yoga with chanting

Today I took a class at One Yoga with my friend Anna. I'd never been there before, but heard from some reputable sources that it was a good place to go. 

When it comes to yoga, I don't really know what I'm doing. I was slow to get on the yoga bandwagon (or the any-kind-of-exercise bandwagon; see early posts for more information on my lengthy sedentary thrift-stores-and-vodka phase). I've taken a handful of yoga-type classes at the YWCA and the place where I take dance classes. But I definitely don't have "a practice." I don't know what any of the poses are called--I usually just find someone who looks like they know what they're doing and take it from there. And I don't really pay attention to the "spiritual" stuff; I'm just there to get stretched out.  

I figured today wouldn't be too bad--the class was super crowded, so there was no way anyone was going to pay much attention to me. I settled onto my borrowed yoga mat over near the wall. The room was virtually silent--I thought of some gossip I wanted to tell Anna, but felt too self-conscious to even whisper anything, so I kept quiet. 

Soon the class started with a bunch of breathing. That was fine. But then the instructor informed us that we would soon be required to start "chanting." She started the chant, and soon, the entire room joined in. As far as I could tell, it was a group sing-along--not the droning melody-less noise I imagine when I hear the word "chant." Despite the fact that I was supposed to be "letting go of tension" and that sort of thing, my muscles immediately seized up. I'm completely neurotic about singing--I just can't do it in public. 

Although my eyes were supposed to be closed, I discreetly attempted to look at my neighbors to see if anyone else was opting out. At least it looked like the instructor had her eyes closed--I didn't want her to think I was "dissing" her by not singing. But I just can't get into that. 

After the class, Anna asked me what I thought. I told her I liked the class...and sort of trailed off. She said she liked it too, but that she hated chanting, and that she felt bad about not doing it, but not bad enough to cave in. Suddenly, I felt much better. I totally hate chanting. Although the point of this "column" is to do things that make me uncomfortable, I think I might have to draw the line at chanting in yoga class. 

Verdict: Although I'm sure it's great for some people, I just can't get into chanting during yoga class. However, the experience wasn't so negative that I ran screaming for the door--I actually allowed myself to be talked into purchasing the introductory one-month unlimited class card. I'll probably be proudly chanting by the end of January.  

don't knock it till you try it: drinking sakau

One of the best things about getting married was the excuse it provided for going on a lengthy and expensive vacation. 

Nick and I discussed some possible destinations. I wanted to go somewhere warm, perhaps a place with an ocean nearby. Indonesia sounded good, but Nick had totally been there already, so that seemed kind of anticlimactic. (Well, for him, at least. For me, Green Bay is a thrilling new adventure). We thought about Mexico, but then again, that's so predictable--every drunken coed goes there for spring break. (Uh, except for me.) 

Then one day in Savers Nick and I found a ten-year-old Micronesia travel guide. We didn't waste much time choosing Kosrae as our romantic honeymoon destination. It seemed pretty ideal--a remote little island in the middle of the Pacific with mountains, fancy coral reefs and virtually no tourists. 

In addition to all the natural beauty, Kosrae was also supposed to have some of the best sakau in the western Pacific. Also known as kava, sakau in a mildly narcotic drink that is made by pounding the roots of the plant of the same name and squeezing the liquid detritus into a communal chalice. 

However, we learned that on Kosrae, sakau drinking is a somewhat "underground" pastime. While you can visit sakau bars on neighboring islands like Pohnpei, the only way to drink sakau on Kosrae is to track down a local who makes the drink at their home and invite yourself over.  

Therefore, when we arrived at the airport in Kosrae we immediately expressed our interest in the local narcotic beverage to the men at the customs booth. "You need to speak with Hilton," one of them said, disappearing into a back room. He returned moments later with Hilton Phillip, an airport employee and host of one of the island's few regular sakau parties. 

"We are making sakau tonight!" Hilton told us, pleased by our perfect timing. Although this sounded tempting, we begged off, secretly afraid that the ancient mud-drink might sicken us for the remainder of our ten-day stay. We suggested the following weekend, and Hilton agreed, promising to call us at our hotel to give us directions to the party. 

