Friday, September 18, 2015

Why I Mostly Wear Yoga Pants for Drinking Wine and Such

So I went to a a yoga class with my bestie the other day.  I thought, "Oh, this will be glorious!  We will get a nice workout and relaxation in before the chaos tomorrow."

And, well, some of that was true.

The thoughts that surfaced as yoga class was going down were more like this:

I just don't get it.  I hear you, yoga guy.  I see that you take this very seriously, but... um... I don't.
I like stretching and moving and allowing my mind to be still and making time for intentional relaxation... but...

When the room is a bit crowded and I spread out my mat near yours and ask if I'm too close to your personal space and your response is, "The world is my personal space and we can exist in it together." I must laugh, because, Dude, you know what I mean.

And when you say things like, "Spread the flesh of your buttocks so you're sitting directly on your pelvic bones." and the lady in the back rips a huge fart, I'm going to die laughing.  I will.  Because seriously, "Spread the flesh of your buttocks" being followed by major wind breakage is hilarious.

On a deeper level, someone always farts in yoga, but no one ever laughs.  This is a real shame because it's always funny.  Yoga is supposed to be a healing practice and laughter is the best medicine.  I propose a new deal.  Someone farts in yoga class and everyone laughs.  We lose it.  We laugh so hard we all fart.  We can't keep it in.  This sounds way more fun and healing than thinking, "Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.  You are mature.  You can handle this. Hold it in. Do. not. laugh."

Just after the spread your cheeks toot brigade, we were encouraged to take deep, throaty breaths...  Do you know what this sounds like in real life?  Yes, that's right.  Sex noises.  It sounds exactly like sex noises.

He said, "Don't be embarrassed, feel the vibration of the word ring through your body and allow yourself to really enjoy the way it feels."  Hmm...

Weird.  I enjoy the way something feels when I make those noises, but it is not the making of the "noise vibrating through my body" that I enjoy.  I will not be making sex noises in public, thankyouverymuch.

Maybe yoga is no longer for me.  Maybe I will still stretch and move and allow my mind to be still and make time for intentional relaxation, but I think I will do it in my personal space while laughing at farts and keeping my sex noises in my bedroom.  And so, yoga pants, you will now be used only for drinking wine.  I know you're sad.  Please forgive me, yoga pants, but I just can not not laugh at all of that all over again.  It is too painful.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

For the Love of Endings

For those of you just joining my Jen  For the Love Adventure,  today starts the weekend where I go to stay in a house with online only friends that I’ve never met in real life and go to Jen Hatmaker’s house to say Godknowswhat and embarrass myself. 

I am ending this For the Love Adventure in much the same way I began it—like Jesse Spano screaming, “I’m so excited!  I’m so excited!  I’m so scared!” 

When I first got on the FTL Launch Team Facebook page, I was totally overwhelmed and intimidated.  Do these girls know each other?  How did these girls already read this entire book?  Why is something #onthebeam or #offthebeam?  Maybe I shouldn’t have applied to be on this launch team!  I don’t get this!!!

Then someone shared a struggle.  A real struggle.  And the group responded with grace and kindness and prayer and me toos.  And someone told a joke.  The group responded with laughter and grace and kindness and prayer and me toos.  And we went on and on and on like that, laughing together, crying together, praying together, me-too-ing together, and in the midst of our crazy worlds, where we first shared only the love of the words in Jen’s books, we were suddenly sharing our lives.  And I thought, THIS.  I get THIS. 

And here I am now at Austin’s airport standing in front of Austin Java (which incidentally doesn’t sell coffee at this time of day?  #dontmakemegoallLoreleionyou) listening to a random guy play softly on his guitar and waiting excitedly to meet up with a new FTL friend whose flight arrives in a couple of hours.  We will then ride with other sort-of strangers to stay in a house with more sort-of strangers.  This is ALL still the excited part.  I can’t wait to make all of these new friends and hang out with all of these cool people who are full of grace and kindness and laughter. 
And here I am again, scared.  What if they don’t think I’m funny?  What if I look fat?  What if I swear too much and they go all mean Christian on me?  What if I cry and they give me judgmental advice?  What if when I get to talk to Jen I go fangirl or read-my-book girl or worse yet, am forgettable? 

But what I’m even more scared of is… what is going to happen to my 500 new best friends?  Will Stacey beat Lyme?  And when she does, will I know and get to celebrate with her?   Who will Erin Leigh Cox dubsmash for now?  What will happen to Andrea Trexler Conway now that she lives in New York?  Will Pamela Anne still sell me beautiful cuffs?  How will I know when Terri Gorton Fullerton is in Colorado and we could visit?  How is sweet Embo? Just how many copies of FTL has Danielle Brower signed now?  And who on earth will share their online dating tragedies with me now?!

For the Love built a community.  It gave us a reason to connect and laugh and breathe and say me too.  

I’m glad I’ve been a little part of it.  Now let’s party!  #Budaorbust 

Thursday, September 3, 2015

TBT The Loss of Popsicles (Original 9/20/10)

There’s an unmistakable wind in the air tonight
Warm and full, but…
just cool enough to say,
“Summertime is ending.”

The wind speaks, and I object,
 “But I didn’t ride bikes or eat enough ice cream!”
“We barely even got to go… camping.”

But the wind calls to Autumn, leaving me behind
Like a little boy’s shoes
Sitting on the front steps of a summer cottage
 Waiting unwaveringly for summer’s return
Collecting the leaves and snow and sun
The shoes and summer seemingly forgotten
Because the boy’s father was quick to state, “Summer’s over.  Get in the car.”
So the boy got in the car,
His bare feet a silent protest
Streaked with dirt, propped up and peaking out the back window,
 searching for one last caress of the lake’s warm summer wind
Skinned knees pressed against his hopeless chocolate-covered face
While his shoes sat silently
Strings swaying, sorrowfully singing
Lamenting the loss
of popsicles.