Finding My Chi

Last time I was visiting my folks, I went to the trainer with my 60-something year old mother – it was absolutely humiliating.  On every single exercise I was using about half the weight that my out-of-shape, slightly-over-weight mother was using and I was falling down about half the time.  Now, I consider myself to be fairly physically fit,  hell, I’ve run two marathons, but I was totally outgunned in the strength department.

I have decided to pursue yoga because I think it can help me in two distinct areas 1. physical strength and flexibility and 2. relaxation and mindfulness.  I’ve been at it for a few weeks and I can say that without a doubt it’s helping with strength and flexibility but I have yet to find my Chi.

After literally falling on my face for the first few weeks every time I attempted “chuttarunga“ (the downward motion of a push up for the uninitiated) and after being so sore that I was unable to lift my arms above my head, I have turned a corner.  I now successfully execute at least one chuttarunga per class and have moved on to balance poses (like standing on one foot for more than a second).  So I am definitely making progress towards kicking my mom’s ass next time we go to the trainer together.

The relaxation and mindfulness has been another story entirely.  The class always starts with some breathing exercises and mediation.  The instructor tells us to close our eyes, let go of our outside thoughts, and focus on the breathing.  Inevitably just as I‘m getting into my zone and finding my chi about five minutes into class, someone opens the door and barges in. This is a huge distraction, but I try to maintain focus.

The class is always extremely full.  As in, there is about four inches of free space between each yoga mat.  So inevitably there is no actual room for said inconsiderate latecomer’s yoga mat, but does this stop him? NO.  Undeterred by the lack of space the latecomer literally puts his yoga mat on top of other people’s  yoga mats.  At this point, my Chi is totally screwed.  I tried to hang in there when he made all that noise coming in to the class late but now he’s crossed the line.  Literally.  He is now in my personal space.  I then spend the next 50 minutes of the 60 minute class hoping that the latecomer will collapse with a major, but non-life-threatening, injury, and then hating myself for having such evil thoughts.

Thanks to yoga, I may someday be able to do a push up.  Being able to relax and be in the moment for 60 minutes might be another story.

The Breakup: Sifting Through the Remains

A few days ago, a couple came to my (our?) apartment to buy our furniture.  They walked from room to room asking “Is that lamp for sale?” “What about that picture?” and “Anything for sale in the kitchen?”  I followed behind dutifully pointing out that the coffee table has lots of room for storage and that the dining room table has a leaf that can be added for hosting larger groups.

They looked at the pictures still hanging on the walls of me and my ex. and asked “Is that your husband?” and “What a nice couple” and picked up a walking stick that we had taken as a souvenir from a hike that we had gone on months ago.

I felt as if I was standing there naked in front of them.  These strangers who had entered my home and were picking through the remains of my former life.  Deciding whether that lamp was really worth $25 and making note of scratches on the dresser.  There it was.  My life.  Written in the pictures and souvenirs, on the table where we used to eat, and across the sofa where I used to lay my head on his lap and in the bed that we once shared.

My life is being dismantled piece by piece, a $25 lamp at a time.  In the end, the only that that will be left is me.  Stripped down and empty. Ready to start again from scratch.

The Breakup (Part I)

Last week I had my final epic Vegas bash as a member of the sub-30 set.  My best friend from college happened to be in Vegas for a work conference and she invited me to crash with her for my entire week-long spring break.  At the time it seemed totally reasonable – what’s wrong with spending 8 nights in Vegas, drinking and partying every single night?  

We talked a lot, not really about the important issues in our lives, but just dull every day stuff like what to eat for breakfast.  Somehow, just being around her helped me to see my life more clearly.  On the excruciating 7 hour Sunday bus ride back from Vegas I decided to end my six year relationship with my live-in boyfriend.  I don’t want to make this seem rash.  It wasn’t.  I have been thinking about the future of our relationship for months, but there was something about getting away and spending time with a dear friend that helped me come to terms with my decision.

I broke up with him right away on Sunday night when I got back.  I did it even in the midst of a terrible hang over which caused me to wonder whether I might be suffering from permanent brain damage.  I knew that it was the right decision. I was sure.

He fought it and tried to reason with me.  I think that at one point he may have pulled out a pie chart of our happiness as a couple over time and concluded that we have been happy at least 85% of the time.  But I knew that the time had come, and I held firm.  I agreed to let him stay for 30 days to figure out what he was going to do with his life.

