WARNING: Nothing To Do With Yoga!

Everyone has to have a few healthy obsessions. Besides yoga, infomercials and warning labels bring me endless joy. Here is a picture of my paper shredder. You can see the slot where the paper is inserted. You can also see the warning labels to the left.



Just in case you think your eyes might be playing tricks on you, I’ll spell them out:

1. A paperclip
2. An entire human hand
3. An aerosol spray can
4. A man’s necktie
5. A lady’s ponytail
6. A whole baby

Notwithstanding the fact that only 3 of these things would actually fit into the slot, I’d like to address each of them at a time.

1. The paperclip. Okay, I get this. The shredder can handle up to 6 sheets of paper at a time. It’s highly likely that I could forget there is a paperclip around several of them, in which case, the lightning pictured above the exclamation point will surely (and viciously) stream down and knock me unconscious. Crumb.

2. The entire human hand. I can’t tell you how often I feel like getting a manicure, but I just don’t have the time for it. I’ve dreamt of being able to just stick the tips of my fingers into the shredder, oh so delicately, for a beautiful salon quality pair of hands. I wouldn’t even have to worry about the nail clippings dropping onto the floor! But, no, the makers of this shredder will have none of that. Bummer.

3. An aerosol spray can. See, I just think this one is a mistake. Somewhere on the assembly line, this product must have become tangled up with some of those airport charts where they show you what items are forbidden on a plane. Much like you can’t fit a square peg into a round hole, you also cannot fit a round metal can into a tiny little sliver of a paper slot. So, how would this even be possible? Now, it could be that this is a warning not to spray any substances into the shredder from an aerosol can. If this is the case, then I’m gravely disappointed. What if I want to spray paint little stencils and cutesy designs on my documents after I’ve already shredded them? Additionally, I might want to drip hairspray down into my paper spaghetti mixture just to see what kinds of shapes will form. Denied.

4. The man’s necktie. Gentlemen, how many times have you purchased a necktie only to realize later that it’s too long? It isn’t always convenient to take it back to the store for another one. If only you could just give it a snip in your paper shredder! Think of the time you would save. And, your tie would have that already-worn sort of jagged look on the bottom – like fringe. Obviously, this is a conspiracy by the people who make scissors. Dang.

5. The lady’s ponytail. I could save another trip to the salon if only I could just pull my hair back into a ponytail, turn my head around 180 degrees, and just sort of lean ever so slightly backwards so that my tail dangles down into the shredder. The money I would save! The peace of mind! And this strikes me as even more peculiar -- why would a label warn against having a ponytail around a device such as this? It seems like, if anything, the ponytail should be encouraged to keep pesky long hair from dangling down like tinsel into the shredder as one leans curiously forward to watch the machine mutilate documents. Drat.

6. The whole baby. What?!?!?! Are there people on this planet who really need to be warned that it’s bad to stick a baby down a paper shredder?!?!?!?! I’m going to assume this one means to keep babies away from the paper shredder, which I think, is a good idea. Children should not be allowed near anything that has warning labels even the adults can’t wrap their brains around. Duh.

Want to Play?

My friend (Charles) and I created a fun new game. It's sort of like yoga for your mind. To begin, you write down 2 words. We chose "monkey business." Then, you create as many words as you can using only the letters from the two words. (For instance, for "monkey business," you might spell "skin," "some," "sunny," etc.) Next, you follow these rules:

1. Choose 8-10 words from the list
2. Insert “I,” “in,” “on,” “is,” “so,” “an” to make a poem
3. Added rule = can use “if”
4. Added rule = can repeat words
5. Added rule = can use the words in any order
6. Added rule = all poets are named “Previous”
7. Added rule = can discover new words and use them

We came up with 89 words from "monkey business" and these are all of the poems we created using those words (and adding "if").

