Re-Learning to Drive

This past weekend I had driving lessons. I hopped into a car with my dad as teacher in the passenger's seat, and could have sworn I had done this same thing ten years ago. In fact, I HAD done this over a decade ago, the difference being a stick shift in the new car. As we drove to a parking lot and I went around in cirlces, trying to master the delicate balance of switching from the clutch to the accerlater...not too fast or the wheels will spin and squeak, not to slow or the car will stall. (think of an egg underneath the gas peddle, my dad encouraged when I pressed too hard). I am learning this new skill out of obligation, having sold my beloved (and easy) automatic car. If I wanted to drive, I needed to learn to maneuver boyfriend's manual car. It's hard to learn something new. I haven't done it in a while. It's humbling. And frustrating. Trying to teach your body, your mind to loosen up and absorb this new thing you're making it do. Being patient when you don't catch on as quickly as you want to. You know the ideal--shifting gears effortlessly and smoothly--but you can't quite get there. At least not yet.

Lost and Found

Monday after work I went shopping. Somewhere in my purchasing-induced euphoria, I didn't feel one of my earrings drop out of my ear. Later on at dinner, my mother asked me if I had intentionally taken the piece out, not seeing the other earring still intact. I panicked, grabbing for the phantom pearl. It wasn't there. I searched myself, my pockets, my bags--no luck. My mind flashed back to the turtleneck I tried on at J Crew. That was when it happened, I was sure. Later on, I called J Crew and Ann Taylor--where I'd also been, just in case instincts were wrong--and no such luck. Yesterday I walked there, and, well, same story. I began to imagine someone cleaning the store, sweeping the piece in with the rest of the garbage. Or the vacuum going across and capturing it. The images were painful. It wasn't the most valuable earring I owned, but it was pretty nice (especially considering my jewelry collection is still developing). My parents had given it to me a few years back.
Today, though, I was reminded that there are bigger things in life than lost earrings--even if they are silver and pearl. I had been so upset and frustrated with this missing thing that I had lost some perspective. So, as I type now, the earring is still lost, but something bigger is found.

Scrabble

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable: I left the city. Since so much of my life--job, home, and pretty much everything else--is basically within a 1 mile, two zip code radius, it's always a little strange whenever I venture past. Especially, as with yesterday, for no real logical reason. We weren't meeting anyone, or going on any pressing errand (although our travels did end up at Target, as invariably do all our infrequent trips outside the district's environs). Instead, in the sunny but cool October day--the kind that everyone dreams about when they think of autumn--we packed up the Honda Civic with a few books and magazines and a scrabble board, and drove off to a quaint cafe in Alexandria. We hadn't realized this, but it there was a big Halloween fair (I know, it makes sense) so at first the shop was completely packed with children in various shades of shimmer. We found a seat in the back, watching but removed from the crowds, and brought out the board--the deluxe version that my mother had given me a few birthdays back. I sipped my apple cider and picked my tiles, trying to land my words on the double letter and triple words. I won (although I did have the Z and Q, and both blanks, which helped me), and when we packed up our stuff for the drive back, I realized how nice it was to get past the 1 mile radius. Even if it was only 5 or 6 more, it felt nice.

My Own Finish Line

This weekend I ran a 10K. I hadn't really been training...only running a bit more frequently since I decided to wake up early on a chilly weekend morning and run 6.2 miles. The beginning of the race was horrible. I found myself begging for the mile 1 marker, but when I passed it, I thought "Great, I have five more of these to go." The unnaturally hot summer had let up only a week before, and my lungs were unused to having cool fall air to inhale and exhale. A split second after mile 2, my eyes searched for the next mile marker. "Don't look for it," I forced myself to think. "Just enjoy where you are." I looked around at the Washington monuments around me. The sun was moving forward into the sky, and I could tell it was going to be a beautiful autumn day. I slowed a little. People began to pass me, but I didn't care. I had found a rhythm. Suddenly the air felt brisk instead of painfully cold, my leg muscles awoke, and the adreline began pumping throughout my body. Mile 3 came and I soon reached the halfway point and turned around. People kept passing me. It's weird, in the middle of a large race, I felt comfortably alone. Their energy inspired me, and motivated me, but at the same time, I cherished the time by myself, to focus on taking one pace at a time until I had reached the finish. I made it in 55:26, a personal best (although to be fair, I've only done one other 10K). Immediately after the race, I was exhausted. Later on, my legs began to feel sore. But it was worth it.

