Coming loose

(edited 1.23.2010 to correct some sentence construction issues.  hi hi)

I turned twenty-something some weeks back.

I didn’t celebrate at that time, because I was thinking of “disappearing” tomorrow and popping up in Miami for some sun, beach and dancing.  I had plenty of reasons to go, but as I was about to book the flight out, I happened to check the weather forecast, and didn’t like what I saw.  Scattered thunderstorms, rain, cloud cover: what’s the point?

To console myself, I trolled the internet for some *ahem* retail therapy.  This is the result:

a handsome, brown, faux shearling Levi’s jacket at 60% off its full price.  I just have to say that, cynic that I am, I usually tend to believe that the real price of anything is its discounted price, and that stores artificially jack up prices just so they can say something is “on sale.”  Levi’s calls it a trucker jacket, although I personally think it’s very…  Brokeback Mountain.  Hi hi.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, except that I already have a Brokeback Mountain jacket, a leather one.  Hi hi.  Is there a pattern going on here?  Hi hi.  Perhaps.  I might have, after all these years, settled down on looking like a ranch hand, trucker or lumberjack, which is why you might see me walking around these days in boots.  Maybe not pointy, spurred cowboy boots–those look very uncomfortable–but work boots.  Memo to self: need more tall socks from the discount shop.

(Belated) happy birthday to me.

You might think I’m irredeemably vain, but quit judging me, and just hear me out:

One day long ago in high school, a kid visited our little campus, which was then in the middle of nowhere. He was good-looking, and also a little cocky. You could practically hear all the little girls squealing for days. Thanks to the miracle that is Facebook, I happened upon a recent picture of him.

He is now fat.

You have no idea how good that made me feel. Ha ha. Kidding.

I was also mortified. I went, Oh my Lord: in my adulthood, I never asked you for so much, but please, please don’t let me get to that point.

I have, in fact, flirted with that point. Three to four months ago, I tipped the scale at about 164 lbs (for the metrically inclined, 74 kg; body mass index about 25). There are pictures somewhere that show it. I felt bad enough at that weight that I started to watch what I ate, got on the stairmaster, switched to diet coke and cut out most of the beer. I am now at 152 (about 69 kg), and at this weight I feel limber enough to attempt the more challenging yoga poses. Sometimes I succeed. Also, at this weight, I have a… *ahem* never mind. Hi hi. Rhymes with

So my new year’s resolution is, to keep my weight from going up unnecessarily, and, maybe, just maybe, delay for one more year the baggage that comes with age.

Somebody says into a mic, “This woman just had a baby, it’s out of control.”

Heidi Klum walking at the Victoria’s Secret 2009 Fashion Show a mere two months after giving birth to her nth child.  Now that’s impressive.

Or: The Gospel According to James

So I woke up at 7 yesterday, despite a few glasses of wine at a small Christmas party the night before, to make the first screening of the day, at 11, of James Cameron’s Avatar. I wanted to go early to avoid what I thought would be very long lines. Also, to avoid the chattering teenagers that seem to be the average demographic in that particular theater complex. When I got there, the theater was still closed, and, except for one or two possibly homeless people, there was no one else. I had to walk twice around the block–the weather was fantastic anyway–just to avoid being the first one in line. Because, well, *clears throat* that would be kind of sad. Hi hi.

It was all worth it. Avatar is visually stunning, even if I had to endure a couple of really bad one-liners, like this one from Sam Worthington: If I wanted them to trust me again, I need to take it to another level. I would have guffawed shamelessly if I wasn’t already suffering from a bad, overpriced pretzel in my mouth. The movie is 2 hours 40 minutes long, so fortify yourselves. The colors are vivid, the landscapes lush, the movements graceful. Perhaps James Cameron is really a taxonomist masquerading as a nerd. I liked that the 3D was subtle and immersive, not purposeful and in your face, as if James Cameron wanted to say, This is in 3D because it was meant to be in 3D, not because I wanted to impress or distract anybody. Of course, I also like that James Cameron does not shy from advancing his own personal causes, which are decidedly anti-imperialist, anti-capitalist and environmentalist. A director with a clout such as his should never shy from speaking his mind, even if it meant alienating a fan or two.

Maybe next week, I’ll wake up at 7 and do it all over again. For a movie like Avatar, once is just not enough.

..and to everyone else who might take interest.

To start, I would recommend going to a gym with yoga classes or to a dedicated yoga studio. They would cost about the same, although of course if you go to a yoga studio, you can only do yoga there and not much else. Which is why I go to a gym. It is best to start with a teacher, so you can learn alignment and breathing. Reading the word “alignment” in a book is not helpful at all if you don’t really know what it means.

From there, try to explore the many flavors of yoga. There are classes that emphasize flexibility. Some emphasize form, technique, discipline, and, maybe, grace. There are also classes that emphasize relaxation and meditation, and these I found unintentionally funny. Finally, there are classes that emphasize strength and power. Guys reading this might find strength and yoga in the same sentence oxymoronic, but it is true: there are some very effective ways to build strength with yoga. There is even a form of yoga practiced at 100F. I never tried that, but it sounds uncomfortable.