Monkey Business:

Ski on bones.
In mouse, I money.
Snob is keys.
Musky bun.
--Previous

Bon sin
If
Buson is sin;
In sunny souks
In key –
Skin is bunk
Skin is bone
--Previous

Sum monkeys sin,
Yes.
My nuns,
My monks,
My skin.
Money is in.
--Previous

I am bien,
Monsieur;
Ink on money
Like monks on a bus.
Like minks,
Skim the ink from skin.
--Previous

Feel free to add a poem of your own using "monkey business" words!

New Review for Yoga in America!

http://www.bookreview.com/$spindb.query.listreview2.booknew.18138

Bathroom Meditation: The Final Yogic Frontier.

How many times have you started a 40-day meditation, cleanse, or practice only to forget somewhere around the 30th day and shamefully have to begin again? This has happened to me several times over the years and, as I started a 40-day prosperity meditation recently, I vowed to make it through on the first try.

On the 35th day, I found myself at a wine bar with friends. As far as curb appeal goes, this particular wine bar is top-notch; beckoning patrons off the street with cool music, hip décor, and a trendy urban ambiance fit for a modish night on the town. On this night, however, I found the patrons themselves to be lacking in style, decorum, and coolness. From what I could discern, most of these wine drinkers seemed to have over-imbibed and appeared to be stumbling over each other, and themselves, in a desperate attempt to avoid going home alone.

The bathrooms looked as if an all-day outdoor festival had taken place and the patrons I observed were certainly to blame. Toilet paper was carelessly strewn all over the floor and toilet, puddles of spilled alcohol engulfed the heels of my shoes, and the unmistakable smell of fresh vomit wafted from the sink. I believe I even spotted some tiny, delicious little chunks of someone’s dinner clinging to the drain. Even after washing my hands three times with soap and water, I still failed to feel completely clean.

Fortunately, I was able to get past all of this in order to enjoy my friends. That is, until I realized it was 11:37pm and I still had not done my meditation. When I realized I would never make it home in time to complete my chanting before midnight no matter how quickly I drove, I panicked. Frantically, my mind raced as I attempted to devise options for myself. Nothing came to mind. And then, one of my friends recommended, “I think you should just go in the bathroom.”

Sadly, she was right. I had nowhere else to go.

Since the ladies’ room was occupied and I was in a hurry, I hesitantly entered the men’s room and shut and locked the door. Very quickly, I toyed with the thought of sitting on the toilet, but I was afraid my pants would permanently stick to it and I would have to leave them behind. So, with nostrils struggling to keep the putrid air out, rather than invite it in, I stood against the wall and began to chant my meditation.

I cannot say with any degree of certainty how much time elapsed. All I know is that I scurried hastily out of there when I heard a clumsy, thunderous knock on the door, crashing against the locked doorknob, and a man screaming, “Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyy, whooooosseee innnnnnneeee thaaaaaaiiiiiiirrrrrrr??????” It caused me to feel weird and dirty as it awakened me to the reality of my gross surroundings.

Still, I felt a huge sense of relief and accomplishment; not unlike the usual relief and accomplishment one might experience when exiting the restroom. I had done it! Day 35 of my meditation was a success. Never mind that my shoes were sticking to the floor now as I walked. I managed to meditate before midnight. And, as my personal revenge, I entered the address for the wine bar into the “Sit or Squat” application of my iPhone and tagged the bathroom as a definite “squat!”

The Most Expensive Yoga Class Never Taken.

A good friend of mine did something yesterday that caused her to pay for the most expensive yoga class she’s never taken. She drove a little over the speed limit to make it to an Ashtanga class on time. How many people have found themselves rushing to make it in before the door slams shut and the “Class is Full” sign is posted?

It was early Saturday morning, the streets were virtually empty, and my friend really needed a good yoga class. You see, her mother had been admitted to the hospital the day before and she was feeling more stressed out than usual. So, with a bit of a heavy heart and, obviously, a heavy right foot, she zoomed into the yoga studio parking lot at around 7 miles per hour over the legal limit. At least, that’s what the police officer who pulled in behind her, with blue lights flashing, alleged.

