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Restorative Yoga: Stick With Pose One

yogaA good sign that your life is out of balance is when you’re caught doing things that your best friend would howl at.

For instance, had my best pal of over 30 years witnessed me with a bolster between my legs, and my head resting on yoga blocks, she most likely would have peed her pants laughing and had tears rolling down her cheeks.

But that’s where I’m at.

Yep. Tonight I opted for a ‘Restorative Yoga’ class as a renewed attempt to practice self-care in the face of sky-high anxiety. You’d think that all 44 years of me packed into spandex and a sports bra would be a deterrent, but no. I may be a ball of anxiety, but I’m a brave ball of anxiety.

So, off I went, anxious (of course) about what this new class might offer.

What it offered was a zillion blankets, blocks, props and sundry other things that my teacher, “Susan” helped to jostle my tense muscles with in order to get me into a completely relaxed position…or so she thought.

The first pose was great. It was the fetal position. Quite apt for the stressed out adults the class adverts appealed to.

After that, I followed Susan’s lead into the next pose. I propped myself up into a sitting position with a pillow under my knees, and then Susan came around and wrapped me in a blankie so it supported my arms. Cocooned in a snuggly ball of relaxed warmth, the grand finale was her gently placing a soft mask over my eyes to block out the already dim and relaxing lighting. Susan, you’re the bomb!

Sweet love of all that’s holy,” I thought to myself. “This class is for me!” The woman across from me began to snore.

And then we changed poses. Yes, this was the front-facing-face-down-in-a-towel-pose-that-makes-you-very-aware-of-your-belly-fat-and-how-inflexible-you-are.  From that position; legs spread, face down on a propped up pillow with arms resting on even more fluff, I regretted my decision to fully participate in the class.

Out of the corner of my eye I glanced some much more experienced restorative-yoga-goers, and those smart bastards stayed in the previous pose, reclined with their eyes covered and sound asleep. After all, as Susan had instructed, “This is your class, and you can do whatever you’re comfortable with.

Hey! Suzy!” I wanted to shout, “Could you come over here and prop me up again with that warm blankie? Oh, and can you turn up that soothing tantric audio excellence while you’re at it?”  

I wanted out of this pose! I wanted to be prone with my knees supported and so relaxed that I was snoring like the lady across from me. I wanted my boobs to be three cup sizes smaller so that they didn’t feel like they were pinching my trachea.

But I did not wiggle or call out for Susan. No, I did not. Mostly because I’ve already been kicked out of one yoga class for giggling, and I didn’t want being kicked out of yoga classes to be my thing.

As always, I gave the class a fair shot. I tried everything and came to the conclusion that my yoga classes would remain locked into something that gets my heart beating, my breathing deep, and my sweat pouring.

Should you ever have the opportunity to experience a restorative yoga class, I highly recommend staying in the very first pose. That would be the resting fetal position.

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The Fathoms of Her Mind

battlebrainThe communication neurons between men and women seem to misfire at an alarmingly high rate.

I must admit that I have no idea what makes a man tick beyond a good meal and a good shagging. Perhaps some intelligent dialogue, maybe some seduction, but beyond that, I really have no idea. If I did, I likely would have been able to reel one in by now and get him in the net.

Often a man has arrived at my door seemingly cool as a cucumber, armed with a bottle of wine, bouquet of flowers, or even, appallingly enough, with nothing in hand.

It appears my delicate reader that men only shower, dress and show up.

Not so with women. This post is for the men out there, in an effort to give you some appreciation of our thought-process, and what we do in order to ‘get ready’ to see our deliciously handsome slices of man-pie.

Unfortunately in this day and age, our preparatory regime is often limited by the time we have available. For instance, it’s often a toss up whether we dust, or try on a succession of delicates to wear under our clothing. Often we will opt for  low lighting, and spend our precious time getting our gitch right.

What to wear…that’s a biggie. In order to answer that question, we must ask ourselves more questions; Are we going out or are we staying in? Will we be disrobing, or will we remain clothed? Should I wear a light shirt or a sweater based on how hot I am (not the ambient room temperature)? If we’re going out, which shoes should I wear. I want to be sexy, but not walking like a new-born calf in ultra-high-heels if we have to walk very far.

Then there’s the issue of our hair…Are we going out or staying in? Is there any chance it might get wet, or frizzy from the humidity? Which hair products should I use? I want the style to stay in place, but I don’t want his fingers to stick to it like fly paper. Are my roots showing? Should touch it up, or will I smell like a bottle of ammonia? Should I pack what I need to put it up if it looks like crap wearing it down? Do I need a bigger purse to carry all of my back-up accessories?

Make-up…is it worth it? Is this an entirely indulgent and wonderfully long and well-planned date? Will I need to go for full face with some strategically placed powder? Is this a romp in la sack? If so, I need to go light and waterproof so I don’t come up for air looking like Marilyn Manson’s mother.

