Tales From the (Massage) Table: You Know What's NOT Relaxing?

In the parlance of the day, I shall write this in the form of an open letter.

DEAR MASSAGE/MEDITATION MUSIC PRODUCERS:

In my recent quest to avoid almost certain repetitive-music-induced narcolepsy, I have been delving into a colleague's stash of "relaxation" CDs. After a few days of sampling the more frequently-used discs, I would like to submit a list of things that are not, in fact, relaxing to hear during a massage.

• Loud, sudden, frightening thunderclaps that inspire a client to bolt upright and cry, "DAMN, THAT WAS CLOSE!"
• Crickets.  I know, they seem like they'd be soothing.  They are not.
• Monkeys. Really, does this need explanation? Actually, primates of any kind.
• Dogs and/or wolves. And possibly bears.  Barking, baying, howling, and growling.  That caused my pleasant foot rub to seem like something out of a Goosebumps movie.
• Percussion.  No matter how gently played, a hi-hat is disruptive. Also tom-toms, snare, triangle, and any other percussion toys.
• Tornado winds. Scary.
• Finally, cows.  I am not kidding here.  I know they're gentle and have big brown eyes, but hearing one mooing in the distance is disconcerting.

Thank you for your attention in this matter. 

Sincerely,

Everyone

Why I Don't Take More Showers

I used to be the "can't live without a shower each and every morning" kind of girl.  Now, I'm lucky if it's every other day.  (Except in the summer time when it's all hot and I sweat.  Then I take lots of showers. Don't hate.)  There's a good reason.

The house can be SILENT -- husband w/headphones on, doing work, kids in rooms reading or whatnot, dogs sleeping.  I think, "This is it.  The moment when I can hop in for my 4-minute shower and get in and out and clean and then get on with my day."

Then. I hear "Mama?" and the door opens.  Then I hear the flapping of little boy feet on the bathroom tile.  Then I hear dog toenails clacking. Then pretty soon, I hear my daughter asking, "What's going on? Why are you in the bathroom, Simon?" Then I start telling everybody to please leave me alone for the 3.7 seconds it takes me to rinse my hair.
Then HUSBAND senses a disturbance in the Force, and comes to see what's up.  And now, in our tiny bathroom, we have two elementary school kids, two confused dogs, and my husband.  And now I can't even get OUT of the shower because there's no damned room.

Finally, I shoo them all out with the threat that I'm actually going to just get out of the shower wet and naked, and if they want that seared into their brains, that's their own problem.  They finally leave.

And I reach for it, only to find they have somehow, for some mysterious reason, taken the towel.

*End Scene*

Tales From the (Massage) Table: The Tragedy That Is "Massage Music."

I've been trying to find some music to play during massages, but, being a musician, I have some rather stringent guidelines.

1: NO. ENYA.  See here.

2: No symphonic music.  I have played so much of it, I get caught up in it. I find myself accenting along with Berlioz, much to my client's dismay.


3: No panpipe.  For god's sake, no panpipe. I feel like we should go all Terminator and go back in time and sterilize Zamfir's mother.  (I wouldn't kill her -- she may have had other non-panpiper children--wait.  That wouldn't work either.  I'd think of something.)


4: No synthesized covers of pop music.  My ears wanted to suck themselves back into my skull when I heard -- get this -- Greatest Hits by the BEATLES -- on PANPIPE. With synthesized backup. I shudder at the memory.

5: No 'classical' music played (synthesized or real instruments) at excruciatingly slow tempi "because it's for MASSAGE music. That will be so sooooothing." Except for the flutist/massage therapist who is slowly asphyxiating because I always tend to breathe along with the phrases of things I've played. Somewhere out there is an oboist with whom I need to have some serious words. Entre'acte from Carmen (Bizet) is supposed to be Adagio.  Not molto Gravissimo.  (That's not even a real tempo marking)

6: No religious/pentecostal/gospel music hiding as background music.  I recently got to the end of a massage, having used a borrowed CD to try it out.  My client commented that the music had been really upsetting, since it brought to mind years of being forced to go to "Revivals" at his parents' church. Oy.  I had no idea that music was anything but boring, cheezy Muzak (no, the CD case did not say anything about the origins of the melodies. I checked.).



7: Nothing with "surprise accents" or sudden percussion interludes.  Many a comfy massage-trance has been broken by ill-advised use of high-hats, triangle rolls, pings of gongs hit with hard-tipped mallets, or random bird chirps.  Which leads me to...

