So, I hate this woman in my yoga class…

Yoga is MY time. I get to be in a space where the sole focus is on breathing, being mindful, paying attention to my body as it is experiencing the poses today, and learning how to let go of all the stuff around me. And I’m being seriously challenged in this aspect by my sheer hatred for this woman in my class. My level of anger toward her is ridiculous, and feels only somewhat justified, but it’s clearly bothering me and isn’t affecting her one whit, which makes me even more annoyed. I know that in the past I blogged about feeling jealous and annoyed with that student, Mellow (because wtf kind of yogic name is that anyway?), but this frustration is much more intense and it is causing me a lot of grief.

It started a couple of weeks ago. This women, I’ll call her Gladiola, was practicing in the corner with her yoga friend. It was a new teacher, and I was absolutely LOVING his class. The way his voice said all of the words I hear every time was somehow magical. My body was connecting with the verbal adjustments and I just felt lovely. My friend Mari was with me, and we were sweating and rocking out to a really good class. And when it came to the final savasana, I felt so good, he turned the fans on, said his final ‘namaste’ and left the room.

BOOM

Up Gladiola went, huffing all the way over the fan switch, loudly turned them off, and then stomped back over onto her corner mat and laid down on her belly like she was sun-tanning. My system felt shocked from her level of angry energy rippling through the room and I stopped my savasana short, rolled up my mat, and Mari and I headed out. AND THEN there was the vibe in the locker room. When she came slamming her sweaty shit around, complaining thing “I just can’t relax when it is soooo cold in there,” and going on and on about how she’s going to take her bitch-ass-complaint to the owner. Ugh. It was the guy’s first class teaching at this studio, and she couldn’t cut him some slack, not to mention she wasn’t the only one in the class, and frankly, I enjoyed myself.

Now, the past few weeks I’ve noticed her bitching in the locker room, butting in on other people’s conversations, and dramatically sighing when they complained about it being 101 and feeling hot, because, “it’s supposed to be 110 you know” (it’s not, Bikram is actually supposed to be 105, and I imagine saying that to her while I shove my foot up her ass).

But here’s the deal…she doesn’t even know I exist. My hatred extreme dislike is really annoying to me. I know that I am hyper-sensitive to vibes, but her energy has actually changed my behavior…making me leave the comfortable locker room before I’m ready to avoid the icky feeling around her, and makes me feel uncomfortable practicing anywhere near her in the smallish studio. I don’t like it. I go to yoga to get away from the stresses of my life, not to be more stressed out!

Because I’m an overanalyzer, I have spent a lot more time thinking about this than I probably should. I wonder if I am just jealous of her tiny little yoga outfits or the way she struts about the studio like she owns the place. Do I think that I want to be like her? Heck no! Even that Mellow chick, who I felt was really bendy and tried too hard, seemed like a nice person underneath the extra impressive stretching at the beginning of class. I honestly don’t think it’s jealousy. I think this woman is actually putting a bad vibe out into the world and because my boundaries are so thin, her black vaporous energy is seeping into my space and I’m being affected.

So, last night I tried to do some meta while in savasana and cobra pose. I could see her in the mirror, and I tried to send her positive thoughts. I tried to chant “may you be free from suffering,” but I’m not sure it actually worked. I mean, I’m not sure it actually changed ME, though maybe she’s having  a fantastic day today. Who knows.

HELP! How can I rid myself of this frustration with a stranger who’s tainting the otherwise lovely energy in my yoga studio experience?

A Yogi Named Mellow

I went to my first evening back-to-work yoga class. I was feeling vulnerable. Tired after a long day of work. Guilty that I had whisked Potamus from daycare and got to only spend 1.5 hours with him in the evening before I left again for my class. But there I was, ten minute early, alternating between savasana and easy sitting pose, when Mellow came in.

There she was, sitting front row. And in the ten minutes before class she was engaging in all sorts of yogi acrobatics. Full splits with head to knee. Full ekapadarajkapotasana (king pigeon) pose. All with a half-smile on her face, and her long hair in one sweet french braid, wearing cheetah panties. Yeah, panties.

