don't knock it till you try it: bike rage

Yesterday, while riding my bike to my parents' house, I got stuck behind two middle-aged female bikers. I was on the Minnehaha Creek bike path, which is, in theory, a two-way bike lane. Of course these slow-moving ladies were riding side-by-side, preventing me from easily passing them.

I realize I could have barked, "On your left!" and cut around them rudely, but I hate it when fake-pro bikers in their Clif Bar-branded bike shirts do that, so I decided to "do unto others" and just slow down and wait it out. It was only about half a block until my turn off--there was no urgent need for me to pass them.

I can't say that I was totally Zen about the wait. Their self-absorbtion was evident as they pedaled along slowly, oblivious to their surroundings, like the lumbering mothers in the grocery store who stand gazing vacantly in front of the pasta sauce, hands on hips as their cart blocks the aisle indefinitely.

I had plenty of time to listen to bits and pieces of the biking ladies' conversation ("Yes, so Alan works for 20 hours one week, scheduled, and then the other 20 hours are on his own time--evenings or weekends, if he wants, you know, flex time?") and to take in their Midwestern lady bike uniforms (the cautious bike helmets, the sensible mauve capris, the hiking sandals).

Finally we reached the intersection. Despite the fact that the traffic light was green, the women came to a halt, continuing to block the way. Since I wanted to turn right, I carefully edged around the women. I swear I wasn't a jerk about it. Then, when I'd ridden about 15 feet away from them, I hear one of them say, "Well, I think WE'RE just going to obey the rules over here."

Despite my naturally repressed nature, this "pushed a button," so to speak. Of course they would say something like that when I was far enough away to hear their snippy little comment, but probably too far away to bother confronting them about it. Typical midwestern passive-aggression.

I slowed down and looked back at them, rolling my eyes dramatically and making an ugly, sarcastic face that might have involved me sticking out my tongue. I considered turning around to go address their complaint in person (I've done this once before in response to a different condescending comment--it was strangely exhilerating), but I held back. It took all my resources not to flip them off or invite them to "blow me" (two knee-jerk responses that I suppressed).

Then I biked on to my parents house. I didn't mention the incident to them. (If it's even a little negative, then we don't talk about it.) My mom and I had plans to get dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. While we waited for our server, a vaguely familiar-looking guy came over to the table. "Susan? Shannon? Hi, it's 'Dave Semmler'!" It was the father of this guy I went to Catholic grade school with, whose parents I had known fairly well, back then.

We made idle chit chat for a few minutes. "I'm sure 'Mindy' will come over to say hi when she gets here--she's biking with a friend."

A few minutes later Mindy arrived, who I supposedly hadn't seen in 15 years. "Hi, Susan! Oh...Shannon. Hi." She looked at me, and I looked at her. It was a classic woman-to-woman disdain festival. A Curb Your Enthusiasm moment. There she was in her mauve capri pants and hiking sandals, her helmet in hand, her law-abiding friend behind her. "It's SO good to SEE you," she said in that totally dishonest manner that only women employ. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I could do it--I could make reference to the bitchy biking encounter! I could alienate everyone gathered around our table in faux-fellowship! But I lost my nerve. I agreed it was GREAT to see her, too. I'm not proud of giving in.

don't knock it till you try it: no alcohol, no raw foods

Every now and then I remember the dietary advice I received from my acupuncture practitioner, and guiltily try to follow it in the days leading up to an appointment. This is what I've been doing for the last week or so.

The guidelines don't really promote a hedonistic approach to life. The list of "things to avoid" includes the following:

• Coffee
• Alcohol
• Sugar
• Dairy products
• Salty foods
• Spicy foods
• Raw foods
• Iced beverages
• Nicotine and other stimulants

"This isn't going to be so bad," I told myself. I went out and bought cabbage, broccoli and beets, and sipped room-temperature water while Nick drank the wine I had purchased only two days before deciding to commit to the project of deprivation.

I already knew that most of friends were booze-crazed, but the point was driven home when the daily invitations to "go out for drinks" started pouring in. "I don't need to drink to have fun," I said to myself.

I met a few friends at Joe's Garage during "gay pride" to prove my point. They ordered drink after drink, without a care in the world. "This is great," I thought. I'm totally not going to have to pay a big tab at the end of the night."