8: Crickets.  GodDAMN, I hate the crickets.  Does anybody really find that soothing?  Even bird chirps can be intensely irritating.  Anything that comes out of the blue, starts abruptly, and leaves you worrying about when the next occurrence will be is OUT.


9: This is a late add.  THE HAUNTED HOUSE. Just yesterday, I was using a perfectly lovely ooohhhh-ahhhhhhh, bonggggggbonnnnngggggoooooohhhhhh pseudo-asian thing, when ALL OF A SUDDEN, it went all Haunted Mansion on me.  These voices? Sounding like a bunch of ghosts who found some pot and got all stoned and were trying to go around scaring people at the local mall for kicks.  It was truly bizarre. I assume it was synthesizers, since I cannot imagine any singers who would be willing to record themselves making such sounds.  Unless they were also baked.  Possible, I suppose.


As you can see, I have my work cut out for me.  This is why I'm working towards creating, playing, and recording my own music.

At least I know that I won't use any frickin' crickets.

Being A Non-Flutey Flutist Makes Me Happy

I'm a flutist, but have had the good fortune to hear from many of my colleagues that I "don't seem like a flutist."  By this, they mean that I'm not an utter pain in the ass.

Good god.  Do you see this? A KITTEN, a FLUTE (put together incorrectly, natch), A ROSE, BALLET SLIPPERS *AND* a WHITE PIANO.  It's the grand slam of preciousness.

Anyone who has been in middle school or high school band knows what I'm talking about.  The flute players are the competitive back-biters.  The rumor starters.  The bitches.  Yes, there.  I said it.

Why is this?  Don't know.  It doesn't matter to me WHY it happens -- it just does.  Just like trumpet players are arrogant, tuba players are funny and euphonium players will never get a job, it's a fact.  I have indulged in the Flute Player Syndrome (FPS) while in junior high and high school, I had my comeuppance in undergrad, and even more so in grad school.  It wasn't fun.

I finally learned that in order to be a person MYSELF that I could stand to be around, I had to get off of it.  I needed to develop some tact, some empathy, and a whole lot of modesty.  There's ALWAYS going to be a better flutist.  And she's probably going to be younger, thinner, and have better clothes.  Again, fact.

Know what I found out?  It's more fun to be the nice flute player, as long as you are also a kick BUTT flutist.  People like playing with nice musicians.  People like to hire them!

However, sadly, it's humbling to do this.  I simply had to give up trying to prove that I was the BEST EVER. I just had to act like I am the most awesome KATE around.  Here's the thing -- if I get around another flutist (other musicians too, but mostly flutists) who is still deep in the snotty-attitude thing, my antennae go up and it's HARD to resist the pull.  I want to name-drop, to brag, to talk about all my orchestra jobs, my degrees, my auditions.

I KNOW!  It's wretched.  I have to make a conscious choice to NOT jump into that pit.  It's a deep, DEEP pit.  Lots of people are in there, too.  They are the ones who warm up on "Daphnis and Chloe" when you're getting ready for some community performance.  They're the ones who hear YOU playing your solo that you're going to do on tonight's concert and THEY start playing it too.  Ugh.  You know the type.  That's the mythical "flutist from Juilliard who bent the keys on her competitor's flute the minute before the audition."  I doubt it's ever happened, but if it did, it was a flute player.

Whenever I start out in a new location, I have to remember which flute player I want to be.  Do I want to be the snotty, rude, entitled, name-dropper? Or do I want to be the mature, elegant yet fun, educated and comfortable with herself lady?  It's tough to go with #2 sometimes.  It's so deeply satisfying to rip somebody a new one when they're begging for it.  ("You think YOU'RE hot?  I did  masterclasses with GALWAY, bitch missy!" "I gave Jeanne Baxtresser rides to the airport! She told me she liked my purse!")

I have run into a few flutists in each and every location who fall into the FPS category.  Oh, they are SO easy to spot.

One of their first questions is always -- without fail -- "What kind of flute do you play?"

Gag.  Hint, people:  If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know.  Most of us can tell by looking, and really? It's rarely polite to ask outright, because it implies that their sound comes from the instrument.  Please.  There are ways of finding out.  First think of it this way:  Do you know her/him well enough to ask what brand of underwear they like or what dentist they use?  No?

Probably should mind your own business then.

In Mom Mode

I have several modes.

