.  Go Grannie!  

Competition was stiff, however.  Shutupandrun shocked her son and husband with a question about the appearance of first pubes.  Runningandliving gives crap for presents and Kerrie is converting Christian campers to the dark side with her pole dancing.  BTW, SteveQ I AM ready for your shock stories. 

Thanks for the fun and here's what I did for fun earlier this week.

I bought a nightgown.  Call me crazy.  I saw Young Victoria with two of my dearest friends and we've all decided we are British Royalty.  With 9 kids in 11 years young Vicky got a lot of booty in that get up.  Today, I look like the 40-year-old virgin.  Only I'm 41 and I'm not.  My son thinks I'm a nerd and my girls think I look 'lovely' like Martha Washington - you know George's wife.  I think I should light up and make a martini.  How's this...

If you can guess what I'm holding (it's legal).  I'll send you some.  You'll love it.  

Drinking:  Water

Doing next:  Paying bills

And next:  Running

 

I'm not a dominatrix (Giveaway)

GIVEAWAY.  GIVEAWAY.  GIVEAWAY.  Read to the end.  GIVEAWAY.  GIVEAWAY.

But shock collars for humans?  Hmmm....

We've all seen the commercial where the mom shoves the granola bar in the kid's mouth as the child tells another lady her boobs are fake.  I think food is fuel and nothing else.  But electric shock. That's a whole other matter.  I wish I'd had one strapped on when...

I was interviewing a photographer for a marketing project I was managing.  After I reviewed his credentials and evaluated his chi I said.  "Wow, this really works out.  Kind of like mutual masturbation."  I still can't believe I said it.  I was trying to sling all sorts of sly business phrases like  "top-of-the-house perspective", and "get a temperature check from him on that", and "give me a data-dump".  I was 26.  It was a while ago.

I was nine and I told a friend of mine I couldn't come over to play because my Dad wasn't feeling well.  "But don't worry" I said, "He's not really sick, he just drank too much scotch last night."

I told my children about an uncle of mine who fell down the steps and broke his neck.  True, traumatic story.  My then 9, 7, and 4 year-old children listened with wide eyes.  What the heck?!  Geez.  I was only trying to zero in on the part where my  sister and I visited him in the hospital on Christmas with ornaments for his halo.  (All you neurosurgeons know what I'm talking about.) It got way out of hand and all three of them slept with me for two nights.  A shock would've been really good for all of us.  I might look good in red...

That's Maggie with her new necklace.  She'll be able to go out to the yard to relieve herself leash less now and I won't cuss every time she barks at the door.  

For all you social workers, no need to schedule a home visit.  We do have wholesome fun around here.  Check out Saturday morning right outside River City Gymnastics.  Jane tumbled herself silly and Kathleen studied the older girls' technique to bring to her own class.  I didn't embarrass or traumatize anyone.

  Honestly, could she be a dominatrix?

Who have you shocked?

Giveaway:  Since shock collars for humans are probably only used in criminal interrogations, I will send the best 'shock story' a box of Kashi Flax Seed and Honey flavored granola bars.  To help you keep your mouth shut.  Shock me with a 'Comment' or send via email to clairhnorman@aol.com.

Come on.  Give me love.  Send me a story.  

For God's sake...

Look at this.

She found her chi.  And she's only six.

Full lotus.  And she's happy about it.  I'm 41 and I am still trying.  With my six-year-old's help I pulled, torqued, twisted, and turned my lower half until I too became a pretzel.  I asked Jane to take my picture in case it's the only time I ever did it.  Here's what she got...

For God's sake.  My hair doesn't even look good.  I was so irritated I made her stay in Full Lotus until...

She reached victory.  Or pain.  (Just kidding.  I didn't make her do it at all.)  I was, however, so excited you'd have thought she got very early admission to Harvard.   It occurred to me though that victory and pain are symbiotic.  One rarely exists without the other.  And through it all we must be playful.  Like a 6-year-old.  She inspires me, impresses me and keeps me pressing forward.  (For the record, all 3 of my children do.)

We all have that thing that keeps us taking another step.  If we are lucky we are aware of it all the time.  Like running a marathon.  Why in the hell do we run 26.2 miles through pain and injuries for the sweet nanosecond of crossing the finish line?  Why did contort my body for the millisecond I reached Full Lotus?    

Not to SAY, I did.  But to KNOW I did.  I can and will do it again, God willing.  Run another race.  Connect with my chi.  Twist.  Again and again.  Because I CAN.  Victory awaits.  But not without a little pain.

What makes you come back to your race?   

Hall and Oates

January 12, 1997

1:51 a.m.

"She's gone", said the doctor as her family stood around her.  

Kathleen Nott Handy, 58

Me, 28 in the nightmare of the my first breath without my mother.  The average person takes 28,880 breaths in a day and in every one for 13 years I have missed her.  My story is not better or worse than anyone else's but this I know for certain.  I was incomparably lucky.  My little soul, for some cosmic reason - some unknown twist of fate - or some wonderful act from another life, got placed with Her.  Indescribable.  Undeniable.  Kindness.  Love without limits.

And I am grateful.  

But whenever I hear Hall and Oates I think of one of the 2 worst sentences I will ever hear...

She's Gone Oh I, Oh I'd

better learn how to face it
She's Gone Oh I, Oh I'd
pay the devil to replace her
She's Gone - what went wrong

And yes, I would've paid the devil to replace her - done anything to get her back.  One more breath.  One more moment.  One more hug.  One more conversation.  One more laugh.  One more look.  One more anything.  But it was not to be.  So...

I am filled in every breath with hope and love and motivation and inspiration.  In Yoga, we know that God and bliss can be found in the breath.  You may also find my mother.

  

She's not gone.  She's in every breath I take, every move I make.  

I like Sting better anyway.  And he likes Yoga.

  

 

The view from my rear...

Here's what I see...

From my bottom in dandasana or 'Staff Pose' during Yoga. It isn't pretty . Those aren't sausages, they are my toes and that's a whole other post - a congenital condition my brother shares. Anyway, I had an epiphany about my injured foot during a recent crowded Yoga class. I was practically pasted against the front mirror and this became my view.

Ew. I was wishing for a flask but instead I studied my gently throbbing right foot. The sonofagun that's been giving me a fit for a while. Besides being in DESPERATE NEED OF A PEDICURE, I could see some differences in the soles of my feet. AND THAT GAVE ME HOPE.

My good foot had biceps. Definition. Solid shape. And a zillion callouses (again, the flask) for taking a beating for my weak one. Maybe if I learn to strengthen assistor muscles and send my bad foot to the gym or the fat farm or whatever I might get rid of the pain.

So as usual, I contemplate life. We accommodate for our weak spots often at the expense of the strong ones. So we should stare at our injuries, discomforts, challenges in the face and find just the right modality to treat it. Find symmetry and balance. But don't paste yourself against a mirror during Yoga unless the burning incense is wafting something strong. Otherwise you'll end up likening your foot callouses to life.

BTW, I do believe there's deep meaning all around us...

Donations for a pedicure are gladly being received at my paypal account. Consider it charity. Those puppies are screaming for one. Thank God Winter in Virginia calls for socks.