Gearing up to the month-long yoga project, I went to class once this week.  Awesome, right?  That’s what I call preparation!  It was particularly crowded at Yoga to the People on Wednesday evening, so much so that they opened up the rarely used 4th floor, which was subsequently packed with ten (10!) people per row.  Normally this type of crowd doesn’t bother me at all.  Though meditation has never been my strong suit, I can usually zone out enough to ignore the sweaty dude(tte) doing sun salutes four to six inches away from me.  Sadly, this was not one of those days so it is my pleasure to introduce a new feature!  That’s right, there are gonna be FEATURES on this blog.  And now, without further ado, I bring you Nincompoop Corner!

 

My spot of choice at this particular free yoga studio is by a wall where I can put my glasses near me without them getting stepped on.  Those, however, are plumb spaces so whenever I see one I jump on it without much notice of who might be next to me.  NYU must have just gotten back from winter break because the place was full of stupidly young-looking kids, like the pimple-faced little scamp next to me.  He was not in track shorts or yoga pants and a tee-shirt like the other guys in the room, but was wearing a baggy pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.  I’ve seen people wear jeans in class before so his attire in and of itself wasn’t THAT weird.  (Actually, the flannel shirt was pretty bizarre.  What kind of kid doesn’t wear a tee-shirt under a flannel?)  It got super strange when, two minutes before beginning child’s pose, he TOOK HIS PANTS OFF and proceeded through the entire class in his TINY BOXER BRIEFS.  This was entirely too shocking for me to hide my reaction, and his response to my double take was something like “huhhh huhhhhh, my shorts are real short, right?”  Yes, child.  Too short and too UNDERPANTS.  The flannel shirt, however, stayed on; his typical college-boy “I’m too lazy to shower” musk that was already pretty strong before we got started got WAY worse as the class wore on.

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For as long as I can remember, my favorite food in the whole wide world has been boxed macaroni and cheese.  Old family friends get a kick out of reminding me of times when, as a child, my parents would take me to dinner parties only to sit down and take out a Tupperware full of Kraft because it was one of the only things I ate.  My fear of new foods lasted for an embarrassingly long time; I refused to eat pizza until I was 9 and didn’t touch spaghetti and meatballs until years after that.  It took even longer for me to stop picking things like cooked onions out of curry and raw tomatoes out of salads.  Forget about salad dressing- the first time I ate a dressed salad didn’t happen until high school.

These days that has all changed, of course, and while there are certain foods I don’t think I’ll ever come around to enjoying (raw mollusks, olives, citrus of all kinds, mustard), I am willing to try pretty much anything once.  This applies most of all to cheese.  I love cheese.  If I remembered how to write sonnets, I’d go Petrarchan on parmigiano reggiano (not to mention that I do not balk at its $15/lb price- that shit is worth it).  Some of the smellier varieties, the serious ones that separate the cheese men from the cheese boys, have become my preferred snack food.  I have even learned to notice undertones of fruit, nut and smoky flavors in different cheeses, the subtle differences between a 1-year old or 2-year old cheddar, to distinguish flavors in a cow/sheep mix.  My next endeavor will be into the world of pairing cheeses with drinks, though probably not with wine since I remain willfully ignorant about that.  Definitely with beer though.

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Changes afoot!

January 13, 2011

SO.  The date on the previous post is incorrect.  I got in a fight with blogspot and broke up with that nasty bitch, at which point I discovered that I already had a WordPress account and a never-used WordPress blog!  Crazy.  Attempting to edit CSS and trying to wrangle the internet into submission have wiped any trace of what I wanted to write about from my brain and so I am going to bed, full of wrath for my laptop.

Coming soon: the great mac ‘n cheese debate!

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January 13, 2011

I have a deep, highly illogical fear of the button that says “start blogging,” and an even deeper fear of the button “publish post.”  The existence of a blog does not imply that anyone will actually READ it; in fact, I doubt I will even tell anyone that I am doing this.  My friends have suggested that I start writing again in some form for quite some time, but my argument against it is that my life is just not that exciting.  Regardless, here we are,  birthing a little blog baby in the hopes that it might become something one day and I don’t wake up one morning working on a dock somewhere, lamenting that I coulda been a contender.

In light of the new year (and maybe the last year EVER), this “blog” WILL be posted.  I have gone to yoga for three consecutive days this week, making this the most physically active week of my life since before December 13, 2010.  All the reasons I didn’t hit the gym or my yoga mat for such a long time are flimsy, bad excuses which boil down to a simple truth: I do not like to work out.  Whatever gene or nerve that makes people enjoy sweating, soreness and feeling winded does not exist in my body.  The gene that makes people love cheese, gin and making cream-based pasta sauces-  I have that.  Lots of that.  I also don’t like being bad at things, and I especially don’t like doing things I’m bad at while surrounded by people who are really good at those same things.

Thus is my yoga conundrum.  I have been practicing on and off for almost four (!) years now, though with absolutely no consistency and months-long gaps of nary a downward dog.  The class I attend, while convenient and an enormous bargain, does not lend itself to improvement.  So what’s an eternally novice yogi to do?  All signs point to paying some big dollars to join a legitimate studio and that, my friends, is the only new years…ugh…resolution I plan on making this year.  Starting after a quick trip to see my folks on the weekend of January 21, I am going to shell out the money, join a legitimate studio and begin a strict regimen of yoga every day for 30 days.  The reward: a birthday trip to the Big Easy, for which tickets have already been purchased.

Please note, whoever you are, that this is not a blog strictly about yoga.  But I am going to try and chart my progress, such as it is, for the whole world (read: no one in particular) to read about.  And now the time has come: PUBLISH POST!