Ghosts of Halloweens Past

I expressed an interest in dressing up as Batgirl for Halloween because it seemed like the easiest homemade costume (minus the go-go boots), and because I thought my nephews would get a kick out of it.  They're into superheroes like that.  So, I was really flattered one day when my 5 year old nephew presented me with a gift . . .

It was a Batgirl figurine.  This Batgirl already belonged to his and his brother's shared collection of superhero toys but he wanted me to have it.  Tender!  That sealed the deal.  Batgirl it is.  FYI, the other frontrunners were a pimp/suga-mamma and Uhura from Star Trek.  As far as the outfit, I think I can borrow the black cape from a neighbor and use a regular Batman mask, of which there are a plethora around this house.  My original idea of making a top and a skirt out of black GLAD garbage bags was promptly shot down by a group of girlfriends who obviously have no idea of the caliber of my Halloween costume home-making skills.  So what if it's my first time making a Halloween costume, I thought the garbage bags would give the outfit a nice pleather look (although I'm not sure nice and pleather should be used in the same sentence).  Taking my girlfriends' advice, I've decided on a black skirt, a black shirt and I'll probably print a Batman sign to tape on my chest.  The only problem is acquiring a pair of go-go boots.  I'm on it!

I thought I'd include some costumes from Halloweens past for your enjoyment.

1)  For Halloween 2007 I was an Egyptian princess and I loved it!

2)  For Halloween 2006 I was a soul sista from the sixties and obviously had a blast.

My personal favorite Halloween costume was one I wore to the Halloween Howl at Utah State one year when I was lion.  Given, the costume was really hot (especially for dancing), but it was the most authentic costume experience I've participated in.  Sorry there's not a pic for you but that was before digital cameras, folks.  In short, I'm determined to enjoy this Halloween as a crime-fighter and hope wherever you are and whomever you choose to be, you enjoy yours as well.  Happy Halloween!

Stretching

On Saturday morning after a short run I meandered into this yoga studio I had heard good things about.  Two classes were about to start.  I picked one of the classes thinking I could pay the drop-in fee after class and hoping there was no chanting involved.  In true Murphy's law fashion, the class started with the chanting of some Sanskrit mantra I was unfamiliar with and I thought to myself, "Oh brother, should I split now?"  My cramped neck and my aching lower back insisted that I stay.  Luckily, the chanting was brief but the situation went from bad to worse when the instructor told us to pick a partner and help "ground" them by placing our hands on their hip bones, pushing downward as they reached up.  First, I have never been in a yoga class where I had to partner with someone and second, I had just come from exercising and I was sweaty.  I did the only thing I could, I feigned interest in some trees out the window hoping I would end up being odd man out.  My efforts were fruitless.  The petite, middle-aged man right next to me in the back row asked to be partners.  What could I say?  "I'm sorry, I smell right now and you really shouldn't approach me without an air tank or, at the very least, a protective mask."  Believe me when I tell you I was in no position to be in such close proximity to a perfect stranger, much less one that was supposed to be crouched in front of me with their hands on my hips (plus, if you're gonna grab these hips at least offer dinner and a movie).  Nevertheless, I conceded to his request and tried to act like men have their hands on my hips everyday.  It was still awkward, but at the conclusion of the exercise I ended up appreciating the take-home message, "It's surprising how much higher we can reach when we are truly grounded."

I was relieved I had survived the entire debacle when, further into the class, we were working on balancing poses and the teacher wanted us to balance on one leg with the other leg out to our side at a 90 degree angle.  This is not so bad in itself except that he also wanted everyone in the class to simultaneously hold the foot of the person next to them up.  A brief word about my feet, they are the laughingstock of my entire family.  Diplomatically put, they could be more aesthetically pleasing.  My own brother-in-law (you know who you are) has insinuated that I could weed his entire lawn with my feet if I was seated on a skateboard to which he had given a good shove.  So, I am sorry to report that I did not participate in this particular yoga class exercise.  Mr. Middle-Aged-Man right next to me probably thought I didn't want to touch his feet.  Little did he know I had his best interests at heart.  Had I participated, I would have expected him to withdraw his hand immediately upon contact with my foot and pretend that acid had melted away his flesh as per family tradition.  I know, kids can be so cruel.  Although I did not participate fully in this exercise, the take home message resonated with me as I felt it was a life lesson I am still learning, "Success is easier if you can lean on those close to you for help and support."

I would tell you about spotting handstands and flailing legs at this point, but you get the general idea that this yoga experience was unlike any other I've had.  I was stretched in more ways than one, but I have to say I felt like rubber after that class (this is a good thing since I went in feeling like the Tin Man) and my minor physical ailments were resolved.  When I went to pay, I found out that the class was a 13-week series that had begun weeks ago.  Ooops!  I thanked the helpful gentleman next to me before I left and asked myself if I would do that again.  Believe it or not, I think I would. 

