Gangnam Style Yoga

Good Mooooooorning, fellow Insecure Writers! Welcome to my world of insecurities. Writing has recently topped that lovely list as I've submitted several essays to The Publishers, and I've not received any nibbles. It's like fishing in my bathtub; all I'm catching are hair and fake Army guys. Why the hell do I bother? There are so many good writers, great writers, out there...who needs me? The encouraging logic that sustains me: If every person who decided to commit an act of service didn't bother because they're just not Mother Theresa, we'd live in an even more hellish world than we already do... so, I still write. Mostly about the random, the mundane, and how I'm trying to be a Canadian. And I try to look for a little Jesus and humor in all of it.

You know when you hear a song that sounds like it was written just for you? The beat and the feel of it seem like they've been missing from your life? And now that you've heard it you're finally fulfilled? You've discovered the purpose of your existence? Where you belong?
That is precisely how I feel about Gangnam Style.

Even though I have no idea how the lyrics translate. Or understand remotely what the song is about.
But. The dance moves are like giddy-up square dance meeting hip-hopping gangstas. And when my three boys and I bust it in our kitchen, it feels like I've arrived.

But, I haven't. Instead I've become "that mom" who embarrasses her children because she says words like "bust it" and it doesn't work; even typing it feels and sounds so wrong. The same way I look when I put my hair in a "side-pony." Or wear makeup.

I am proud, however, of my 8 year-old who self-censored after showing me the music video to Gangnam Style:

Smug 8-year old: "I didn't think you'd approve of it, Mom, and you actually think it's funny."
Me: "I can laugh and dance but still not approve. Moms reserve the right to self-contradict."
(This likely came about after I held a large object in his view last week while we were walking by the Victoria's Secret Store in the mall. Good Lord. No child needs to see that.)

Then. I accepted an invitation to go to yoga a few nights ago. I accepted only because I am desperately trying to find a friend. After this woman texted me the Yoga Invitation, I thought: Shit. And then I thought, Shit again, this is going to hurt. But. I am not in a position to turn down any invitations right now.

I forgot what Hot Yoga was. It is a torture session with an excuse for well-figured folks to wear tight clothing. My only previous experience with this twisted torment, however, has always involved a kind, soft-spoken, earthy woman with a tender forgiveness for those of us in the crowd who struggle, as in: "If this pose is painful, listen to your body, do a pose that feels right, like Tadasana, Mountain Pose" (where you try to push the crown of your head toward the ceiling while standing up straight, with your arms at your side. It's my favorite. I'm really good at it.).

This demon teacher at Canadian Hot Yoga (seriously, it was 110 degrees 43 degrees in the room, Damn Celsius just doesn't add drama like good ole Fahrenheit did, but at least it's easier to spell) did not show this love to the not well-figured of us in the midst of the crowded room. It was hot, folks, hot, hot. At one point I was dripping sweat on the floor and creating a pond; I was worried that my neighbors might need life preservers. I hadn't even brought a towel. And I couldn't do Downward Dog because my mat was too slippery; I kept sliding on my face and thinking of the Bon Jovi album instead of "focusing on my practice" like the demon told me to. And then, during "Pigeon Pose" (which is like childbirth plus eyebrow waxing plus toe-stubbing) I so missed my nice teachers of the past. But no, Canadian yoga is Bitch Yoga. The Demon said: "If you're in pain, then you are RIGHT where you need to be. Don't give up! PUSH through it! And right at the moment when you think you can't take any more, and you want to get out of the pose, DON'T GIVE UP! Remain in the pain. And then, and only then, you are finally practicing [Canadian] yoga."

I am so sore I can barely reach the toilet paper.

But she was kinda right about the whole pain thing. These Canadian Bitches may know what's going on. It does suck to stay where it hurts. Enduring pain and not bailing is worthy of an award, or at least a cheap certificate that I could put on my fridge.

Which, my 6-year-old got the other day from his school for... "Displaying Wisdom." It is laminated. AND signed by the Principal. WTF? My guess is it was either a sympathy vote, a joke, or a random draw out of a hat. This child has about as much wisdom as a frog. But he told me that wisdom is "being nice to others." And he claims that he does that. At school.

So, MY fantasy laminated, signed certificate says:

Newly Relocated Endurance Award

Given to:

Kim R...

For exhibiting grace and patience and humor during a drastic life transition

(even though you drank too much Vodka)

Signed by your husband and Jesus.

On a side-note: I am tallying the hugs that I now receive (from people other than my family). In October thus far, I have received THREE. Yes, folks, three. Now, one or two of them may-or-may-not-have-been wimpy, awkward side-hugs, but we have to start somewhere. My goal is to creep out of my current hug deficit by 2013.

What award do you deserve lately?