I mean, bikram yoga is pretty notorious for the minimal clothing, but I can mostly tell the difference between yoga bottoms, which look like bikini bottoms, and underwear. And she was wearing underwear. Her seductively intimidating warmup, with her six pack abs, and slightly glowing skin, made me feel like a giant slob. And while there are plenty of super-awesomely-in-fit practitioners that I see in every class, it was this attitude oozing from her that was both better-than-and-humbler-than, which made me want to gag.

And so I spent the entire session down on myself. My balance was off in the standing poses. I couldn’t cool myself down during the floor poses. And generally altered between feeling like crying and wanting to punch someone. Maybe it was a test, on pushing through when it’s distracting. Or a giant metaphor about how balancing work-life is the theme of the week when the balancing poses are so hard for me. Because, with hindsight, it wasn’t about her, it was about me. I got distracted. And jealous. And down on myself. I focused on things I couldn’t change, and forgot to breathe and be proud that I was there after a long day of work. She’s probably a very lovely person, but I was jealous and annoyed, rather than filled with awe, respect, and a silent congrats that she had gotten to such a limber state.

How do you deal with comparison/jealousy in your physical fitness endeavors?

11 Months, Thanksgiving Prep, and Birthday Invitations

Yesterday Potamus turned 11 months. No other time in his life is he going to be celebrated every month, so I like to go all-out. And by that, I mean, I sat on the couch and snapped a few pictures of him doing his thing…which, predictably, included the new skill of walking with his walker toy.

Yeah, proud mama right here! My baby’s walking! So what if he needs a walker, there are plenty of grown-ass adults that need walkers!

Another new skill is: being completely obsessed with my writing while on the laptop. Proof:

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Today my adoptive parents trek across Snoqualmie Pass to begin Thanksgiving prep. I’m mostly excited about spending time with them, making the pecan pie and the raspberry jello, and showing off Potamus’s new walking pasttime. I am excited for family time and rolls and drinking 6 bottles of sparkling cider.

I am nervous about having to navigate the whole jealousy issue. And I’m nervous about trying to placate my crazy ex-sister-in-law as she drops off her daughter for my adoptive brother’s custody holiday. She’s nuts, and I dislike having to deal with her.

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Yesterday I approved Boof’s invitation wording for our combined 30 & 1 birthday party in December. It was so sweet, how he put a picture of me and Potamus with the wording:

“Come Celebrate 30 & 1 with Mother and Son”

Narrowing the guest list down to friends was the easy part. But the whole family thing gets trickier. And as an adoptee, I tend to go between the opposite extremes of trying to please everybody or saying “screw it” and doing my own thing. But with a certain limit to how many people will fit into the rented room.
My challenge isn’t my biological dad, he and his family are a given.

My adoptive parents are going to be out of town and so we are doing a belated birthday bash right before Christmas.

It’s my biological mom’s side of the family that I’m worried about. Mostly because her brain is fried by all the years of drugs and alchol (not even to mention, she still might be using). And her parents are sweet, but overbearing and, how can I say it nicely…weird. But my half-siblings on that side are pretty cool, I mostly jive with my brother, but if I were to just invite him, or just invite the two of them, then are feelings going to be hurt. But most importantly, I have an excellent connection on-line with my great-uncle. He and I seem to just be totally simpatico, and he lives in Canada and might be down in time for the birthday, but would the world go all cattywampus if I invited him, but not his brother (my grandpa)?

I want to be true to myself and just invite my biological half-siblings and my paternal great-uncle. But I’m afraid of the ramifications.

And this is why I wasn’t ready to be in reunion at 18. People used to ask me about when I wanted to meet my biological family, but I always put it off saying “well, I’m in college, and it’s already complicated enough.” Gee whiz, at 30 I still don’t have it figured out.

Jealous Mothers

I think we need to invent a specific word to describe the jealousy of mothers. Or maybe more accurately, the jealousy of mothers with grandchildren. Because I am about ready to pop my mom and my mother-in-law in the face if they don’t get their shit figured out. I mean, seriously, their mutual jealousy is driving me batshit crazy.

It started a few weeks ago, when I was explaining to my mom why we were looking at non-home daycares, stating, “Potamus has a grandma, and a mom and dad, to watch him” but before I could even finish the sentence she inserted, “he has another grandma, too.”

face, meet palm.

