Friday, May 19, 2017

The Most Boulder Thing

It takes awhile before I can see the humor in something "horrible" that happens in my life. I'm trying to shorten the duration between the event and my ability to laugh at it, however, and I'm doing so in a couple of ways. First, while the unfortunate instance is happening in real time, I remind myself that it will make a good story later. Second, I force myself to talk about these events and write them down. Which is exactly what I'm about to do.

So, first a little bit of background information is necessary. One of my yoga teacher friends sells these things called sanlakpas which are single gemstones that you secure around your neck with a string tied together. The knot is then sealed with superglue, as it is meant to remain in place until it naturally falls off. You are supposed to come up with an intention represented by the gem. While you wear the sankalpa, you embark on your journey to fulfill the intention it represents. Yes, it is exactly what you would expect a yoga teacher to sell.

Being the indecisive human being that I am, I struggled to decide between three stones- labradorite, rose quartz, and garnet. I saw a picture on my friend's website where someone was wearing three which made me realize that I don't even HAVE to decide. I got all three, and before each one was tied on I was led through this little ceremony to seal the intention into the sankalpa. I know.


These babies aren't going anywhere

I've been wearing them for about a month, and have gotten completely accustomed to their presence. To be honest, I would feel a bit naked without them around my neck. I feel comforted when I reach up and touch them. I had almost entirely forgotten that they were there when I went to the imaging department and the medical center for X-rays when I injured my shoulder.

The X-ray technician asked me the typical questions while strapping on the vest thing that supposedly blocks out some of the radiation, like wether or not I was knocked up and whether I was positive that it was my right shoulder that I injured. She then saw the stones around my neck and told me I needed to take off my necklaces. The look on her face as I told her that I couldn't because they were secured with superglue was priceless. I suppose the majority of people would have ripped the sankalpas off or requested scissors to do so, but I felt that the journey of my intentions were not yet fulfilled. I explained that it was a yoga thing and told her I wouldn't remove them. She heaved a sigh, said it was "the most Boulder thing" she'd ever heard, and asked me if I could fit them in my mouth (giggity). She definitely enjoyed watching me struggle to do so, but I'm sure I would have done the same if I were her.

So for a good twenty minutes or so I had three gemstones in my mouth, secured with my lips, because I believed that they had more work to do in my life. Which is one of the most Boulder things I've ever done.


Friday, May 12, 2017

The Many Adventures of Marisa the Gimp

People are all too eager to inform you about the stages of grieving when you're grieving. Anger, denial, sadness, insomnia, denial again, an inexplicable hatred of all men named Fred... I can see the indignation sweep across many of your faces as you point out to the computer screen that I just totally made up that last one. You sure about that though? My grieving process distinctly includes a phase where I downright distrust anyone named Fred. I guess that phase is only part of the Marisa-specific grieving process.

I am a certified expert by now in the phases of the shoulder-wound-healing process by now, at least as it pertains to me. Almost every day as the healing process progresses, I notice a change in my personality. Conveniently enough, each emotional state through which I've gone thus far can be personified by a Winnie-the-Pooh character. If you are unaware of who this "Winnie" fellow is, and you're scratching your head as you wonder why part of his name contains a colloquial term for feces, you can go ahead and stop reading. This rest of this post will make no sense to you. Also I'm really sad for your childhood if that is the case.

The first few days of my injury, I was Winnie the Pooh himself. He is kindly described by his own best friend Christopher Robin (annoyingly, a kid with two first names and actually a bit of a bully) as a "bear with very little brain," simply because he is blissfully unaware of bees and the hardships of life in general. I walked around in a Winnie-like state, convinced that this shoulder thing was nothing bad and would be healed by a magical woodland fairy and I'd be back climbing in no time. I was much like the lovable cartoon in the episode where he is hurled face first into the hole of a tree where he gets stuck but is completely unconcerned by that since the little tree cave is full of honey, his favorite food (how does he not have type two diabetes?). A bear with a higher IQ may have freaked the F*** out at the revelation that there was limited oxygen in there, and feel panicked and claustrophobic and almost certainly as if death were coming considering the unlikelihood that his friends could get him out of such an insane place with enough time to save him from suffocation. In fact, now I am freaking out about that episode because that is how it ENDS! With Winnie stuck in a honey hole at the top of a MASSIVE oak tree!! I assume he got down safely because he is in the next story. That Christopher Robin has a messed up imagination. Time to take that kid to a child psychiatrist.