But the evening wore on. "What am I doing here?" I started to wonder after a couple hours. My friends seemed to be having fun. But without the task of drinking to distract me, I noticed that my thoughts were getting increasingly existential. "Is this all there is?" I asked myself as a girl in a sequined miniskirt, stripper heels and a clown wig walked by.

Not-drinking-at-bars wasn't working out too well for me, so the next time a friend suggested drinks, I countered with an offer to meet for lunch. We met at an Italian restaurant in the suburbs, near our corporate offices. "Do you want to share the caprese salad?" she asked.

"Um, no..." I said. I explained that I was following some Chinese medicine dietary advice, and that I was probably going to order something really bland that no one would want to share. "Karen" asked why I wouldn't have the salad. "Well, I'm trying to avoid dairy products, and raw foods.."

"You're avoiding raw foods?" she looked at me like I was crazy. Everyone knows raw foods are like the healthiest thing ever! I felt like I'd just told her that I'd joined a cult. "Don't share any more details," I told myself.

Conclusion: When I eat healthier food and avoid alcohol, I feel better physically. But without the cloud-like effects of booze it's so much easier to notice all the horror in the mudane details of daily life. Also, don't try to explain why raw foods are "bad" according to Chinese medicine; it's just not worth the scorn.

don't knock it till you try it: google-stalking your ex-boyfriends

Maybe it was the crushing boredom, or the sleep deprivation, or just my essentially pathetic existence, but today I decided it might be "fun" to google stalk my ex-boyfriends.

I started with my first boyfriend, the gamer I dated when I was 15. At the time, I didn't realize he was a gamer--I thought he was cool, and that I was lucky and privileged that he thought I was worthy of accompanying him to the Perkins in Maplewood for three-hour games of Monopoly with his best friend, that guy in the black jeans who worked at Circuit City.

Anyway, this first boyfriend of mine was super into computers, so I assumed he would be all over the Internet. "What does he look like now?" I thought to myself, all excited. "Is he devastatingly attractive, or has he devolved into hideousness?" So I googled his name, but nothing. Evidently, someone with the same name is an "American criminal" who killed his girlfriend and her lover, and who "was captured three days later outside a liquor store in Shreveport, Louisiana where he was using a pay phone while intoxicated." This was interesting, but told me nothing about my first boyfriend and whether or not he regrets the way he left for college and just totally stopped calling me.

So my first attempt was disappointing, but I was undeterred. I looked up the juvenile delinquent who worked with me at the bagel shop and whom I briefly "dated" during the summer when I was 16 and rollerbladed into hot tar. Those results were fruitless, as well. But in this case I didn't much care, because I was pretty ambivalent about that dude and wasn't even fazed when he quit the bagel shop, moved out of his foster home and completely disappeared.

I decided to change my focus to college. I stared at the screen and felt embarassed. Could anything that happened in college be interpreted as "dating"? Is it a sign that things are getting serious when a dude you've been drinking with makes out with your roommate and then tries to insult you by labeling you a "modernist"?

I looked up this guy, feeling hopeful that image results would provide evidence of alcoholic bloating and general decay. A tiny thumbnail of a totally pretentious-looking picture from Facebook came up--that must be him!--but when I clicked on it my workplace filters informed me that I was not allowed to look at something that had to do with "Dating/Relationships".

I started to feel stupid. Why am I bothering with this? I wondered. None of these guys would even think of google-stalking you, I scolded myself. And most girls probably have way more people to stalk! I lamented, feeling old and unpopular.

Conclusion: Google-stalking is largely unsatisfying, and has the added benefit of reminding you of your many mistakes, your lost youth and your inevitable death.

don't knock it till you try it: sweating in public

Tonight I attended my first Bikram yoga class at a studio in Minneapolis on Lyndale and 28th. I was a little on the fence about "hot yoga." I met someone recently who had taken a class, and she was turned off by what she described as the "boot camp" atmosphere and the constant urgings to "lock your knees!" which she interpreted to be an order to hyperextend--and everyone knows hyperextension is bad, right???

Anyway, there was also the issue of the heat. Various people told me they'd gone to a Bikram class and thought for sure they were going to vomit, pass out or weep uncontrollably, but these were not my chief concerns. Even the prospect of sweating profusely in front of others sounded reasonably okay. My main concern was with the almost-necessity of wearing shorts.