Mom mode.
Wife mode.
Teacher.
Massage Student
Massage therapist
House fixer/painter
Cleaner of house
Dog parent
Friend.
Daughter/sister/cousin

I have trouble switching between them.  When going between one and the next, I have to pause a second, take a breath, and mentally switch hats.  Or shoes.  Or whatevers.  I don't like that I am so non-integrated, but I simply can't do it.  At least not right now. 

Blender Fail

Yesterday, I was making myself some broccoli soup.  My extremely complex recipe calls for the following:

One small saucepan with chicken broth.  Add 1/2 head of broccoli (chopped up).  Simmer until soft.  Then blend up with an immersible blender. Add a little milk and maybe some spices.  Eat.

But yesterday, I decided to get advanced.

I poured the broccoli/broth/milk mixture into the blender.
[You can see this coming, can't you?]
I remembered that you're supposed to open the little circular top liddy thing when blending hot ingredients, so I removed it.

BLEND!
DANG!  I didn't cover up the little circular hole.  BROCCOLI EVERYWHERE.  And it was HOT.  I thought to myself, "Dang.  Shoulda seen that coming."

So, naturally, I put the little circle lid thing back on. 
And then BLEND!
DANG!
This time, the broccoli soup blew the whole TOP off the blender.  More broccoli soup EVERYWHERE.
I did a mental facepalm, and wondered what to do next.  The broccoli was still not really pureed.  So I again removed the little circle thingy, but this time tossed a kitchen towel over the hole.

BLEND!
DANNNG!
It blew the towel off, but this time the broccoli puree was contained to a degree. 

At this point, I gave up.  I poured what was left of the soup into a bowl and just pretended like none of it had ever happened.

Sigh.  

Nobody Told Me What Stupid Looked Like

I've been weeding.  Weeding is SO not something I do.  Mostly because I really don't have a good grasp on what are weeds and what are not.  I mean, some of them are obvious.  Clover, dandelions, and those stupid fake strawberry things.  I also know a few others, but only after carefully cultivating and watering them for an entire damned summer only to find that the tall stringy-leaved plants were NEVER gonna bloom into anything.  At all. 

Oooh!  LOOK!  FLOWERRRRZZZZZ!

Several (many, many) years ago, I dated a fellow who I shall call :"Pat." He had one of those nice, androgynous names. 

Not this Pat, but close.

(Not really, but I'm harboring a grudge. Apparently.)

One of his grandparents had been a president or owner or something of a now-defunct railroad company, and had (by my standards) a lot of money.  I heard a LOT about his "lots of money" but in a "we don't talk about how MUCH money our family has" kind of way.  Anyway, his grandfather wrote and (I imagine, self-) published a book called (I'm going to change the plant, since I don't want his rich-but-we-don't-talk-about-it family to sue me) "Nobody Told Me What Tomatoes Looked Like."  This darling little tome was the story of his life, from rags to riches-that-we-don't-ever-ever-discuss.  But the source of the title was something about which this man was very proud.

In a nutshell, his first job was weeding someone's garden.  They told him to go to the tomato patch and pull all of the weeds.  Well, go he did, and pull he did.  Thing is, he weeded out all of the tomato seedlings. All. Of. Them.

His response, when they were telling him why he got fired, was, "But, nobody told me what tomatoes looked like!"

I'll bet that's a WEED, right, Cletus?

He, somehow, used this as a way to describe how he rose from poverty to unspoken-of (frequently unspoken-of) wealth.

Now, at the time, I laughed along with all the rest, but it rankled.  I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it was a little family in-joke, and I was glad to be in on it.

Now?  Ugh.  I know why it bugs.  It's galling when someone uses their own ignorance as something of which they are proud.  WHY didn't he think to ask what the tomato sprouts looked like?  Why didn't he ASK? Didn't it occur to him that if there were eleventy-thousand of the same exact little plants in the plot, that maybe just maybe they might be the tomatoes?

The implication was that since he was not TOLD -- specifically told -- that he could not be held responsible.

This makes me think of all the people in college (yes, in COLLEGE) who pepper the professor with "Will this be on the test?" You know, if you're there to learn or do a job, that IS the test.  Life is the test.  Willful ignorance is not something about which one should be proud. It is something to never do, unless you're trying to convince your parents that you DO believe in Santa.  I'll give you that one.