Seriously? Yes mom, I know he has “two” grandmas (though if we are really being honest, he has FOUR grandmas since I am adopted, but I let that part slide), but if you would have let me finish the sentence it was about primary caregivers. I’m sorry that she made the choice to stay living 25o miles away and my mother-in-law is right down the street, but I can’t do anything about that.

THEN, my second sister-in-law got married and my mom said, ‘I don’t know, is MB (my mother-in-law) stressed, because I tried to say “hi” to her and she didn’t respond, but she gave your dad a hug.”

Seriously.

WTF.

My mother-in-law is the mom of the bride, probably not in the best frame of mind to be chit-chatting and worrying about my mom’s feelings on the matter. But, to try and nip that nonsense in the bud, Boof had a wee chat with his mom about making extra sure that my mom feels included in stuff.

BUT THEN, after the wedding shenanigans were through, MB comes to me and says, “I’m not bothered by it, but your dad says that your mom is going by grammy, so I guess I will go by Grandma Lastname.”
(which is the most martyeriest thing she could say, because she originally told us she HATED that name.)

Seriously. It’s like being in freaking junior high, and I have less patience now for that kind of drama. Who the fuck cares if Potamus calls you BOTH grammy? Why does it matter? Why all the jealousy and insecurity?

AND THEN, in reference to my 30th and Potamus’s 1st birthday party in my hometown, my mom made a snide remark about “I hope it’s okay we just to a family dinner. That’s how we do it,” which was clearly referencing my in-laws (who have more money) who go out to eat a lot. GAH! I’m about to pull my hair out.

On my mom’s end, it seriously feels like she is having those child-feelings that I had because of adoption. It feels like she now understands what it is like to worry that someone (me) is going to leave and not think of her as family anymore. But I don’t know what the deal is with my mother-in-law, but at this rate I am getting VERY annoyed about the prospect of having to deal with it all on Thanksgiving. I want them to just communicate, work it out, and hell, maybe even let Potamus pick his own name for you all. My pick, right now,  is Beavis and Butthead.

How are YOU a badass?

I was reading this article The Day Female Longboarders Taught me how to be a Badass on Huffington Post, and it hit me in the gut. You see, I have badass women friends that I admire and frankly…am pretty effing jealous of. Melissa Sher starts out saying:

I’ve wanted to be a badass for as long as I can remember. But the closest I ever came was in college, when I got my belly button pierced. Sadly, I had to remove the belly ring after only one day because it got infected. Three pregnancies later, my scar has stretched so that it now looks like a small, upside-down question mark, as if asking me, “What were you thinking?”

I giggled at this, thinking about my impulsive moments in college where I got my tongue AND nose pierced on the same day, and how utterly “cool” I felt with that. I mean, it’s not anyone who would just finish a rafting trip with some new friends, strike up a conversation about tongue rings and realize that you BOTH had wanted a tongue piercing, and then hop in the car and head down to the local tattoo shop to get it done…especially not after I had been there that morning getting my sparkly nose-stud.

This idea of being a badass woman is one that I’ve thought about for awhile. I have goals people…GOALS, though most of the time that goal is to get up off the couch (stop blogging Monk-Monk, get out, enjoy life!) and do something really badass, like changing a poopy diaper. These friends that I’m jealous of include:
1) my bestie from college who married a rock-climber and they’ve adopted 2 australian shepards that they’ve found out on the trails (on 2 separate occasions). They travel around on weekends (and he, for work) bouldering and hiking and camping in the back of their truck. She is a badass. She can climb rocks upside down and the muscles on her arms are toned to a ridiculous point. Best part is, in pictures she looks so incredibly happy.
2) my current bestie who recently double-dutched on her wedding day IN HER WEDDING DRESS, because she loves being a part of her jump-rope group so much. She does Hood-to-Coast and her honeymoon wasn’t to the typical tropical places..no, they road-tripped through Banff, Canada.

3) my good friend from school is a Crossfit maniac, when parachuting last summer and is training to be in a Tough Mudder competition (think 12 miles run full of full-blown team obstacle course!). She’s currently on her way to Croatia with her husband to vacation around, which just seems so badas.. not Paris or London, but Croatia (I mean, who has even HEARD of Croatia 😉 ).