I like my legs fine until they are sticking out of a pair of sporty shorts or encased in tights and little else, a la ballet class. At these times I develop a serious case of body dysmorphic disorder (similar to the eating disorder I develop in crowded cafeterias that drives me to cower in the farthest corner, obsessing about the horrors of eating in public). Would I be able to get over my leg phobia enough to stare into a mirror while balancing on my toes and then squatting obscenely, dripping sweat from my stricken, bright-red face? It turned out the answer was yes.

At first, the level of heat seemed okay. And then suddenly, it was oppressive. I looked around the room, and virtually everyone was dripping just as much sweat as me. Were their faces quite as beet red? Perhaps not. However, virtually everyone was dressed up in little more than underwear. I congratulated myself for squelching my neurotic tendencies and wearing the damn shorts. Anything more covered up would have been excruciating.

I must say, however, that Bikram yoga is not for the scent-sensitive. If you thought the crowd at the 9/11 conspiracy documentary smelled bad, just wait until you shut yourself in a room full of 20 people sweating profusely. You know that embarrassing moment in the conference room at your job when you realize that the scent of last night's gin gimlets or garlic-marinated whatever is filling the entire room? Well, it's like that at a Bikram class, times twenty.

But overall, the class was good! It was definitely super hard. There was a lot of bending backwards, which was tough on my arthritic, 80-year-old neck. But other poses were just the right kind of challenging.

After the class, the instructor loudly congratulated me, and only me, on my "way to hang in there!" performance (I was the only person taking the class for the first time). This was a little embarrassing--I really hate being the center of attention. But it was okay, and a nice, super buff young woman bought me a popsicle and chatted with me for awhile after class.

I also confronted the instructor about the joint "locking" business. "Is the idea that we're supposed to hyperextend?" I asked, suspicious. He insisted that no, of course not, hyperextension can cause injury, etc. "Locking" really means "straightening."

So there you have it: Bikram yoga. Try it if you like intense physical experiences involving heat. Get over yourself and wear shorts. And straighten your knees, don't hyperextend them.

don't knock it till you try it: Vietnamese beer

Well, it's been almost two months since I returned from Vietnam, and I've been incredibly lazy about documenting the trip. But what's possibly even more disturbing than this lack of motivation is the fact that it's been almost two months since I returned from Vietnam, and I have still not recovered from the Vietnamese beer.

You see, the beer in Vietnam is plentiful, and it is cheap. In general, a beer costs about 50 cents. An "expensive" beer (an extra large bottle in a tourist trap) might cost as much as $1.25. Beer is basically as cheap as water. But it's not water--it's alcoholic, and it's vacation, and that means it's time to have fun! In other words, we pretty much drank Vietnamese beer all day long.

If you go to Vietnam, you will encounter many brands of beer--333, Saigon, Festival, Huda, Tiger, Hue Beer and Biere Larue are a few that come to mind. And if you are like me, you will sample them all.

I went to Vietnam thinking that it was going to be such a "healthy" trip, with all that vegetable-laden, dairy-free food and all that time spent frolicking on the beach and riding bikes around in the terrifying Vietnamese traffic.

But I was wrong. I came home and was immediately faced with the fact that I had "outgrown" virtually all of my pants. I guess that girl at Phuoc An tailor was right--only empire waists for me.

don't knock it till you try it: custom-made clothing in Hoi An

I recently returned from a trip to Vietnam. And while there were plenty of more "intense" things that I tried before knocking while I was there, I've decided to write my first entry about something relatively innocuous--the touristy activity of getting custom-made clothing in the town of Hoi An.

Before leaving on my trip, one of my friends expressed feelings of envy--she'd been dreaming of traveling to Vietnam for years, and she really wanted to get made-to-measure clothing in Hoi An.

Of course I had no idea what she was talking about, since true to form, I had barely researched the trip, preferring instead to learn about my destination from the guidebook in the hours before landing in a new place. For me, a trip never seems real until I'm in the air/on the road/whatever. Why bother researching a place and getting all excited just to have my hopes dashed when I never actually get there? This attitude seems to stem from years of travel-frustration and is obviously self-defeating, but I still have trouble reading the necessary travel books.