Global Positioning

For Hanukkah last year, my parents bought me GPS. This little device is ingenius. You plug in your starting position, your final destination, and your preferred route of travel (quickest, least highways, most highways, least miles), and suddenly you have your map plotted out for you. But what I like most about it is what it does if you make a wrong turn. It recalculates. The screen goes clear except for the electronic hour glass, and a few moments later...you've got a new route. Sometimes these updated directions only say--in automated computer-speak--turn around. But, in other cases, it repopulates a whole new route. Granted GPS doesn't have the emotional capacity of a human (although it does talk to me), but I am amazed with its lack of frustration over making a mistake. No time for grievances....just change course.
That's hard for me (because I do have the emotional capacity of a person. Maybe 2 people). When I make a mistake, a wrong turn, go left instead of straight, right instead of reverse, I blame myself. I focus on what went wrong, not how to fix it. Yes, there is a time for self-reflection, but at the moment, it's usually better to just change with the mistake. If it means rewriting, editing a bit more carefully, getting another source, just do it. Recalculate.

Fall Where Are You?

As the humidity reluctantly releases its grip on DC and cooler airs demand their presense, I find myself rejoicing for the end of summer. I turn my calendar page to October 1, excited for the heat to fade off, the green leaves to evolve into their multi-hued alter egos, and black, star filled nights to usurp the blue skies earlier and earlier in the evening. I've always loved autumn-- even though I am no longer a student, it still has that 'back-to-school' feel. Change is in the air--literally. The brutal summer has overstayed its welcome by about a month, and trading flip flops and tank tops for brown boots and cotton sweaters seems like a good deal. Fall, I think, is my favorite season. But I don't know if I'd want fall year-round. Part of its appeal is that it has taken summer away. The agreement is that it too must leave a few months later, replaced this time with colder winds, snow flurries, and, maybe, white trimmed roofs.

I don't know if I could live anywhere withouth seasons. I never have. The cyclical, predictable changes comfort me. In late March, I pray for the end of winter and a chance to put away the wool pants. I look forward to strappy sandals and beachside trips in the summer, but a few months later can't wait for the start of fall. Even winter, my arguably least favorite season, has promise of hot cocoa and ski trips. Some say they could pick a day and have it replicated the whole year long. I wouldn't want that. My perfect day would be one that changes.

The Philosophy of a Meringue

I cooked on Yom Kippur. On the day where religion prevents any food or beverage intake, I decided to make meringues for a break fast dinner later that evening. As I separated the egg whites from their yellow yokey counterparts and beat them with granulated ivory colored sugar, I felt my stomach growl with impatience. I checked the kitchen clock. It was 2:00pm. Six more hours to go.
Food isn't the real point of the holiday. I know that. Denying oneself sustainance for a 25-hour period is a sacrifice, a symbol of repentence for any sins or wrongdoings committed in the past year. But as I watched as the egg-sugar combination whipped its way up to a glossy, creamy foam, I couldn't get past the literal: going without food is hard. Yet, for a variety of social, financial, and psychological reasons, many people do. And forget about the fluffy mini meringues now baking under a 225 degree heat. It's basic bread and butter people are doing without. What I am facing for one day others will have to bear for most of the year.
An hour later, I took the meringues out of the oven, and scooped these delicate white balls off of the baking pan. When the sun disappeared that night--indicating that the fast was over--I bit into the meringue. Its exterior was hard and crispy, and contrasted nicely with the soft, sweet center. I let the sugary dessert stay on my tongue for just a moment before it dissolved, making its way to my empty stomach. As I reached for my second one, I thought about how good food could be. With my repentence came another lesson that night: appreciation.

Honey Bunny

That is the name of the new nail polish I am wearing. I was treated to a manicure last weekend when I was in Chicago. The stylist said it was a fall color--a dark pink shade. Since I got back to DC, I've been surprised with how many compliments I've gotten on it. It is a nice color, but manicures don't seem the most different or edgy thing to do. I was intrigued by this. A small change from my standard unadorned finger tips to a pink varnish had been the talk of the town (ok, slight exaggeration there, but just go along). And the thing was, I felt it too. I caught myself glancing at my nails while I was typing on my keyboard, or jotting down notes, and smiling. I felt different. Sometimes I forget the power of small changes, tiny tweaks. They can be just what you need to see things just a little bit differently. Living in a world seduced by big news and jarring headlines, it's important to keep in mind how much little happenings matter. How changing up your routine just a bit can offer a perspective you didn't even know existed.

