The Music In Me

I've been pretty lazy lately. I used to work out five to six times a week, but in the last five months that has dwindled down to about, hmmm, zero. Feeling the desire to rediscover the health nut in me and stop considering Haagen Daaz it's own food group, I decided to become a runner. Let me say for the record, I've never really been into running. But  I see women in black running pants with sleek, form fitting jackets, head bands on and music players strapped to their arms. Eyes trained on the road in front of them. I want to be one of them. I assembled all the necessary gear. I actually have "running clothes" from the last time I wanted to be a runner (I've wanted to be a runner several times, I've just never done the running). Clothes, check. New running shoes from Nike, check. Upbeat music loaded on my phone, check. Now having all these things at my disposal, surprise surprise, has not made it any easier to drag my butt outside and run. Except once when I did sprints down my street. My kids kept saying to me, "Mom, do you know how crazy you look?" So my shoes sit on the floor by my dresser, my clothes stuffed in a drawer. But my phone loaded with music? This has gotten some use.

In my attempt to put peppy music on my phone, I ripped music off of the 200 CD's that have been in a storage bin in our basement for six years and loaded it on my phone. I had music at my fingertips that I hadn't listened to in 15 years. And I downloaded all sorts of new stuff. Welcome back Simple Minds. Missed you Veruca Salt. Where have you been Siouxsie and the Banshees? Pleased to meet you Katy Perry. Glad you could come Pitbull. Now instead of only being able to listen to music when my kids were at school (Mom blasting music from the office computer is not very conducive to homework getting done), I could listen all the time. When the kids are home and watching iCarly for the 37th time, I could be listening to my music. But, I think my kids are getting frustrated with how much I am listening to the music on my phone because I'm hearing a lot of stuff like this-

"Mom, turn it down."
"Mom, take those earphones out and listen to me."
"Mom, are you listening to me?"
"Mom, did you hear what I said?"
"Mom, just turn it off."

What a bunch of squares.

I guess the music listening reached a breaking point with my oldest son last week when he and his friend were playing video games in the living room and I was in the kitchen cleaning, music on, earphones in, and singing away. "Billie Jean is not my lo-over. She's just a girl who claims that I AM THE ONE. BUT THE KID IS NOT MY SON... ee-hee! oooohhh!"

As the song ended and silence filled my ears, I caught the tail end of my son apologizing for my behavior to his friend. "I. Am. So. Sorry." I turned to them right as I heard that and caught four pre-adolescent eyes staring at me with mouths open. Sensing embarrassment coming on I did the only thing I could think of. I had to own the moment. I then raised both arms over my head and said "Mama-say-mama-saw-mama-makusaw!" And I moon walked down the hall.

Yoga And All That Other Crap

Since we're friends I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I do yoga. That's me whispering. It's not something I brag about or advertise to the world and I will tell you why. Not long ago I was out to dinner with some, hmm, for lack of a better word friends when one of them said and I quote "all those other new age freaks who do yoga and chant and drink their green tea infusions. I hate that crap."

Um, hello? Excuse me? I put my head down and said "I do yoga". Again, me whispering. She didn't hear me but it was then that I knew to do yoga was to know shame. Since that moment I have never breathed a word to anybody about it. I don't even know if Matt knows I do it. I know my family doesn't know. Most of my friends don't know. I'm a closet yoga do-er.

I guess there could be worse things in my closet. Alcoholism, multiple felony convictions. But probably people would understand these things. Most people don't understand yoga. It's not a religion, at least it's not to me. But I love it. I love how the slow movements and the timed breathing force my body and mind to slow down. It's Kelly time. It's one of the only things that I do that is really for me. I could tell my yoga-knocking friend that at least I'm not engaging in Miller Time. And honestly with Matt gone that seems sometimes like a more tempting option.

Yoga is not easy. It, like anything else, takes practice and much concentration. I can do a crane, a plow, a downward dog. A needle, a swan, a monkey. None of these poses look remotely like what they are called. Except corpse. You lay there like you're dead. If they were called what they really looked like, third eye where you squat down and put your hands to your forehead would be called I dropped a contact and now I'm going to pray about it because I feel really sick. Chest lift where you reach as high over your head as you can and then lean back would be called I'm trying to reach something on the highest shelf and I lost my balance and I'm falling backwards. It's really fun. You should try it!

But what to do about the yoga-haters though? I could do the yoga thing which would be acceptance and peace and love and forgiveness. I choose the other road. The next time this person decides to give me a yoga put-down, I'll just whip out a can of Warrior 2 and Pow! Take that! How about an extended triangle right in your eye! Wham! And when I was done kicking her butt, I would put my hands together and bow. Namaste.