My friend jumped out of her car, ran to the yoga studio door, and was met with the cold, cruel realization that class was, indeed, full. The teacher walked out, apologetically, with the dreaded “Class is Full” sign in his hand.

“Can’t you squeeze in one more?” my friend pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” the kind yoga teacher explained, “We just don’t have room.”

“But, I’m having a terrible morning!” my friend cried.

It was then that she realized how terrible her morning had actually become. You see, in her overzealousness to make it to class on time, she never noticed the blue lights flashing behind her. Apparently, the officer had been following her for quite some time.

“Ma’am, excuse me,” the officer interrupted.

“What?” my friend turned around and asked.

“Ma’am, I need you to step over to the car,” the officer requested.

Confused, my friend walked toward her car. The yoga teacher leaned in and whispered, “If you come back later today, class will be free.”

The officer began to question my friend regarding the speed limit. Didn’t she see him behind her?

“No, I didn’t see you behind me,” she started to cry, “I was trying to get to yoga class on time. Don’t you know how fast these classes fill up?”

“Well, I’m going to have to give you a ticket,” he responded.

My friend quickly realized she had forgotten her wallet that morning. Obviously, this is not a move that either pleases or amuses our police force. Back inside the car, my friend just sat and cried.

Several more yogis showed up late for class and were met by the locked door and “Class is Full” sign. One stopped to ask the officer for directions. The other one actually knew the officer. They embraced and proceeded to catch up on old times while my friend sat in the car and continued to cry.

Twenty minutes and $147.00 later, my friend drove away. Some days are just like that, aren’t they? I guess her lesson was to take more time, relax, and stop hurrying. It’s a great lesson for all of us. Perhaps it was a lesson for the officer as well. Maybe the next time he sees a person speeding in the direction of a yoga studio, he’ll stop for a moment to realize the great paradox of our times – SOME OF US ARE IN A HURRY TO SLOW DOWN!

The Squirrel? Or Me?

This past Sunday, while on a 30-mile bike ride, I was posed with an interesting dilemma. To save a squirrel? Or, to save myself? I had to choose quickly and I chose myself.

Anyone who has a road bike knows that you have to make plenty of split second decisions when your shoes are clicked in. I was pedaling at around 15 mph when the squirrel darted toward me. He was approaching rapidly from the right and I could see a man and woman walking toward me from the left. The only way to avoid hitting the people and saving myself from a disastrous headlong launch over the handlebars was to flatten the squirrel.

Hoping for the best for all parties involved, I hunched over, continued to pedal, and screamed, “AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”

The woman in front of me threw her arms up, bugged her eyes, and yelled, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”

The squirrel ran right into the spokes of my front tire and went on the spin cycle of his life. I could hear his little furry body hitting against the spokes and frame. It reminded me of the sound of a playing card in my bicycle tire spokes when I was little, only not so pleasant, given the circumstances.

Amazingly, he was ejected from the spokes, hopped alongside me, and jumped right back into the tire as I continued to scream. The thumping continued for a moment until he flew out and bounced off the side of the bike path and into the woods.

The entire incident happened so fast that I hadn’t even caught up to the man and woman, who was still screaming with me and waving her arms wildly. As I whooshed by them, I yelled, “Is it okay?!?!?”

“It’s fine! It’s fine! Keep going!” she reassured me.

Happy to be alive and uninjured, I continued on my way. Naturally, I felt guilty about the poor squirrel. I wondered what happened to him but, honestly, I was happier to have not broken my collarbone and/or my wrists. I’m sure the woman was happy that I didn’t swerve and flatten her instead.