My little son tries to pull this on me sometimes.  "But, Mama, you didn't TELL me to put on pants!"
I remind him that our heads all contain the remarkable thing called BRAINS, and that one should first try to use one's own brain.  Not mine, not your sister's.  Yours. 

Where Has The Egg Salad Gone?

I have that stupid song, "Where have all the flowerrsssss.... gone??" running through my mind.

You see, earlier I discovered the BESTEST post-Easter-egg snack (not at all healthy, but yummy).  Egg salad (made w/light mayo, mustard,and just a scooch of horseradish, salt and pepper) as a dip for potato chips!  I know.  I'm sorry.

But.

A few minutes ago, I was scooping, preparing to eat.  And a chunk of egg salad fell off.  Into ... apparently a rift in the time-space continuum, because it's GONE.  Not "gone because the dogs snarfed it" but really, truly gone.  I checked my pants.  I checked the couch.  I checked the top I'm wearing, my chin, the carpet, and my pants again.

Gone.

I am afraid to leave the house because no doubt it's clinging to me somewhere.  And wouldn't THAT be glamorous?  "Oh, Kate! Good to see y......   what is THAT?"

Low-Talkers and Why They Bug Me

...so, you know .... low-talkers?  Mmmmbllbllllmmm talking... but reallyyy.... wish they could say.... mbbbllouder....

ACK.

Doesn't it make you nuts?  You hear this drone, just below comfortable-listening level.  It drifts into your consciousness.  Then the person looks at you expectantly.
You end up saying, in growing exasperation,

"Pardon me?"
Mmmmbllbllllmmm

 "What was that?"
 .... mbbbllouder....

"Sorry?"
.... mbbbllouder....


Finally, you shriek, "WHAT?? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?"

They look at you, raise their eyebrows, and say, oh-so-distinctly, ".... I was saying tha....andmmmmblll over theremmmmbblll withoutll....mmmmmmbbbrlll?"

You might try again.  "So sorry.  There was a noise.  Could you say that a little louder?"

They sigh, roll their eyes, and raise their voices infinitesimally.  "".... I was SAYING tha....andmmmmblll over theremmmmbblll withoutll....mmmmmmbbbrlll?"

 "FINE. Whatever."

If a low-talker thinks I am going to do all the conversational work, THEY HAVE ANOTHER THING COMING.  DID YOU HEAR THAT?  DID YOU???

Thought so. 

Craptacular Poopfest

Well, I'm in quite the mood.

Just about every relationship, activity, and business item that I have going on has had SOMETHING go wrong this last week.

Not all are major things.  But several significant to cause me measurable discomfort, sadness, angst, anger, embarrassment, disappointment, or confusion.  And many of these in each and every day!  I have lost or hewn down or misplaced lots of my major supports, too.  That's kind of a wicked combination.

I haven't been making the wisest choices either.  Sometimes when I get over-stretched, I start making rather grandiose or presumptuous decisions, and that gets me further into the muck.  And I retaliate against myself by mooning about, going all pity-party, and generally picking lint from my toes while listening to borderline-lesbian-folk/angst music.

All my horses are running wild.  No fences in view.  I stand here in the dust, scratching my left ear, squinting, wondering what in the hell went wrong.

.... and there they go

Then I hear stories about people with real, serious life issues.  Being in settlements in Africa, then being bombed and thinking your husband died, so you move to another settlement, and so on for five years, until you finally learn that your husband is alive, but unable to join you for another year due to immigration laws.

People with major medical issues.  People with addictions, poverty, death, doom, betrayal, fire, famine.  And I want to smack myself and go "Waaah, waaaah, waaaah.  Get over yourself, you whiny little shit."  But then a part of my brain pokes me in the leg and says, "But. Your problems are real.  They're not like HER problems, or even HER problems.  But they're real.  And don't feel guilty for taking them seriously."

How?  How can a person with so many advantages ever take her own problems seriously, knowing... what I know?  How can I ever allow myself to enjoy my free time when people in my life are suffering from overwork, lack of time, lack of rest?  How?  How can I let myself luxuriate and care for myself, to do hobbies, to relax, when I could certainly be doing work to make others' lives easier?  I could be cleaning someone's house (mine or others), or be doing someone else's errands.  I could be bringing a nice hot lunch to the person who is stuck in an office for a long long day.

But .  I'm not really SUPPOSED to mother the entire world, am I?

If you have three pairs of shoes, and a close friend or relative has only 1, are you required to give one to them to make it even?

