I just stood there laughing.
Day one of family vacation and I’m wearing shorts in public for possibly the third time in as many years. Baby steps. As I’m standing at the book section in Costco, I see a 50-something woman openly staring at me. She finally says “You have the most beautiful skin!” When I just smile in response, she repeats herself. “You have the most beautiful skin. You are just so attractive!” And I said thank you, and then I started to laugh. And I just stood there laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” the poor woman asked me, clearly confused.
“I never wear shorts,” I explained as I walked to her side of the display table. As I gestured toward my legs, covered in psoriasis, you could see the understanding dawn on her face. But she wasn’t fazed. “But you’re so pretty,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that!”
And she’s right. I shouldn’t have to worry about that. I shouldn’t worry about it. And I’m going to try not to.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Namaste, Bitches
A week before I began my first job out of college, my boss emailed me to let me know that a group of co-workers took a yoga class every week, and I was welcome to join.
So I went to Ross and bought myself my first yoga mat.
When the day arrived, I donned my sweatpants, because at the time I had not a clue that such a thing as “yoga pants” even existed. I was clueless. Well, to be fair, I was fresh out of college so I was clueless about a lot more than yoga apparel, but this is neither here nor there.
I loved yoga.
It was a private group class, so I never felt embarrassed if I couldn’t master a tough pose or if I needed to take a break.
But then, I got a new job in Santa Monica. Now, Santa Monica may have more yoga than nearly any other city in California, and so you’d almost think I’d have no excuses.
But if that's what you thought, surely you don't know me well enough. My first issue was that there were so many choices. Within a block of my new office, there were about eight different yoga studios. EIGHT! But I overcame that hurdle – after doing some reading, I picked one.
And it turned me to jelly. I got through each pose by convincing myself I’d stop before the next one. I’d just roll up my mat and leave. But then I’d somehow find myself in the next pose, and the next. And eventually, mercifully, the class was over. And I felt more stressed. Sure, there were a couple ounces of “accomplishment” mixed into my stress, but I couldn’t help but think, No, no, that was not fun. Not fun at all. So I walked my jellied ass to Pinkberry to wash away the memories of the crowded, incense-scented, sweaty, clammy yoga.
And then I never went back.
Still, tonight, almost two years later, I am heading to yoga. A friend of mine is teaching her first class tonight, and it just so happens to be at my gym. So I’m going. And I don’t know why I am not excited instead of mostly nerves mixed with a bit of excitement. After all, I know a lot more about yoga than I did right out of college – not only do I now know about the proper attire, but I actually OWN $100 yoga pants from LuluLemon. (I bought them with all the money I saved by not taking yoga classes in the past two years.)
I’m nervous I won’t be able to keep up and I’ll look dumb. So, in keeping with my lesson from basketball, I need to give myself a little pep talk.
Self, you can do this. You’ve been working out. You are stronger than you used to be. And if the other yogis judge you for collapsing during cobra pose, who really cares? You're the one wearing $100 yoga pants after all!)
**Editor's note: After having now lived on the West Side of L.A. for several years, I know I am surely not the only one wearing LuLuLemons. But hey, whatever it takes to make me feel good, amiright?!
So I went to Ross and bought myself my first yoga mat.
When the day arrived, I donned my sweatpants, because at the time I had not a clue that such a thing as “yoga pants” even existed. I was clueless. Well, to be fair, I was fresh out of college so I was clueless about a lot more than yoga apparel, but this is neither here nor there.
I loved yoga.
It was a private group class, so I never felt embarrassed if I couldn’t master a tough pose or if I needed to take a break.
But then, I got a new job in Santa Monica. Now, Santa Monica may have more yoga than nearly any other city in California, and so you’d almost think I’d have no excuses.
But if that's what you thought, surely you don't know me well enough. My first issue was that there were so many choices. Within a block of my new office, there were about eight different yoga studios. EIGHT! But I overcame that hurdle – after doing some reading, I picked one.
And it turned me to jelly. I got through each pose by convincing myself I’d stop before the next one. I’d just roll up my mat and leave. But then I’d somehow find myself in the next pose, and the next. And eventually, mercifully, the class was over. And I felt more stressed. Sure, there were a couple ounces of “accomplishment” mixed into my stress, but I couldn’t help but think, No, no, that was not fun. Not fun at all. So I walked my jellied ass to Pinkberry to wash away the memories of the crowded, incense-scented, sweaty, clammy yoga.