Eventually I wised up and started researching the trip, even setting up a meeting with my friend Kelly who traveled extensively in Vietnam a few years ago. Kelly drew me a map, told me about some of the better destinations and explained the correct pronunciation of "thank you" in Vietnamese (nothing like what I'd been "learning" from the Pimmsleur language CDs).

We talked about many things Vietnamese, including the custom-made clothing in Hoi An. I asked her if it was worthy of all the hype. Kelly gave me a "this is between you and me" kind of look. "It's crap," she said. But she admitted that the process of getting something made "just for you" is kind of fun--just that I shouldn't be expecting, like, couture on the cheap.

When we arrived in Hoi An, I was a little on the fence about the clothing. I figured I would eventually cave in to the very persistent tailor shop workers and get a dress made "for fun," but I wasn't obsessed with the idea.

Hoi An is a pretty little town, but the adorableness is somewhat tempered by the overwhelming, everywhere-ness of the tailoring scene. "Cloth shops" are crammed in next to each other all over the place, with the occasional restaurant or historic building breaking up the steady flow. Meanwhile, shop employees go to great lengths to lure you into their storefronts.

For example, on our second day in Hoi An Nick and I were accosted by a young woman on a bicycle moments after we left our hotel. Naturally, she wanted us to come with her to her shop to get some clothing made. Like a dutiful tourist, I had read my guidebook which warned the reader about various scams involving young ladies on bicycles luring you into shops, but I kept my mouth shut. Nick hates it when I demonstrate my cautious, sensible, even-keeled midwestern qualities--like when I refused to exchange my money with the old lady in the airport who promised us a better exchange rate if we'd simply "go over there" to a discreet corner with her.

So there we were in the "Lucky Number Cloth Shop", both of us getting measured for clothing we didn't really want. I gave up and asked for a simple cotton halter dress; Nick got a shirt. The girl who lured us in thanked us profusely for coming with her, and assured me that all her seams are double-stitched, everything is really good quality, etc. etc. Her shop is much better and cheaper than the shops affiliated with hotels--they get commissions! And so on.

After that, we submitted to the force of the tailoring pressure and decided to "test the waters" with two more shops. Next we went to Phuoc An--the shop associated with our hotel, getting all those sneaky commissions! But we had to go, because I really wanted to go back home and say that I got my dress at Phuoc An Tailor (F#$% Ann Taylor).

I paged through several books of photos, searching for a dress. Although it seems like it should be fun to look through a bunch of fashion magazines and then point to something and demand, "Make this for me!", for someone as indecisive as me, it was stressful. Eventually I settled on something relatively simple (sleeveless, v-neck, fitted waist), picked out a fabric and got out of there.

By the time we got to our final destination, Dong Phuong, I was getting fatigued. I took the boring, easy way out, finding a picture of a dress that looked suspiciously like one I already own and asking for it in red. And that was it for day one of custom-made clothing.

The next day we had to head back to all three shops, making the rounds to check out our new clothes. We started at Lucky Number. I tried on my dress--it fit, I guess, but it didn't look very good. Actually, it might have looked a little stupid. I checked the seams--they were not double-stitched, as the proprietress had promised--sure to fall apart after wearing for more than a couple hours.

Now, one of the "benefits" of this whole process is that the customer has the right to send a garment back for alterations. I could have pointed out the shoddy craftsmanship and the stupid cut of the dress and demanded to have it fixed. But I didn't want to deal with it, so I just accepted it as it was. Nick's shirt was pretty bad, too, but like me, he didn't have the energy to make an issue of it.

Then is was on to Dong Phuong. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the dress they made was good! It was a little too big, but the girls in the shop immediately set about to pinning it up to alter it. A couple hours later the dress returned, fitting perfectly. It was so great that I ordered another one! And Nick spontaneously ordered a suit (and he hates suits), which they somehow assembled in six hours. It turned out great, too.

Finally we went to Phuoc An to pick up the last of the stuff. The fabric of the dress was what I'd chosen, but everything else was different. The dress the salesgirl presented was a billowing thing with a scooped neck and an empire waist--way different from the sleek, simple thing in the picture. I tried to explain this to my sales girl. She smiled and shook her head, indicating that I did not want the dress that I had asked for. I tried to explain that I did. Then she patted me on the stomach, saying, "No, no! You not show this..." and then I realized that she had given me the tent dress for my own good--so that no one would have to be subjected to my giant, American gut.