True to his word, Hilton called us the following week with directions to the sakau party house. We invited a few locals who worked at our hotel to accompany us (Ruth, one of the office girls, Par, a waitress, and Ben, a dive guide). Ruth was our designated driver.  

We arrived at the house shortly after the sun went down. We stumbled down a steep hill into a car port where the sakau pounding was taking place. It was a pretty masculine scene--I was glad we'd brought Ruth and Par along. Two Kosraean dudes relentlessly smashed sakau roots on a large pounding stone, pausing every few minutes to scoop the resulting sludge into some well-used hibiscus leaves. Another dude then wrung the hibiscus leaf package into a plastic tub, and then yet another guy strained the raw sakau into the aforementioned chalice. Then the whole procedure was repeated, until all the roots were used up. 

After one full "serving" had been prepared, the owner of the house stood up to make a formal announcement to us, the visitors. He explained that the traditional way to drink sakau is to give the first drink to the person with the most status, and then send the cup down the social chain from there. However, he explained, since we were there tonight, they would start the circuit with us.

Nick started with the sakau--he took a drink, then passed the cup to me. Par, our favorite Kosraean waitress, had already coached me on how to properly drink sakau. As she had instructed, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and sipped. 

It didn't taste too bad. I'd read that sakau tasted like mud, and it was much more liquid-y than that. But when Nick later described sakau as tasting like dirt-flavored egg whites, I had to agree. 

I then passed the cup to cup to Ruth, our designated driver. She took a sip, then passed it to Par, who passed it to Ben, and then on around the room it went. I can't say I felt much of anything right away. The cup kept moving around the room, but there were probably close to 20 people there, so it was a slow process. 

After several circuits, I think I noticed that my mouth was slightly numb. Eventually, I guess it started to "work"--I think you could say I felt very mildly tranquilized. But that was about it--unlike drinking alcohol, drinking sakau doesn't turn everyone in the room into a bunch of loudmouthed idiots. Everyone got really quiet--it was more like a pot smoking kind of situation, but without a bunch of dippy revelations.  

Eventually, all the sakau ran out and it was time to leave. Ruth drove us back to the resort, and Nick and I went back to our little cabin. We decided to drink some vodka to kill any of the possible germs we'd ingested from the local narcotic sludge-drink. Nick had a shot with little incident, but when he passed the bottle to me and I took I sip, my stomach turned as if I'd just sipped from a mug of gasoline. Next time I drink sakau, I'll just accept the germs.

don't knock it till you try it: marriage

When I was a little kid, I never had those supposedly common fantasies of my future white-dressed, sun-dappled wedding and my handsome, strong-shouldered groom. I knew that people sometimes got married (my parents were examples), but like catching scabies or becoming an accountant, it just didn't seem like anything that would ever happen to me.  

However, the years went by, and I eventually was forced to find full-time employment. For me, this meant laboring in a suburban office with the type of people who were just crazy about getting married. Rarely would a month go by without a new project manager flouncing into the bi-weekly status meeting, brandishing a ghastly new creation from Wedding Day Jewelers. 

"Oh my God, Troy proposed!!!!" the other women would shriek. Then the first fifteen minutes of the meeting would be devoted to a detailed description of the proposal. The proposal stories often reminded me of the desperate-for-attention ways boys would ask girls to prom at my Catholic high school. (By the way, that's not "sour grapes"--I was victim to a horrifying prom proposal myself.) Blindfolds, treasure hunts, rings in pizza boxes--nothing was out of bounds. 

Whereas before I'd simply thought of marriage in the way I thought of playing softball (I don't really care about joining the team, but you go ahead and do whatever you want), after some time around people who were seriously marriage-minded, I began to feel grossed out by the whole thing. The ostentatious rings, the mass market wedding gowns from David's Bridal, the over-excitement about creating a Target registry--it was the kind of thing that made me want to take a triple dose of Trazadone. 

But now here I am, just a few years after my extreme marriage cynicism--married. What happened? 