Pooh! Things are SO FAR from okay for you!

So about three days in, I found I was still lying on the couch in a sling, and that there was no magical woodland fairy, and I was still not climbing. The blissful unawareness of Winnie quickly gave way to the extreme depression of Eeyore, the sawdust-filled donkey toy with a bow and nail pinning his own tail to his ass (the guy has good reason to be low). I suddenly noticed with shocking definition the intensity of the rainclouds outside. I realized that not only would my shoulder never heal, but that I would never climb again. Dark circles moved into the spaces for lease underneath my eyes with no intention of ever leaving their posts. I was my shoulder injury, nothing was good or even less than horrible, and life as I knew it was over. I was Eeyore. Inconsolable, always beneath an ominous raincloud, and on auto-pilot to ensure my doubt about whether or not a morning was good when anyone pointed out that it was.



I wasn't angry. Rather, I had fallen into a pit of depression as deep as a well out of which I could not see. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. I felt too sad to do anything other than mope about the things I used to have that were good, and would never be good again. Everyone and everything sucked. This character was probably another indication that Christopher Robin needed some serious help. My Eeyore phase lasted a couple of days, days that passed like a snail through molasses as I stared out the window entranced by the never ending rain.

In the next stage I morphed into a character who didn't technically exist in the Hundred Acre Wood (why does that sound dirty?), but potentially could have. I was still Eeyore, but angry Eeyore. Eeyore with turrets, if you will. My response to "good morning" would be to lash out angrily and argue that this morning not only wasn't good, but was horrible just like whoever it was who wished me a "good morning". Then I might grab Piglet by the ears and throw him against a wall. Anyone else want to wish me a good morning?! Huh!? I didn't think so. I wonder if Eeyore ever DID finally lose his mind and get angry behind the scenes. Maybe now he is sitting in an asylum in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth with eyes wide muttering something about how his whole life could have been different if that jerk Christopher finally gave him a tail that didn't require re-pinning fifteen times an hour. Sorry if I just ruined Eeyore for you with that disturbing image. What I meant to say was.... Eeyore finally got some Prozac and went to live with his cousin in upstate New York. He became a motivational speaker and lived happily ever after.

I could have gone another direction and compared my angry phase of shoulder healing to feeling like Rabbit. Christopher clearly gave up any and all attempts to be creative with that name. Maybe that's why Rabbit was so pissed- he just wanted to be called Eugene. Or even simpler, Bill. Anything but a description of what he was. How would you feel if people walked around calling you Boy Child, Christopher!? Inconsiderate kid... Ugh. Anyways, Rabbit was always pissed with good reason because ignorant wistful Pooh would steal all of his honey and then the rest of his food, and other characters ruined his garden "by accident" or would piss him off some other way when he just wanted peace and quiet and to be called by an actual name. Do you blame the rodent?!

I don't care about you or your problems. Just be thankful I didn't name you Bear. You were lucky enough to be named after a poo I had once that you somewhat resemble. That's right. I named you after a poo.


Today I've entered the next stage, which is the phase where I feel slight improvement in my injury and am therefore falsely hopeful and potentially about to do something stupid, like climb. I guess that would be Tigger? He was always causing trouble, that guy, and bringing others with him on his irresponsible endeavors (he was probably 100% responsible for the corruption of Roo- you don't even WANT to know what happened later in the life of the annoying infant Aussie pest- there may be a documentary about child actors whose lives went to hell in which he is featured. Proceed with caution.). At least he narrowly missed becoming another "Rabbit"- he probably only got his name because Christopher Robin sucked at spelling or speaking, and actually meant to call him Tiger. Close call, Tigger- count your blessings.

You know, as long as I never become Owl, the pedantic jerk who thinks he is all knowing and really just gives horrible advice, I'm happy to continue going through the emotions of cartoon characters from Winnie the Pooh. Oh, I also never want to be Christopher Robin. That kid is the WORST.



 This is the REAL Christopher Robin, by the way. Can't you just TELL he has a touch of the crazy??