My Kickball Career

Last night I played in maybe my fourth kickball game. As with the other three, our team didn't fare so well (although yesterday's loss was undoubtedly the most painful). The kickball I play is still the childhood pasttime, only that re-invented version more suited to D.C. young professionals. Playing underneath the U.S. Capitol as the sun sets on the tourists leaving the Smithsonian museums, I feel a sense of competition running through my veins. I don't really play on team sports anymore, and I forget my fierce competitive streak. More acurately, I pretend it doesn't exist. For some reason, I feel it goes against the laid-back demeanor I feel I exude. I guess I feel that if I am not competitive, don't take the sport or game too seriously, that it won't matter if I fail short. But what I am realizing is that even though game losses or even my mistakes on the field can be hard to gulp down, it's really exciting when the opposite happens. When things go your way--even if only for a moment. When success appears, as if it's been there all along, eluding you. This is on my mind now, because last night I felt my competitve edge satiated. Yes, we did lose, but for the first time, I made a big defensive move. Playing second base, the big bouncy ball came my way. After one bounce, I secured the ball in my hands. The first base runner was heading toward second. I chased after her, ball in hand. We made eye contact, and I knew I had to get her out. So I dodged the ball at her. I watched as it hit her and then bounced off. She was out. The inning was over. Between the two of us, I had won.

Writing Competition

So, inspired by some positive comments on my blog, I decided to enter a writing competition. It's the first time I've done something like this, so it was a bit nerve racking but ultimately a lot of fun. I just submitted my piece yesterday, and posted it here for you to see. The subject was an experience away from home.

Adventurous Beginnings

My first trip away from home was a week of overnight camp when I was eight. I had begged my parents to let me spend a week in the West Virginia wilderness, but as they took me there, I couldn’t remember why. I stared out the window, watching the major highways turn into dusty rural roads.

I had never been so lonely when my parents hugged me good-bye. That night I soaked my pillow sheet, dreaming of my room at home. The next morning, I opened my eyes and stared at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling. As I walked to the cafeteria, pangs of loneliness came with me. I tried to enjoy my meal, but the oatmeal was strange. I was used to cold cereal.
After breakfast I wondered over to consider the daily list of activities. I signed up for a nature drawing class and spent the late morning sitting near a brook sketching leaves. That afternoon, I went on a hike with a few other campers, fascinated as the counselors pointed out the different types of mosses. Still, before dinner I found myself thinking of my parents and brother.

I had many more tear-filled half sleeps and unusual meals. But there were also talks with new friends and campfires under the starry West Virginia night. Somehow I fell in love with the unknown that week. As I got older, I sought out more foreign adventures. Homesickness grew into a soft, comforting sense rather than a fierce bite.

I Dream of Sleep

As I walked to work this morning, my eyes are bleary from lack of shuteye and my tongue is begging for a sip of coffee. My pace is slow and staying awake for the whole day seems like a daunting task. Why do I do this to myself? Fatigue is a dull ache, a nagging cramp that will only be satiated with a nice long sleep. I get to work, log on to my computer, make myself a single cup of French Vanilla coffee with lots of soy creamer and a mere touch of sugar, and begin to think about the day in front of me. I start to wake up. I think about the work, the projects, and motivation kicks in. But my mind will occasionally drift, away back to my bed where I arose too early this morning. Where I didn't creep into until almost midnight last night. Sleep is one of those things that I undervalue. If I am juggling work, friends, exercise, household stuff, guess which goes? My nighttime rest. Sure, I do make an effort to change into my PJs and crawl into bed early, but if something comes up, that is the one thing I sacrifice without a second thought. Only to think about it again and again the next day, when one cup of coffee turns into two. So, now, I say to sleep--I won't take you for granted anymore. I know how necessary you are. I'll make a strong attempt at prioritizing YOU first, so I won't miss you all the next day!

A Fantasy Come True

2007 has been many firsts. Late last night, I had yet another new adventure: my first ever fantasy football draft. That's right, for the 2007 NFL football season, I will watch my players from teams throughout the leagues run, catch, throw, block, kick and do whatever else they do that can earn me points. Honestly, I don't understand it completely...I enlisted the help of my more sports-inclined boyfriend to sort out the players for the automated draft (although I needed no assistance in coming up with my name, football yogis)...it's funny, sort of, that I am drawn to the excitement of football, the thrill of competition, the mainstream nature of this professional sport, and still swear by my namaste. One time, a yoga teacher asked me what I was doing for New Year's Day--there was a special class she wanted me to go to--and I said I was heading to Philly with my brother to see the Eagles-Redskins game. She looked a little confused. I have to remember that being open-minded means being open and aware of all different parts of yourself and trying to see how they connect together. In football, the uncertain is what's certain...there are only 17 weeks, with each team on the field for 16 games. Anything can happen. In yoga, I like to think anything can happen, also, although it may be more subtle. Perhaps my tree balancing pose will feel a little more secure, or my hamstrings will loosen up a little more in my forward fold. Even though I can be afraid of change, I think deep down it entices me...which is the reason I was so keen on signing up for fantasy this year, not only to see how the unpredictable season unfolds, but to find out if I too could be a winner.