Eventually, as you become more confident, you can try practicing on your own. You will have learned enough shit by this time, and, if needs be, a yoga book would be now sufficient to try new things. On your own, you can calibrate your practice to suit your time, schedule and level of difficulty. You can also pick your own routines. For example, there is this one pose that, for some unknown physiologic or psychic reason, I find relaxing and oddly reassuring, so I tend to do that all the time if I’m on my own. I think it’s called the dragonfly or the grasshopper or some such insect. Most importantly, you get to choose your own music! You may have heard crap to the contrary, but one can surely practice yoga to U2 or Coldplay, or even to club music and electronica.

I would definitely recommend that, in the future, you try practicing yoga on your own, if not all the time, then at least some of the time. When you can comfortably practice on your own, yoga becomes truly portable and sustainable: all you would need is a mat, and you’re good to go. Like, *clears throat* when you have a baby–hypothetically, of course–you can set it down in its crib and practice while it sleeps.

The pronouns are intentional.

Hope this helps.

Repeat after me:

She’s not thinking of you, she’s not thinking of you, she’s not thinking of you.

Move on, move on, move on.

It only happens in the movies, only happens in the movies, only happens in the movies.

Start over.  Repeat as necessary.

In case of emergency, play this.  Lyrics below.

Why Should I Cry for You, by Sting

Under the dog-star sail
Over the reefs of moonshine
Under the skies in fall
North-northwest, the Stones of Faroe

Under the Arctic fire
Over the seas of silence
Hauling on frozen ropes
For all my days remaining
Would north be true?

Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?

All colours bleed to red
Asleep on the ocean’s bed
Drifting in empty seas
For all my days remaining

Would north be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?

Dark angels follow me
Over a godless sea
Mountains of endless falling,
For all my days remaining,

What would be true?

Sometimes I see your face,
The stars seem to lose their place
Why must I think of you?
Why must I?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Why would you want me to?
What would it mean to say,
“I loved you in my fashion”?

What would be true
Why should I
Why should I cry

Something I wrote to someone a few hours ago.  Might as well put it out there.

hey–

so i’m sorry that i won’t speak with you anymore.  this is too hard for me.

but you should know that i am sincere in my wish of peace and
happiness in your life–i just cannot be a part of it.

my only wish is that one day in the future, you would be kind enough
to say hello and ask after me.

who knows?  maybe then i’ll say hello back.

Surely, it must be a sign of advancing age, if

1. You now have a list for everything. You used to be able to just damn it all and wing it, but now you feel compelled to have a list whenever you

go get groceries, because, well, pasta noodles isn’t going to present itself to you when you’re there, and it’s what’s for dinner.

lift weights, because you can’t remember how much weight you lifted last time, and that was just last week. To think that you should remember it by now from having done it so many times.

practice yoga, because you’d rather sing along–quietly, of course–to U2 than think about what you’re doing. Unfortunately, the yoga classes that are available to you are so easy you now have to practice on your own, just for the challenge, and also for the option to play music of your choice in the background.

maintain your computer, because there are just too many things to do.

2. You step out the door, and a burning question suddenly pops in your head: Are you perhaps too old to be dressing like this? Another question, not quite as relevant here but just as burning, is, Are there really 1,001 nights in 1,001 Arabian Nights? You have been at it for maybe three weeks now, and you’re just at the 20th.

3. You clear out a mountain of laundry, and now that your teeny little closet is stuffed, you realize that it is blue, brown and gray with a few random splashes of red. You are struck by how little there is by way of color. Memo to self: Need to donate some of these. Yes, I’m looking at you, you stiff sweater that chafes! It’s blue, what a surprise.

4. You prefer the cinema where the average moviegoer is not a teenager, and the last blockbuster crap you saw was Terminator Salvation. You laughed at it.

5. Your last beer was maybe 4-5 weeks ago, because, well, you prefer wine now.

What good is a camera if you don’t take pictures of yourself with it?  Ha ha.  Kidding.

It snowed today–the earliest such snow in the history of the city–and, after these many years, I finally discovered the magical warming properties of a scarf.  Which I bought just two weeks ago, not because I thought it was going to snow, but because it was on sale, and in colors I liked.

If I see one more piece of meat, I will puke.

The boss took us out to lunch today, and his curiosity brought us to this place that serves Brazilian buffet.

The salad bar was awesome to begin with.  I could have made an entire meal out of it: mashed potatoes, mushrooms, a salad of radish and tomatoes, coleslaw with strawberries and grapes, candied banana.  I tried those, and that was not even half of what had been laid out.  Yum yum.

Then the meats came.  No, in fact, they paraded before us.  The servers would come to our table with skewers of all sorts of meat: pork wrapped in bacon, beef wrapped in bacon, pork chops, pork coated with parmesan cheese, lamb, lamb chops, sirloin steak, tenderloin steak, chicken, sausage, garlic-and-pepper steak, beef that tasted just like chorizo from back home, and so many others I could not even remember.  When the servers finally ran out of options, they started again from the top.  There was so much meat that my German co-worker, a confessed meat-lover, gave up before me.  Amazingly enough, I gave up before my much-older boss.

But not before going into what my German co-worker called “protein shock.”  I said it before, and I will say it again: if I see one more piece of meat, I will puke.  I had vegetarian tacos for dinner.