Tuesday, May 9, 2017

The Gimp Life: Part Two

I'm throwing myself a pity party of epic proportions, and you're on the guest list! The longer I fester couch-bound and injured, the more I sulk and the less I feel motivated to return to normal activities. Last night was my first time teaching since I injured my shoulder. Prior to arriving at the studio I was amped up and jazzed to teach after such a lengthy hiatus away from my beloved profession and students. Those positive emotions quickly faded once my first student of the evening arrived. The majority of my time donning a sling I've spent completely alone, so I hadn't had time to prepare properly for the inquiries of others upon seeing my fabric arm cradle. Because no one had asked me about my injury, I had also not had time to formulate an eloquent and quick response. Thus, when my first student came to check in and saw me, I had no idea what to say when he asked me what I did to my arm. If people had been asking me throughout the course of my time in a sling, I may have had ample time to come up with a better story. Instead, I mumbled something about falling multiple times on the same area and rambling way longer than the student cared to listen. The next student asked "what did you do?" which I quickly realized meant "how did you do whatever you did to end up in a sling?" because my response of "I hurt my shoulder" was met with a blank stare, because obviously she meant to ask HOW I injured myself.

So, next time you ask someone what he or she did to him or herself, instead ask how he or she did whatever he or she did to injure him or herself, if that is in fact what you want to know. Maybe the askers of these questions want to know both what I did to myself and how I did it. Either way, I never came up with a quippy response. My new go-to response is that I hurt my shoulder fighting ninja (which is the plural of ninja, fun fact) or saving a puppy from the clutches of a rabid kangaroo.



Now that I am prepared to answer the question, of course, I am back to hosting my pity party on the couch. I am not entirely alone, however; my roommate's dog Tigger is and has been keeping me company, whether or not I want him to. Honestly, the amount of attention he is giving me is starting to be a bit much, especially considering I barely know him.



I can only liken him to an over-zealous member of an entourage. By definition, an entourage is a group of people attending to or surrounding an important person. The amount Tigger is attending to me makes him feel like an entire entourage. He literally follows me EVERYWHERE, and if I go into a room and shut the door he sits immediately outside and waits for me.



When I walk in the front door he excitedly greets me. While I sit and vegetate on the couch he sits and vegetates right along with me unless someone comes to hang out with me and then he actively protects me on the couch from the intruder. If I get up to go to the kitchen, Tigger gets up to go to the kitchen. If I get up to go to the bathroom, Tigger is in suit. I'm thankful that he can't talk because I imagine it would drive me insane in no time. "Hey Marisa, how are you? Marisa! Marisa! Can we hang out? Wait, Marisa, where are you going? Come back! Marisa! If you need something I am LITERALLY right outside the door!" It's like, chill, Turtle, I need a two-second break from your constant attention! Thankfully, Tigger is a dog and can't talk. Therefore, he also can't ask me what I did to myself or how I did it.

 

Monday, May 8, 2017

The Gimp Life

Are you alone right now? If no one is around, give your right shoulder a kiss. Then, your left shoulder. If you are in public, lift both arms overhead, interlace your fingers and stretch your arms upwards. Feel the glorious shoulder stretch and opening in your chest region. I'm asking you all to do this so you do not take for granted the wonder that is having the use of both arms.

Last week, in multiple clumsy ways, I fell on my right shoulder in the same spot leading to a wounded rotator cuff landing my arm in a sling. I never until now realized the sheer glory that is having the use of both arms. Literally everything is a challenge. Opening doors, washing my hands, typing, texting, talking on the phone, reading, cleaning...hence why I asked all of you to show some gratitude to your shoulders for both functioning properly.

Both of my jobs, teaching yoga and freelance writing, require that I use both arms. Therefore, this injury has incapacitated me to the point of lying on the couch, unable to do much of anything, for a week. However, anyone who knows me well (or knows me at all) knows that I cannot go that long without writing. Putting my thoughts into written form is my catharsis, and my only real hobby that isn't physical to the point of worsening my shoulder injury.



I don't consider myself a lazy person until I am injured to this point. The sheer challenge associated with every single daily activity snuffs out any motivation to do anything. Even reading seems too difficult. Watching TV requires too much focus. So all I do is lie about feeling sorry for myself, starting out the window while curled up on the couch with my roommate's dog.

Ironically, when I have free time I do not want it, and of course when I don't have any free time it's all I want. I could use this time to educate myself by watching a new documentary or reading a novel, practicing a new language, catching up on calls or taking long mindful walks through the neighborhood. Maybe later. For now, nap time. 

Blue Lawn Chair

Apparently, I care about lawn chairs. I’ve always known that I typically give inanimate objects personalities and feelings. The “As-is” sect...