Aaaaaand ::let the toe lint picking begin.

YOINK! Things I DISLIKE that Everybody Else LIKES

I was reading "One in the Hand", and she was talking about things she hated that everybody else likes, and I was all, "DUDE! That could be ME!"

  However, being my mother's daughter, I thought to myself "'hate' is a very big emotion."  I just can't commit to saying I hate things unless I really REALLY hate them.  Therefore, this is a list of my dislikes.

I am in agreement with One in the Hand in my first one.

1:  BATHS.  My husband thinks that baths are the answer to nearly anything that ails you, but for me?  Not really.  Parts of me stick out of the bathwater and get cold.  It's boring.  I feel like I should be doing something, like shaving my legs or pumicing my heels.  I can't read unless I'm willing to sacrifice a book to the Water Gods.  And when I get up and out, I feel like I weigh a ton.  I'm always worried I'm going to slip and kill myself.

2:  DARK CHOCOLATE.  Maybe I haven't had good enough chocolate, but it's not creamy like milk chocolate, and it just reads as bitter in my mind.  I can easily do without it.

3:  Adam Sandler.  He's not funny for the most part.  He's just stupid. 

4:  Eat, Pray, Love.  I read it and ugh.  It was the most self-serving book.  And actually, I found it to be poorly-written.  In the hands of a better author, it could have been spectacular.

5:  Twitter.  I've tried.  Really.  But the whole point seems to be "how many times can I interrupt other people's thoughts?" which doesn't suit me.

6:  Gambling.  I just don't get it at all.  Why would anyone willingly use actual money to do this?  You're not getting anything out of it.  Yes, I guess sometimes you win, but mostly, you're just getting rid of your hard-earned cash.

7:  So You Think You Can Dance/Glee/American Idol/Reality Shows.  Real people are annoying and shallow when they have a camera trained on them.  And Glee is ... it's like being locked in a room with the most annoying members of the Drama Club in high school.  They're all hanging around the boombox, singing whilst making meaningful hand gestures, and I'm edging around the perimeter of the room trying to find the exit.

My House, It Screams

Last night, I was in a frenzy.  This happens sometimes to me.

Several years ago, I actually was ready to call the gas company because I kept getting dizzy in the kitchen.  Until I realized I didn't have a gas range.  I was spinning -- literally spinning -- in circles in my kitchen.  Putting dishes away.  Cleaning the counters, cooking, checking on kids.  Spinning.  Over and over again.

Yesterday, I was doing basically the same thing, but all through my house.  I cleaned the garage.  I straightened the living room.  The bathroom.  The kitchen.  The hallway.

Why do I do this?

Because my house screams.

When there's too much audio stimulation, I feel jangled.  I can practically physically feel it.  For a person who makes her living by playing and teaching music, this is a bit of an inconvenience.  There are some kinds of music I just can't handle because of the intense jangling.  Metal.  Percussion on a large scale.  Some kinds of jazz.  It's like being attacked by sound.

I have realized that I can hear (with my mental, emotional ear) visual clutter.  There are reasons that my bedroom is done in white on white, with maybe touches of sea-green.  I need silence sometimes.  It's really very much like turning down the volume on a radio.

So, when I look into the back yard, I hear the hose yelling, "HEY! I'm still HERE!  You need to put me awaaaay!"
In the bathroom?  "I'm an empty toilet paper tube!  I'm collecting germs and hair behind the toilet!"
The living room chatters. "Candy Wrapper!  Right here!  HAHAHA!" "Dog fur!  Aaalll around the edges of the rooom!" "NEWSPAPERS! NEWSPAPERS! NEWSPAPERS!" "Hey.  we're a stash of dirty socks.  bet you can't find us!'

Hallway.  "Towel! Right here! Maybe getting moldy!' "ONE shoe.  I don't know where my twin is. Sorry. NOT!" "Dirrrrt smeared on the wall!  Think of the germs!"

Get the idea?

Now, think of what it's like when you're holding a tiny baby.  One who is constantly, incessantly crying.  Screaming.  You pace.  You pat.  You cajole, sing, plead.  If you thought it would help, you'd stand with the baby in the shower.  You'd sit on the dryer.  You'd sing "Copacabana" in Swedish.  You'll do ANYTHING to get this baby to chill out and be quiet and happy and smiling.  Or better, sleeping.

You'd spin in circles, doingdoingdoing anything at all.