And then I never went back.
Still, tonight, almost two years later, I am heading to yoga. A friend of mine is teaching her first class tonight, and it just so happens to be at my gym. So I’m going. And I don’t know why I am not excited instead of mostly nerves mixed with a bit of excitement. After all, I know a lot more about yoga than I did right out of college – not only do I now know about the proper attire, but I actually OWN $100 yoga pants from LuluLemon. (I bought them with all the money I saved by not taking yoga classes in the past two years.)
I’m nervous I won’t be able to keep up and I’ll look dumb. So, in keeping with my lesson from basketball, I need to give myself a little pep talk.
Self, you can do this. You’ve been working out. You are stronger than you used to be. And if the other yogis judge you for collapsing during cobra pose, who really cares? You're the one wearing $100 yoga pants after all!)
**Editor's note: After having now lived on the West Side of L.A. for several years, I know I am surely not the only one wearing LuLuLemons. But hey, whatever it takes to make me feel good, amiright?!
Growing Balls
I got knocked on my ass before anyone even made a basket.
It’s OK – the boys were being so competitive that no one even noticed I was down.
Except the girls, and they just helped me get up quickly. God bless female solidarity.
But it took being knocked on my ass to realize a couple things that would help get me through the next couple hours. I realized I’d have to toughen up in order to not be knocked on my ass (or my face) again. So I followed some rules.
My Rules for Co-Ed Basketball (also, “Basketball for Kindergartners”)
One: Hustle. This means “move fast.” Very fast.
Two: When a wall of a man comes barreling toward you on his way to the basket, get out the way! (Usually when a wall of a man comes barreling toward me, I stand my ground and smile flirtatiously. Unfortunately, I quickly learned this approach doesn’t work in co-ed basketball.)
Three: Keep your knees bent and your hands out, no matter how lame you look.
But really, you can throw the first three rules out the window in exchange for this last, important one.
Have confidence.
After about 10 minutes of the first game, I put myself on the bench. My confidence was shot, and I decided it had all been a mistake. I can’t hardly run on the treadmill without hurting myself, much less actually be a contributor to this game. What made me think I could do this without ending up in the E.R.?
And then I thought, You know what?! I put my workout clothes on, I drove all the way to the court, and goddamn it if I’m not going to do all I can to have a good time or at least get a good workout!
My legs are just as good as everyone else’s. I know how to shoot a basketball, even if I’m not Michael Jordan. Goddamn it, I can do this and I will not allow myself to care whether I look dumb trying.
So I “boxed out” and I covered my opponent so well she never touched the ball. I even got a couple passes and took a few shots. Though I didn’t actually make any baskets (details, details) I only got one airball, so I considered that a small victory.
Three hours later, I was proud of myself just for staying in the game. Thanks to my newly acquired gym membership (no excuses, remember?) I was able to keep up the whole time. Sure, sure, I got a little winded at the end, but you should have seen my defense!
And I left the court remembering what it felt like to be a kid, when I knew I could do almost anything if I put my mind to it.
So, I’m playing basketball again this week. And volleyball is up next.
Oh yeah, and I also wasn’t the only one wearing yoga pants.
It’s OK – the boys were being so competitive that no one even noticed I was down.
Except the girls, and they just helped me get up quickly. God bless female solidarity.
But it took being knocked on my ass to realize a couple things that would help get me through the next couple hours. I realized I’d have to toughen up in order to not be knocked on my ass (or my face) again. So I followed some rules.
My Rules for Co-Ed Basketball (also, “Basketball for Kindergartners”)
One: Hustle. This means “move fast.” Very fast.
Two: When a wall of a man comes barreling toward you on his way to the basket, get out the way! (Usually when a wall of a man comes barreling toward me, I stand my ground and smile flirtatiously. Unfortunately, I quickly learned this approach doesn’t work in co-ed basketball.)
Three: Keep your knees bent and your hands out, no matter how lame you look.
But really, you can throw the first three rules out the window in exchange for this last, important one.
Have confidence.