Well, I think it helps that Nick, the person I'm married to, is also not exactly "the marrying kind" either. After dating for awhile, and realizing we got along pretty well, we started talking about whether or not we should go through with it. Despite the fact that most of our friends think marriage is really lame, and thus gave us a really hard time when we told them about our plans, the marriage thing actually seemed to make some sense. For example, we could totally take turns having "real jobs" (to provide the health insurance). There were other reasons too, but in stupid America, that health insurance thing is kind of a big deal. 

don't knock it till you try it: the mall of america

As you learned in a previous entry, I am currently unemployed. And although I wish this blissful state could continue forever, the sad truth is that I'm going to have to start making some money soon in order to begin paying off my suddenly massive credit card debt. 

More than likely, this means that I will have to get a job. Now, I realize that there are very few jobs to be had right now, but if there's one thing I've always been able to do, it's to secure a suburban office job in unstable economic times. 

Right now, the one thing that could probably prevent me from finding such a job is my pathetic corporate wardrobe. I recently went through my closet, desperately seeking anything that could pass for a respectable "interview outfit." I found a seven-year-old suit from Banana Republic that used to seem flattering, and now makes me look squat, butch, and humorless. I found a black corduroy blazer that looks stupid no matter what it's paired with. And I found numerous pairs of ill-fitting "work pants" that look like what they are--fading, thinning purchases from the Unique thrift store in Columbia Heights.  

So despite the fact that I have absolutely no money to spare, it became clear to me that I would have to go out and find some idiotic work-appropriate clothing. 

Just to torture myself, I waited until a day that I was painfully hungover to head out to the overwhelming giant mall. I didn't think it could be too bad--I simply needed to find something that could pass for "professional" in an office park. 

I started at Express, a store that I am embarrassed to enter (due to my advanced age, dark hair, and lack of make-up) but that happens to sell pants that have fit me well in the past. I tried on about six pairs, several shirts, and one seemingly "basic" black blazer. Despite the fact that the pant hems at this store were the perfect length in the past, now, all the pants I tried on were at least three inches too long. I'm too cheap and lazy to get stuff hemmed, so this was a major problem.

The shirts were okay, but they were all about $60, which seems kind of expensive for some cheap cotton blend button-up from China. And the blazer was absurd--despite the fact that I have no rack, the lapels pressed suggestively against my cleavage. Clearly, this was a "sexy blazer"--a garment some blond in the warehouse district is meant to be spilling out of, not a fake-work jacket for a subdued corporate writer. 

Disappointed, I trudged out of the store and into a hallway filled with kiosk vendors. Most of them seemed to be hawking cuticle cream or hair-styling devices. "Ma'am, style your hair?" asks one gentleman, suggestively brandishing a thin-barreled, pointy-ended curling iron. 

A bit further down the hall, I noticed another kiosk vendor. I could tell he had spotted me already. It was the kind of situation where you know, instinctively, that they guy is going to be aggressive and obnoxious--the kind of guy who won't take no for an answer. So I continued on my way, and then at the last possible second darted over to the other side of the hall to get away from him. 

Unfortunately, he followed me. "Excuse me miss, may I ask you a question?"  I looked right at him. "I came over here to avoid you," I told him. He looked annoyed, and then sarcastically told me I could "have a great day." I was surprised how naturally the snotty retort came to me--usually I feel bad for people who work in retail and go out of my way to be nice. The atmosphere of the mall was clearly turning me into a Type A chick. Maybe I should've gone back to the Express at that point.    

But I continued on, determined to find something that would make me look like a normal job seeker. I entered many stores, tried on many suits that made me look like a 12-year-old going as a "business woman" for Halloween, and eventually just gave up. There was nothing there for me. 

don't knock it till you try it: Pilates

I heard about Pilates for the first time while riding in an elevator. I had recently graduated from college, and was working as a temporary administrative assistant at Target Corporation. Two well-dressed junior executive types (female) were in the elevator with me, discussing their workout routines. The blond was talking about jogging, and maybe running a 10K in the spring. The icy brunette nodded seriously, then declared, "I'm really into Pilates lately." The blond looked dumbfounded, realizing immediately that she was way behind the times. "It's like, this incredible full-body workout, that really focuses on your core," explained the brunette. 

Not surprisingly, this encounter turned me off to the idea of Pilates for several years. Exercise fads can be pretty embarrassing, and this was clearly one of the worst--the kind that is embraced by people who've "got it together," who dress well and make good money and go out for sushi at least once a week. 