I want to get my house to stop crying, to stop screaming.  So I cajole.  I scold.  I yell and pat and futz and snuggle and thwack and dust and vacuum and wash and scrub and brush.

And still it yells at me.  There's never a moment of absolute serenity.  It murmurs.  It whines and whimpers. It coughs, clears its throat.  It shifts, twitches, grunts.

So yesterday, after an afternoon of flailing and whatnot, I decided to go to bed.  I ascended my stairs, ignoring the whispers of the clothes on the floor, the dust in the corners, and got into my white-on-white bed.  I looked at my white-on-white textured walls.  I glanced at my sea-blue drapes.  I sighed and enjoyed the quiet.

Two Evil Sisters

I was just reading an amazing post by Caro at
http://helpmeorillkickyou.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/i-remember-me/

It caused me to begin to ramble in a comment there, and I got a grip on myself, and said I'd continue here.

Here is part of my comment:

• I’ll try to pull it together for a moment. I HATE HATE Selective Ignorance (let’s call it SI). Also Deliberate Naivety, her prim, passive-aggressive stepsister. HATES them. So very many wrongs are committed by them. 

 

In Caro's case, she's referring to eating meat.  The fact that up until now, she has ignored what happens (the inhumane treatment of animals, the slaughter, and so on) so that she can eat meat.

Now, I'm no vegetarian.  (But after seeing the picture of the most adorable piglet EVER on her blog, it makes me wish I had the necessary gumption).  But.

I DO HATE Selective Ignorance and Deliberate Naivety.

So many people put on the cheap blonde wigs of S.I. and D.N. and do terrible, stupid, unkind, thoughtless things.  "What?  Nobody TOLD me that I was supposed to put oil in the car!" "How was I supposed to know that by drinking the entire last 1/4 of a gallon of milk, nobody else would get any?"
"No, I had no IDEA that my next-door neighbor needed help raking her lawn.  She's only 98! Perfectly healthy!"
"Well, I'm sure someone is working to solve that pesky climate change issue.  If it is real."

Selective ignorance occurs on large and small scales, from "don't know how to load the dishwasher" to "Genital mutilation? It's a myth, and if it exists, it's cultural!"

Deliberate Naivety is more subtle.  I see it a lot in women of a certain age who act like they are completely incapable of handling any thought or decision-making outside the scope of their own home.  "Oh, politics?  Too complicated for me.  I just vote like my husband does."  Or, "I only read books from the 'Christian Fiction' section.  I don't want to risk running into (whispering) sex scenes."

A lot of children and young adults exhibit this too.  In combination with S.I., you will see evidence of this when a high schooler is asked a question, say, in History class, and they claim to never have heard of something.  However, that very thing was covered in English class and in Science.  But they don't seem to realize that it's ok to integrate their knowledge.

What can we do?

I tend to challenge these kids directly.  "Really?  Are you quite sure you don't know?  I'll bet you can figure it out. Think again!"
The adults I tend to dismiss.  If a person is choosing to close their mental eyes, to stick their head under the sand of stupid, there's not much I can think of to say.  If I encourage them to think harder, to make their own decisions, it often comes off as me challenging their beliefs.  If I act skeptical that they really don't know something, it is condescending and rude. 

Honestly, I tend to just smile, raise my eyebrows, pick up my drink and head for the next person over.

I don't mean to be superior.  I don't want to be.  But I just don't know how to rise above, here.

Achy and Crap

I've been having issues.  (Shut up.  I know I always have issues.  These are different.)

My left arm.  It hurts.  The upper arm, actually.  It has done this for years.  But now, it barely lets up.  It's like a sort of tiny cramp, deep in the muscle.  I can massage it to no avail.  Ben-Gay has no effect.  Likewise ice or heat.  It just WHINGS me sometimes, and sometimes it wrrrwrrrwrrrBRRROOOPPPlnnngggnnngggs me. 

I think this means I need massages.  Maybe massages by hot Latin non-English-speaking men?  Or a fat Swedish woman.  I don't care.  Just make it STOP.  My doc grimaced and agreed that a random arm pain sucks, but that it probably just means that I overuse it.  Hm. Overuse? My left arm?  That I write with, play flute with, hold all my bags with, operate nearly everything with?  Nah.  It's surely a stroke.  Or maybe a verrry stretched-out prelude to a heart attack?  Even though I've seen my doc very recently? 

Welp, there it is.

What About "My Eyes Are Closed and I'm Doing Yoga" Suggests Friendliness?