After about 10 minutes of the first game, I put myself on the bench. My confidence was shot, and I decided it had all been a mistake. I can’t hardly run on the treadmill without hurting myself, much less actually be a contributor to this game. What made me think I could do this without ending up in the E.R.?
And then I thought, You know what?! I put my workout clothes on, I drove all the way to the court, and goddamn it if I’m not going to do all I can to have a good time or at least get a good workout!
My legs are just as good as everyone else’s. I know how to shoot a basketball, even if I’m not Michael Jordan. Goddamn it, I can do this and I will not allow myself to care whether I look dumb trying.
So I “boxed out” and I covered my opponent so well she never touched the ball. I even got a couple passes and took a few shots. Though I didn’t actually make any baskets (details, details) I only got one airball, so I considered that a small victory.
Three hours later, I was proud of myself just for staying in the game. Thanks to my newly acquired gym membership (no excuses, remember?) I was able to keep up the whole time. Sure, sure, I got a little winded at the end, but you should have seen my defense!
And I left the court remembering what it felt like to be a kid, when I knew I could do almost anything if I put my mind to it.
So, I’m playing basketball again this week. And volleyball is up next.
Oh yeah, and I also wasn’t the only one wearing yoga pants.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Basketball Shorts
I’m playing basketball tonight.
But I’m not wearing shorts.
I’m very anxious, although anxiety is not really a new thing for me. But this is different. The closest I’ve been to playing basketball in about 10 years is shooting hoops with the five-year-olds I work with in Compton. And those kids might be better than me. They've really got some, er, ... "hops."
And now, here I am, voluntarily participating in an activity at which I am no good. I am going to pull on some tennis shoes (nope, not basketball shoes. Do people really just own those?), tie my hair back in a ponytail and hope to God that I don’t injure myself or someone else. But really, who knows if I’m all that bad? And why am I judging myself so harshly before I’ve even changed out of my work clothes?
After making a multitude of excuses, tonight I’m playing basketball.
My List of Excuses
I was out of shape. Well, now I work out regularly so I shouldn’t be huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.
I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing shorts in front of everyone. Shorts reveal my psoriasis, and then I get to deal with the ensuing pity party. “Oooh, you poor thing! Doesn’t that hurt?” Yes, thank you, it does. And you asking me that doesn’t make it feel better, asshole. And then I realized, yeah, sure, my legs look like I was attacked by a porcupine, but you know what? They work. They bend and brace and jump just fine.
I don't know the right terms for basketball. Or really much else about actually playing the sport. But since when do I have to be an expert to participate in what's supposed to be a fun activity?
Anyway, who cares if I wear yoga pants to play basketball? They are way more flattering anyway.
Someday, I’ll wear basketball shorts to play basketball. I know, novel concept.
But tonight, I’m playing basketball, and I’m not wearing shorts.
But I’m not wearing shorts.
I’m very anxious, although anxiety is not really a new thing for me. But this is different. The closest I’ve been to playing basketball in about 10 years is shooting hoops with the five-year-olds I work with in Compton. And those kids might be better than me. They've really got some, er, ... "hops."
And now, here I am, voluntarily participating in an activity at which I am no good. I am going to pull on some tennis shoes (nope, not basketball shoes. Do people really just own those?), tie my hair back in a ponytail and hope to God that I don’t injure myself or someone else. But really, who knows if I’m all that bad? And why am I judging myself so harshly before I’ve even changed out of my work clothes?
After making a multitude of excuses, tonight I’m playing basketball.
My List of Excuses
I was out of shape. Well, now I work out regularly so I shouldn’t be huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.
I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing shorts in front of everyone. Shorts reveal my psoriasis, and then I get to deal with the ensuing pity party. “Oooh, you poor thing! Doesn’t that hurt?” Yes, thank you, it does. And you asking me that doesn’t make it feel better, asshole. And then I realized, yeah, sure, my legs look like I was attacked by a porcupine, but you know what? They work. They bend and brace and jump just fine.
I don't know the right terms for basketball. Or really much else about actually playing the sport. But since when do I have to be an expert to participate in what's supposed to be a fun activity?
Anyway, who cares if I wear yoga pants to play basketball? They are way more flattering anyway.
Someday, I’ll wear basketball shorts to play basketball. I know, novel concept.
But tonight, I’m playing basketball, and I’m not wearing shorts.
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