After a shower and a pedicure.

Out of Touch

When I performed my last massage in June of 2008, I was burned out and my body needed a rest, having given massages for the last four years.  The funny thing is, even though I have not given a massage in over a year, I still feel in my heart that I'm a massage therapist.  I can understand defining yourself by what you do, but defining yourself by what you don't do?  That's a little weird. 

I had a dream earlier this week about getting bodywork and being outraged at the unprofessionalism of my massage therapist.  I remember yelling at her that it was therapists like her that gave all of us all a bad name.  The point is that I used the word "us."  When people ask me what I do, my first instinct is to tell them I'm a massage therapist, but after mentally correcting myself I tell them "I study."  There are a lot of things I can do, and much fewer I can do well, fewer still the things that I can do well and I truly enjoy doing.  Massage is one of these and I miss it.  It was something that made me feel I was making a contribution that was uniquely me.  I mean, where else can you contact (literally) another human being without having to talk?  Priceless.  I think that there are many more factors involved in a massage than just mere physical contact.  While the art of healing is still such uncharted territory, I feel there are few limits to the power of touch.

So folks, here's the 4-1-1.  I'm going to get nationally recertified (which you should know is a semi-arduous process), but I am super excited to have this part of me back!  Maybe I just have a case of distance makes the heart grow fonder, but I'm about to find out.  And to all of you with headaches, low back pain, cramps, etc., I quote the wise words of Vanilla Ice when he said, "If you got a problem, yo I'll solve it."  Physical problems that is, but you would be surprised to know how it's all connected.  In short, go get some bodywork!  If I'm in a reasonable radius, feel free to ask me for some.

Restraining Order

I've got a stalker.  Umm, he's one years, excuse me, one year old and he has ruined all my dreams in life.  He's my nephew and I live with him so there are some logistical issues at hand if I do decide to involve the police, but he follows me everywhere.  Even when I close my bedroom door I hear a teeny tiny knock followed by a demanding wail which obviously means "Let me in!!"  I ask you, how is an aunt supposed to resist?  I will tell you how.  The last time I let him have free reign in my bedroom he began pounding on my scientific calculator and I couldn't graph a thing once I got to Calculus.  I realize I may seem selfish and callous, but you have not heard the rest of the story.  Allow me . . .

I have a vision board.  It's just a regular poster board you can get at a grocery store down the school supply aisle, but I've turned it into a collage of elements I want to incorporate into my life.  For instance, there are pictures of women doctors, lots of happy little families, a romantic wedding and places I would love to visit one day.  I cut the various pictures out of magazines and glued them on the vision board.  I have also images of people engaging in various recreational activities like running, biking and snowshoeing.  I like to look at my vision board and be reminded of what I want out of life, where I wish to go and what I want to do.  It helps me visualize and plus, it's fun to pretend to be a little creative.  Anywho, I entered my room one day to find the pictures torn from my vision board, the shredded pieces of my dreams lying in disarray on my floor.  I was in absolute dismay.  I immediately knew who the culprit was and I'll have you know that I hunted him down with the intent to strangle his little neck, but when those big sad eyes looked at me fringed with the longest eyelashes I have ever seen, my violent intentions simmered down to muttered threats.

I spent a couple of hours one Sunday repairing my vision board meticulously, adding lots of new and beautiful images.  It was the best version of my vision board yet.  I was delighted by my handiwork, and to prevent such disasters as had previously befallen my dreams in life, I faithfully closed my bedroom door when I was not at home and charged admission when I was.  Nevertheless, one day I came home from school, opened my door and found that my dreams were once again destroyed.  The first time it was my dream of one day having a family that he attacked.  This time it was the corner in which I had the pictures of all the doctors, especially one small article that included a picture of a female physician who traveled to third world countries providing medical care.  My heart was broken and I was simultaneously outraged.  I mean, how dare he?!  It's a good thing God made kids so cute because this one would have never made it to the ripe old age of two!  I'm sure he does not realize how lucky he is to be alive at this moment.

Working on in despair, I taped the picture of my favorite doctor back as best I could and tried to patch up the rest.  You would think I would have learned by this time to not have any dreams in life or to place my vision board higher than two feet off the ground.  I learned neither and it happened once more.  To this day, I am too disparaged to even look at the sorry sham that used to display my fondest wishes and plans for myself.  A restraining order does not seem like such a desperate measure now, does it?  He's going down!  If he thinks he can treat me in such a deplorable manner and get one sippy cup of kindness from me--he's wrong!  It's on like Donkey Kong.  The gauntlet has been thrown down, the glove has officially slapped me across the face.  Little does he know that I rise to such challenges and I refuse to be bested by a one year old.  I'll cut the feet off of his pajamas, I'll water down his apple juice beyond recognition,  I'm crazy like that.  He don't know me.

I'm open to any other suggestions that could potentially terrorize a one year old despot.