At this point, in order for the story to make sense, I should make a note of an unpleasant fact that I have omitted heretofore.  I’ve been covering Mr. Loser’s rent for the last six months even though I myself am a struggling student.  He always seemed to have a reasonable answer and I bought it hook line and sinker.

Now back to the story.  So I agreed to let him stay in the apartment for 30 days even though he hadn’t paid rent in 6 months, out of the goodness of my heart. I also agreed to keep his dirty little secret and not talk shit about him to my friends.  Our relationship was over but everything was OK.

But then, there I am, Thursday afternoon, studying at the kitchen table in our shared apartment when suddenly the power goes out.  At first I think that maybe it’s a rolling blackout.  Sometimes that happens in California, doesn’t it?  But in the corner of my mind something ugly starts taking shape.  At first it’s out of focus, some amorphous thought in my subconscious   Suddenly, it comes into focus – Mr. Loser hasn’t paid our power bill (one of his only responsibilities) and now they have cut our power.

It’s hard to describe the emotions that I went through at that precise moment.  It was shocking and horrible.  Mainly I couldn’t believe that I, as a responsible and aspiring young professional, had let my life come to this.  Living in an apartment with no power.  It felt totally surreal.  This shit only happens in movies.

I called the power company and they confirmed what I already knew – he was over due and owed $350.  It would be an extra $50 to get the power turned back on.

I immediately packed up my important belongings and went to stay with a very understanding friend who is now trying to help me get my life back on track.  Unfortunately that has proved more difficult than expected (See The Breakup Part II).

Life is all about timing.  The power went off a few days after I made the decision to break up with Mr. Loser, solidifying my decision.  But imagine if it had been the other way around.  If I hadn’t decided to break up with him first, I would probably still be with him in the dark.

It’s time to start the next chapter. 

Preface: Death, Taxes and Turning 30

Let me start off by acknowledging that this is not the first time that this is ever happened.  Other people have turned 30 before.  In fact, everyone that is fortunate enough to live this long turns 30.  It’s one of those grim certainties, death, taxes and turning 30 if you live long enough.

Having said that, and even having accepted all of that in my rational mind, for some reason turning 30 is just hard to accept.  I’ve talked with others about that, and they all feel the same way.  And everyone falls in to one of two categories:

Type I – the failing-to-meet-expectations variety

This type is generally single and may or may not live at home with his parents.  Generally speaking, this type has very little money may not have a solid career.  Type Is frequent bars and nightclubs, are known to hook up with strangers, and sometimes forget to pay parking tickets.  Parents of Type I individuals may express concern about whether they will “eventually get their shit together.”

People within this category feel that turning 30 underscores how little they have accomplished in life.  They feel as though they have failed to meet others’, and possibly their own, expectations for what a person should have accomplished by the age of 30.

Type II – the finding-out-that-meeting-expectations-isn’t-that-exciting variety

This type is married, often with children, or if not children at least pets.  Type II individuals often have a stable job and may own a home or condominium.  These individuals rarely frequent bars and clubs and spend most of their time at home tending to their brood.

People in this category view turning 30 as a loss of youth and as confirmation that they are indeed “old.”  They begin to feel bodily aches and pains more acutely as they approach 30, and remember fondly the good old days of being a high school football player or cheerleader.

Although I sympathize with people suffering from the Type II affliction, I am definitely a Type I sufferer.

Why am I upset about turning 30? I have no money and a mountain of student debt.  In fact I’m still in school.  I have a live in boyfriend but we have no future plans.  I’m about to move in with my friend’s mom, which is only a small step above living with my own mom.  I go out a lot, and I continue to act irresponsibly.  (Case in point, last weekend I got kicked out of a bar for being too drunk).  I drive a 15 year old car and the check engine is perpetually on.

I always thought as a kid that being 30 meant that I would be “all grown up.”  By this time I thought I would have a house, a husband and a job.  Unfortunately none of these things have happened, and it’s led to me feeling a little down about my life.

I remember when I was growing up, every single day before school my mom would say “be your best self.”  Rather than crumpling up into a ball of despair over what I’m lacking, I am going to make my 30th year on this Earth the best one ever.

Finally, I am going to try to be my best self.  Every day.