Hair, Schmair

I am one of those people who wants to have nice hair. I will go out, spend money on highlights, stylish dos, and trendy creams only to tie it up in a messy bun half-way through the day. It's my disheveled, shabby chic look...one I could probably create without all the time, money, and frustration. I've been doing this forever. I remember in 10th grade, in the height of Rachel Green's envied locks, I too went for the layered look. Except no one ever knew, because I'd always pin it up. Fast forward six years, and after a few weeks of my study abroad sojourn in Prague, I went to a Czech stylist and chopped off my thick tresses. I had the boyish, no-hanging hair look for only that semester, but even (despite compliments on the new look from the most sought after guy in the program) then I wore head bands and scarves to cover it up. The highlights are a relatively new thing--inspired by at the tender age of 27, I have a few of those terrible things: gray hairs. Some peers with premature gray hair (really, I am too young to be 'of age' for grays) are brave enough to let it show. Not me. The blond streaks cover up the gray, and even though sometimes they get wrapped into a bun or ponytail, at least they come through...Maybe I am making progress?

My Inner Voice

So, in looking over my last post, I seem angry. Angry at the world for its vehement opposition to crocs. And, angry at those tapered jean affectionados who--for some reason--can't find their way into a pair of boot-legs. Am I really an angry person? I am making a concerted effort not to delete my posts (or even erase as I am typing...although I often can't resist. Even to write this paranthetical phrase, I reached for the "delete" button several times) because this blog is supposed to be an organic flow rather than (oops. went to delete again) a meticulously, perfected document of my life. But, I was surprised with my ability to feel anger. Anger, for me, is not an easy emotion. Guilt, yes. Frustration, check mark. General feelings of being upset, for sure. But I never embraced anger until fairly recently. I've read the pop psych (I actually love pop psych in general, so of course I've read it) that women feel uncomfortable being angry. For my own sample size of one, I'd have to agree. For me, it's two-fold: one, I don't like to harbor any ill will towards anyone, and two--to be totally honest--I usually think things are my fault (if self-anger were a real word, I would have probably included it above). But recently, with the last few years or so, I am beginning to see that I do have anger and I can express it. I still don't like how it sounds or makes me look, but it is a part of my inner voice and I need it. Everyone does.

What's Wrong with Crocs?

Watching a tivoed Bill Maher episode over the weekend echoed a sentiment that I had heard all summer: people hate crocs. And, for a signficant segment of the people I've observed, they hate them for aesthetic reasons. They are ugly with a capital U. Fine, don't like a shoe brand, but are crocs really deserving of the continual visceral reaction they elicit? I've seen people take actual offense when they see someone else sporting this plastic foot covering. I am not here to defend them--I don't know if I'd wear the traditional style, although I do proudly own the Cleo version--but to ask, is this hatred really worth it? This led me to think of other painful and agonizing fashion choices that people have made over the years. The first that came to mind was tapered jeans (they still exist, if you can find them.) Or, to be more general, tapered pants of all shapes and size. Are crocs THAT bad? If you can honestly say yes, then at least I can see how much it pains you. If not, leave crocs alone.

Downward dogging my way into a blog topic

So, now with my first post published, I am effectively a blogger. The next step--after of course doing some preliminary work on the color scheme--is picking a daily topic. With a whole world of topics to choose from, it seems fitting that I'd opt for one most near and dear: yoga. Just last night I went to my regular studio, Tranquil Space, for another challenging but calming flow yoga practice. I think that is what amazes me about yoga: it is physically and mentally demanding but peaceful at the same time. The subtlies of it are endless. Keeping your back a little straighter in downward dog, staying more balanced in tree pose, lifting both feet off the ground in crow for five long breaths. For a yoga jargon free analogy, to just reach down from a standing position and touch your toes with only a slight knee bend. But, at the same time, I hesitate to focus on these measures of yogic improvement, because yoga is more than just getting "better" at flexibility, balance, and strength. It's about acknowledging where you are with your physical, emotional, and spiritual self and being OK with that. Sure, everyone wants to get better at everything, but I think it takes more strength to be comfortable where you are in the here and now.

Why Blog?

Why blog? I find myself asking as I write my first post. And, right now, as the blank screen in front of me frightens me, what can I blog about? What thoughts can I introduce--in the witty, thought provoking manner as blog writers aspire to--to the cyberspace world? The blank screen is beginning to fill up, but now I am not sure I like what I am writing and struggle not to delete. I pause and breathe. I blog because...it was a new year's resolution last year and as I find myself in the second half of 2007, time is slipping from me. Because it is a trendy pastime and I am never one to skip on a fad--even if I am a few years late (cases in point: Netflix, facebook). I blog because...my creative juices bubbling in my brain need an outlet, and an e-diary just might scratch that itch. But really, more than anything, it is the desire to bring something in the everyday, real world to the computer. To translate these feelings, these thoughts, these analyses into clever posts that turn on the figurative light bulb in the readers' heads. I may not get there with this post today, but at least this page is filled with words and not blank space, and that makes me happy!