A few examples of women in my life that I admire. Like the women in the article, I long to do thrilling adrenaline rushing things. I sometimes feel like I chose such a safe life…marriage to a man, home-owner, middleish class, one dog, one kid, etc. Sometimes I wish I were brave enough to get on a long-board and go 40 mph down a long winding hill.

Then there’s part of me who laughs at my comparisons to my friends. That part of me that remembers moving to India solo and escaping kidnapping by my taxi driver in the middle of the night, the part of me that remembers being Avatar in the Solstice Parade naked bike-ride, or the part of me that remembers calling up a stranger saying, “I was adopted in 1982 and I have reason to believe that you are my father.”

All of those things make me badass.

Changing poopy diapers makes me badass, too…but in a totally different way…right?

Though this drive to be physically badass…through long-boarding or yoga or running in obstacle courses, keeps calling to me…and yet…I still am not quite to getting my goals into practice.

Tell me…in what ways are YOU badass? And how did you get to where you are?

Sibling Rivalry

When strangers ask me how many brothers and sisters I have, I usually have to pause, and think before answering. If it’s just the run-of-the-mill stranger, who I won’t see again and the answer “two” will suffice my conscience, I go with that. If it’s someone I think I might remotely run into again, who might remember my answer of “two,” and then question me about why I am suddenly talking about ‘my little sisters,” or, “my other brother,” I have to answer more truthfully, which is more of a mouthful than a number. There are stories and backstories to my answer, which makes things complicated. On a good day, I have six, though two I almost always claim, since I was raised with them, despite the fact that we share zero DNA, two “halfs” as I refer to them, since that denotes the fact that we do not share the same father, and two “littles,” because thats what they were to me when I met them: 4 and 8…little sisters.

Sibling relationships are complicated.
Adoption makes that even more complicated.

I was in graduate school when I found my sibling’s families. My sister is lucky enough to be born in a state that allows her easy access to her Original Birth Certificate (you know, the one that’s historically true, and lists the vagina she came out of, and not the made up one that she carries identifying her as being my sister by blood). Once she got that certificate in the mail she had a last name and my sleuthing dug up an old Classmates.com account and voila, she was in contact with her mother. And her sister. Or half sister. I’m not sure how she classifies it, now.

My brother wasn’t so lucky as he was born in the same locked-down version of Washington State law that doesn’t allow us access to our own medical and historical documents without having our parent’s consent (though how the fuck we get the consent when we don’t know who these people are is beyond me). We did have first names, though, and the information that they were married, or at least HAD been married at some time. 24 hours of hardcore internet searching, cross-referencing and examining birthdates and address records, led me to his parents. They are married. One older half brother. Two younger full sisters.

The English language doesn’t have words or names for my brother’s sister. No, she’s not my sister-in-law, I told someone one time. She’s my brother’s sister. Or my sister’s sister. Funnier yet is when I talk about my sister’s mother, a lovely woman, who I got to meet one spring day at my parent’s house.

Confused yet? Cause I sure am…

It’s strange enough that I have to always explain that, yes I have 2 moms and 2 dads, no they aren’t step-parents, and no they aren’t gay, either. I have between 2 and 6 siblings, and my siblings have siblings, and I don’t have a name for that, or a name for my sibling’s parents, either.

So I was talking to my sister Poochie this week, and she was telling me her excitement and anxiety about going down to see her family in Oregon. That she was walking Hood to Coast with them, her mother, and grandmother, and aunts and cousin and her sister. And that she was excited because “all the girls” were gonna be in the same van.

But I would not be in that van.

And I felt sad.

Left out.

Not intentionally, or like I even want to be a part of her family in that way, but because she and I weren’t doing something together. That I had to share, and sharing is hard, and I wanted to say mean things like “my son is cuter than your other sister’s son,” but I held my tongue.

Her reunion with her family is what I’ve wanted and advocated and fiercely defended to outsiders and our parent’s alike. Same with my brother, though he is much more private about his encounters wiht a fully functioning biological set of family, though I am often startled when pictures pop up unsolicited online.

I am jealous.

It’s not that I want their other lives, but I sometimes long for it to not be so fucking complicated.
Mostly I just kinda wish I was wearing pink sneakers and walking to the ocean with my sister.