Verdict: The shopping thing can be stressful if you aren't type A and you don't know what you want. It can also cause western traveler guilt when you walk down side streets and alleys at night and see all the little sweatshops cranking out designer knock-offs for plus-sized white tourists. And very thin Vietnamese women might mock your American heftiness, which could damage your self-esteem. But if you visit this town and want to take part, I would recommend Dong Phuong! But not the other two places.

Don't knock it till you try it: Lesley Gore live

Monday was my first day back from Vietnam, and in my jet-lagged state I saw in the Star Tribune that Lesley Gore, one of my favorite "girl group" singers, was performing that night at the Dakota in downtown Minneapolis.

I was exhausted and didn't really want to do anything except go home, drink wine and eat nachos, but the rational part of my brain told me I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't drive straight to the venue after work to secure a $40 ticket to this show of the decade. Lesley Gore songs were an important part of my early music education. When I was about eight years old, my parents bought me a Fisher Price turntable which they installed in our cold, damp basement in south Minneapolis.

Without an older sibling to guide my musical choices, I relied on my dad. Every now and then he'd take me to Great American Music in Bloomington to purchase 45s. Some of the songs that I remember from this era (my "only child in the basement" era) are "Wishin' and Hopin'", "Runaround Sue" and of course, "It's My Party" and "Judy's Turn to Cry."

This early indoctrination instilled a deep appreciation of all that 60s girl group stuff. In my advanced age I now find "It's My Party" to be kind of annoying, but I truly love "Maybe I Know" ("Maybe I know that he's been a-cheatin'/Maybe I know that he's been untrue/But what can I do???") Indeed--I mean really, what can you do? 

Anyway, so I like Lesley Gore, and I rushed down to the Dakota promptly at 5:30 when the box office opened. I'd never been there before (has anyone?), so I didn't know that's it's basically a restaurant and if you buy a single ticket they're going to match you up with another single person with whom you will have to make stilted conversation for what seems like hours. No one stands around like they do at normal rock shows, so there's no escape.

I approached my seat at the two-person cocktail party feeling like a clumsy call girl. My "date" was a gentleman who seemed to be about my dad's age, or older (mid-60s). I was by far the youngest person in the place, and "Ed" pointed this out. "You're too young to remember Lesley Gore," he said. I explained the thing with my dad and the 45s. "Oh," he said. We were off to a great start.

As a personal challenge (I'm socially retarded), I attempted to make conversation about music. He was polite, but not super talkative, and I noticed that he didn't waste much time making reference to his "girlfriend." This made me paranoid. "Does he think I'm hitting on him?" I wondered. Everyone knows that girls only reference "the boyfriend" when they're trying to rebuff the advances of some pushy dude.

Maybe I was reading into it too much. Luckily, Lesley came on soon, and I was relieved of my small talk duties.

Lesley kicked off the night with a song I'd never heard--probably one of her more recent songs that could only be described as "adult contemporary." I started to feel grateful that I hadn't pressured any of my friends to come with me. (This feeling was confirmed later when she performed a "jazzy" version of that Bryan Adams song "Everything I Do...I Do it For You.")

But this is starting to sound catty. Lesley was actually really good! But there is something a little off-putting about seeing someone who looks like your mom's stylish-but-practical best friend belting out teenager pop hits from the 60s. "Maybe I should have stayed home and watched this stuff on youtube..." I started to think. But then again, what was I expecting? 

The audience loved it, however. White women in the sixties "shimmied" self-consciously in their chairs. Older men in button downs and sweaters folder their arms across their chests, occasionally tapping a foot. All in all, it was much like the scene at an indie rock show, but older.

One funny thing happened--during "It's My Party" Lesley went out in the audience to accost a particularly jubilant table of 50-something women. When the chorus came around, she shoved the microphone into the face of one of the women. (I hate it when performers do this; it's so embarrassing! But I guess it only happens when you're at a Monkees reunion show or something.) Anyway, the woman couldn't sing at all. "Well, you look good, but you sure can't sing!" said Lesley. 

After the show, I saw the bad singer in the bathroom. "Oh, you're the singer," said one of the other women in line. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Yeah," said the bad singer. "Lesley said I had a bad voice. But she apologized later and said she didn't mean it."