I have been working out.  Yeah, I'm tough like that.

Actually, my total motivation comes from:
1: I get to shower in a bathroom that I do not have to clean.
2: I love to stretch afterwards
and
3: I get to SHUT UP and NOT TALK and NOT LISTEN TO OTHER PEOPLE and NOT ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS.

So there I was.  At the YMCA. I had just finished AN HOUR on the elliptical.  Booh-YAH, baybee.  My reward was that I was gonna have a good stretch.

I did lots of backbends over a yoga ball, did toe-touches and Sun Salutations.  Stretched ALL of it.  Took my time -- probably 20 minutes or so.
Finally, I was relaxing, alternating between Child Pose, Cobra, and Cat.
Child is basically kneeling, lowering head and outstretched arms to the ground.
Cobra is lying on the tummy, back arched, arms supporting you, while you look straight up
Cat is hands-and-knees, back arched up, head down.

These are deeply meditative for me, where I tune in to whatever my body needs.
A voice filters into my brain.

"STRETCHING?"
I switch to Cat.
"I SAID, IS THIS WHERE PEOPLE DO STRETCHING? JACK, ASK HER IF WE ARE SUPPOSED TO STRETCH NOW?"
I breathe, lengthen my spine.
"Um! IS THAT YOGA YOU'RE DOING?"
oh.  I look up.  I see an older couple standing there, hands on hips, watching me.
"Sorry.  I didn't realize you were talking to ME.  Yes.  I'm stretching and doing yoga."
I go into Child pose, breathing slowly.
"SO! DOES THAT HURT?  ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO YOGA, OR CAN WE DO OTHER STRETCHES?"
I sit up.
"You can do whatever you want. It's the best part of my workout.  So relaxing!"
I pull up the exercise ball and begin to do a back bend stretch over it.
"WOW! CAN I SIT ON THAT BALL?"
Um. ok. well...
I un-bend and sit up again.
"There are more over there."
BUT YOURS LOOKS THE BIGGEST.
"Sorry.  I use this one because I'm doing backbends, and this one supports my back the best."
BUT IF I SIT ON A SMALL ONE, I WON'T BE ABLE TO GET BACK UP! JACK, YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE! TELL HER!
"Ok. Here."
She sits on it.
I go into a butterfly stretch, typically the last one or two I do.  I sit up, the soles of my feet touching in front of me, knees flat on the floor on each side.  I then reach forward, head to feet, and stretch my hands as far in front as I can.
WHAT ARE ALL OF THESE MATS FOR?  CAN WE JUST LAY ON THEM? JACK, HONEY, DO YOU WANT TO LAY ON ONE?
oh for Pete's sake...
ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO SIT-UPS?
"I suggest you talk to the staff here. They can walk you through everything! They're very informative."
I lay down in Corpse pose (just lying on my back, eyes closed, meditating on breathing)
YOU LOOK VERY RELAXED! DOESN'T SHE, HONEY? LOOK AT THAT.
WE WERE SUPPOSED TO MEET WITH A STAFF PERSON EARLIER, BUT WE DECIDED WE REALLY DIDN'T NEED THAT, SINCE WE CAN JUST ASK PEOPLE.

At that point, I got up and left.  And made a mental note to always, ALWAYS wear headphones, even if I'm not listening to music.

Epic, Minute Discontent

I'm having a week. A week o' stupid. Nothing hugely significant. Just many small piles of crap.

I don't like when people talk through a big goofy smile. They don't move their mouths then. I don't like when dogs eat my pancakes. I dislike when people don't take a hint. AND I dislike when people are annoying.

I don't like when my hair sticks out.
I dislike when honey drips onto the counter.
It's annoying when I forget to put on socks.
How stupid is it when you look up to see all kinds of gross dust and dirt on the miniblinds?!
Ever notice that under certain lights (like in a parking lot), your car appears to be a different color? Then you wander around like an idiot looking for the car that is RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.

I dislike when toothpaste spatters on the faucets.
What about when a wall in the house is not quite straight, and when you hang a picture, there is simply no way to make it look right? If you align to the floor, it looks "off" to the seams of the wall. If you align to the wallpaper, it looks weird to the floor.

What about when a shirt shrinks, but only top-to-bottom, so they're still wide enough, but keep pulling up above your waistline?

And that gross crusty gunk in your eyes in the morning? Yuck.

So there it is. The morning of my discontent.