This incident continues to disturb my thoughts. After all, yoga teaches us ahimsa, non-violence. A part of me feels like I callously injured a squirrel just to ensure my own safety and well-being. Another part of me knows that our instinct for survival as humans is very powerful and kicks in when we feel threatened. So, on the other hand, I would have been inflicting violence on myself, or the woman, had I chosen to avoid injuring the squirrel.

I keep telling myself that the squirrel is fine. He must have limped angrily back to his nest and informed his squirrel family that he was captured by some strange thrashing machine and launched violently through the air for no reason. His squirrel friends probably told him to be more careful in the future as the acorn path is notorious for several different types of giant wheeled torture devices. Afterwards, they all proudly showed off their scars and gashes and boasted about who had been run over the most times.

Perhaps this unfortunate incident was just the incentive the frustrated squirrel community needed in order to be inspired to organize a revolt to put a stop to the abuse by wheeled humans. I’ll let you know if an army of angry squirrel bandits attempts to overtake me the next time I go for a bike ride. And, really, how can I be sure this little squirrel wasn’t aiming for me on purpose for this very reason? In the meantime, I drew a picture of the incident and hope you’ll join me in sending healing energy to this squirrel and all the squirrels of the world.

Not Everyone Thinks I'm Funny.

As someone who works diligently to craft just the right pun or quip, I was dismayed to discover recently that not everyone thinks I’m funny. The mere fact that I’m taking the time to draft a blog entry explaining this predicament is a testament to the colossal bruise inflicted upon my ego by this realization. Let me explain.

Last weekend, while standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, my eyes were drawn to the following sign hanging above the cash register:

“We accept all forms of payment.”

To the casual observer, this sign may seem innocuous enough but, to me, it was a plethora of as yet untapped humor. My mind raced wildly as my tongue and sense of decency fought the insistent urge to blurt out some of the more obscene payment “options” that occurred to me. I mean, what did the editors of this particular sign have in mind? One need not search far in the annals of payment history to understand the jewels of innuendo presented by this verbiage.

In the interest of decorum and restraint, however, I simply turned to my friend and asked, “I wonder if they would barter?”

And, seriously, I did wonder. Perhaps I had something of value on me that day that these fine people would covet. I envisioned some hot dog (or fat cat) in the corporate offices leaning back in his leather-bound chair, crunching the company’s growth potential numbers for the quarter, feeling overwhelmed with joy that he had my old, used hair brush on his desk.

“Yeah, we traded this woman 6 eggs for this hair brush,” he would tell his co-workers. “I mean, have you seen the way some of these employees roll out of bed and drag themselves in here? We needed this thing.”

Then, one of his co-workers would proudly chime in, “Dude, Bob and me got this cool nail file from her and all we gave her was a box of oatmeal. Sweet!”

After I questioned out loud whether this barter idea had any legs, the man in front of me announced, “I guess I could give them my glasses for my groceries.”

“But, how would you see to drive home?” I asked.

We carried on like this for quite some time, offering negotiating tips and suggestions and laughing at how obviously funny we were as the other shoppers looked on with lukewarm amusement, peppered with a hint of disdain. Quite pleased with ourselves, we each moved on to our respective cashiers.

The lovely woman who tallied my purchases took the time to wrap a green rubberband around my package of eggs. It was then that I struck her with an alarming right hook of humor that she neither welcomed nor understood.

“Thank goodness,” I exclaimed, “for the rubberband! The last cashier didn’t give me one and the eggs hatched in the car!”

“Oh no,” she fired back, with what every person who thinks he or she is funny recognizes as a look of confusion and bewilderment mixed with concealed disgust.

But, I couldn’t stop there. “Oh yeah,” I waved my arms over my head and continued, “the chickens hatched out and flew all over the car! It was awful!”

I still don’t know what frightened her more; my message or the vehemence with which I delivered it. Regardless, she said nothing, handed me the receipt, and busied herself with the next customer.

NOTE TO SELF: Not everyone thinks you’re funny. Keep blogging. This ensures that you don’t have to see their faces when one of your jokes bombs.