Hydration…how much water should I drink beforehand so the wine at dinner doesn’t give me a headache, or the action afterward wear me out?  On the other hand, I don’t want to spend most of the evening in the ladies room either.

Remembering what he said the last time I spoke with him…What’s he up to, what’s important to him? what makes him smile and laugh? These are all very important things, because after all, you wouldn’t be wanting to spend time with someone if his feelings weren’t important. When I’m anxious or excited, I tend to babble incessantly. Remember you were born with one mouth and two ears – shut up and listen darlings.

Transportation…should we drive together or just meet there? Usually this is not a question, we already know the answer. If we are just starting to see one another and don’t know one another well, I tend to air on the side of caution. Get myself there in order to get myself out of there if need be. If we both want a few tipples, perhaps a cab is in order. Do I have the requisite parking available should I choose to entertain said gentleman until the wee hours of the morning?

Manicure (colour and length), pedicure, shade of eyeshadow, shade of lipstick, bra, panties, socks, garters, pantyhose, sandals, shoes, height of heel, jacked or not, purse, required girl-stuff for purse including breath mints, lipstick, hair stuff, phone, money, identification, pants, skirt, shirt, necklace, earrings, watch, bracelet…the list goes on.

So gentlemen, my delightful, wonderful darling men, please understand when we ask where we’re going, we’re asking not because we question your judgment, motives, or means. We are asking so we can be our most radiant, beautiful confident selves and provide you with exquisite company. Humour us a while won’t you?

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Don’t Pinch the She-Dragon

"Romantic love is a passionate, spiritual-emotional-sexual attachment between a man and a woman [two people], that reflects a high regard for the value of each other's person." ~Ritu Ghatoury~
“Romantic love is a passionate, spiritual-emotional-sexual attachment between a man and a woman [two people], that reflects a high regard for the value of each other’s person.”
~Ritu Ghatoury~
I really get tired of men complaining about women and how unbalanced the world has become since we’ve demanded educational, professional and wage equity.

Let me be blunt gentlemen; how often do you feel compelled to let someone put warm wax on your testicles and then tear the hair out, just to make your gal’s ride-along more pleasant? Hmm?

I thought so. Unless you want your scrotum to expand and shrivel like a slinky, I’m quite sure you settle for a bit of manscaping and a good scrub.

Usually I don’t mind my monthly  visit to tame the jungle-book-down-under. I  am loyal to my aesthetics guru, and she knows me.

Today when I showed up for my appointment, the receptionist let me know that Maria had been admitted to the hospital last night and was ill. Immediately my first thought was; What’s the appropriate thing to do in this case? Send flowers? Send a card? After all,  Maria was the gatekeeper of my she-dragon, and person in whose delicate hands rested the scales of whether or not I would be the lounging, sensual recipient of the skillful cunninglingus of which I have become accustomed.

In other words, she plays a huge role in my ability to enjoy life to the fullest. Maria also guards the secret identity of the little-man-in-the-boat,  whereas even my most intimate of lovers only gets to view the magician by candlelight, or the shadow of my thighs.

After disrobing, and stretching out on the waxing table, ‘Quiny’, as she introduced herself began the most painful, ridiculous bikini wax I have ever had, and I’ve been doing this for a while folks.  I’m quite sure the first layer of skin on the left side of my veil-of-pleasure is still stuck to her last waxing strip, but was afraid to look.

If an aesthetician has to ask, “That hurt you”, more than once, the outcome may be gruesome.

To her credit, Quiny was good with a mirror and asked on several occasions that I look and make sure she was doing a good job. I began to wonder about Quiny’s motives.

I also thought that perhaps having my woo-hoo waxed immediately prior to an hour and a half long sitting-mediation at the temple was not such good planning.

Finally, after what seemed like  hours at the hand of Quiny-the-Torturer, I sat up on my elbows, looked down at my  girly-bits and said, “That’s enough”.

The pain was so intense that I wasn’t sure whether she was pinching or pulling, and I sure as hell didn’t know what she could possibly be pinching or pulling at. I was convinced my outer labia had already been ripped off and tossed in her little white trash can.

Quiny held the mirror up, “You look”, she said. And she smiled. I’m not a violent woman, but I wanted to smack that smile off her face with that ridiculous mirror like I was using a squash raquet.

“I’m sure it’s just fine,” I said, quickly squeezing my thighs together.   I made a mental note to go see my regular Goddess of the Wax tomorrow at the hospital and take on advocating for her medical care.

So gentlemen, don’t give me any bitching or moaning about having to act like a gentleman to garner the attention of a lady.  Real ladies care about what they bring to a relationship, including a neat and tidy valley of delight.

The next man I hear whining is being sent to Quiny so she can have a go at your hairy man-bits. Then we’ll talk.