So I was a bit skeptical when, a few years later, a friend from work offered me her Pilates DVD. Janet said it was a great workout, but that she didn't need the DVD anymore, and wanted to give it to someone would might actually use it. I attempted to decline politely, but she insisted that I give it a try. 

You see, in a moment of weakness I had confessed to Janet that I wanted to start exercising again (after a ten-year break during which I drank vodka and visited many thrift stores). I had started riding my bike from junior high around the neighborhood, and evidently she thought it was time for me to "push my limits" a bit farther. 

I gave in and took the DVD. As I stretched out the living room floor in my stretch pants, too stingy to buy a yoga mat, I initially had unpleasant flashbacks to my childhood. I remembered a summer when I was about 10 years old during which I became obsessed with losing weight. I watched endless idiotic aerobics TV shows, and ate nothing but microwave popcorn. Was I going to revert to that? 

I decided not to worry, and carried on with Mari Winsor's 20-minute workout. At first, I was really embarrassed by the maniacal smiles of the Pilates models featured in the video--they reminded me of the crazed grinning of the Holy Angels Starliners (the kick squad at my first, despised high school). I forced myself to continue, however, and did the workout almost every day. 

After a month or so, I definitely seemed to be getting some results. And the exercise itself, with all the stretching and balancing, was actually enjoyable, almost "rewarding"--I felt like I was getting stronger, not just hysterically striving for skinniness. Eventually, I joined the YWCA where I take Pilates classes fairly regularly, and it's way better to take a class where the instructor can demonstrate things and correct your form. I've even tried some yoga classes (arguably much trendier than Pilates at the moment), but I feel like such a fraud at the end where everyone piously mutters "Namaste." 

don't knock it till you try it: unemployment

Since the age of 15, I've pretty much always had some kind of legitimate "job." The first one was at Cathay Chow Mein, at 54th and Nicollet in South Minneapolis. After that I worked at the Bruegger's bagel shop at 5oth and Penn (where I was promoted to "supervisor" at the age of 16), Orchesta Hall, and a coffee shop called Sovereign Grounds at 48th and Chicago. These were my high school jobs. 

After that I went on to college, where I worked in the cafeteria, the library, and the "career development center," respectively. During summer vacations I would work as a temporary file clerk, receptionist, or data entry "specialist" in a variety of suburban offices. 

And then after I graduated from college, I worked as a receptionist for a neighborhood newspaper, an "associate project manager" for an education assessment company, a proofreader at a direct mail company, an editor at a drapery trade magazine, and a technical writer at a communications consulting company. 

In other words, I was totally and completely sick of working. So I guess you could say it was a "blessing in disguise" when I was laid off from my job in mid-October. 

Being unemployed is pretty great. Probably the best part is not having to put on humiliating "business casual" clothing in order to go mince around in some suburban office park all day. 

However, with unemployment comes responsibilities. One of these is to complete a self-assessment that is supposed to help you figure out how to proceed with your job search. My favorite part of the assessment is in Part B (optional), under "Self Description." Here you can rate yourself in categories that include "Stress and Worry," "Conscientiousness," and "Extroversion." I left the "Extroversion" section blank, because if I answered honestly (Enthusiastic? Not at all. Sociable? Not at all. Talkative? Not at all...) the Minnesota Department of Employment and Economic Development would probably freeze my weekly payments. 

Another nice touch comes at the very end of the assessment. After a friendly statement wishing me the best of luck in my job search, the following command appears in bold: "TRY, TRY, TRY AGAIN!" Despite the jaunty tone, I appreciate the implied negativity--that my road to re-employment will surely be a long and arduous one. 

 

don't knock it till you try it: having a blog

Don't Knock it Till You Try It started as a column in the seminal publication, the Whittier Globe. Writing the column gave me an excuse to do things that scared me or seemed kind of dorky (e.g. taking a Scientology personality test, getting a Tarot card reading, going on a Segway tour).   

Sadly, the Whittier Globe went under in 2007, and since no one asked me to continue writing it, Don't Knock it Till You Try It ceased to exist as well.  

However, there are still things I'd like to try before knocking, and that is the point of all this.