Ventures into belly dancing

This week, I took a break from my normal Wednesday yoga class; my friend had told me about a belly dancing class that was offered downtown, so we decided to check it out. We're both former dancers, but neither of us has entered a studio in over a year, and I'm used to swirling my arms and legs around while dancing. I use dance as a form of letting go and showing a somewhat silly side. Belly dancing, however, is contained, controlled, and a little bit flirty. Also, you get to wear things that jingle on your hips.
The warmup was familiar and comforting--kind if in the same way you'd visit an elementary school classroom and let the memories flood back. My jazz and modern dance days suddenly didn't seem so far away. And like yoga, belly dance is very grounded; surprisingly, it requires a lot of strength in your legs and glutes. Unlike yoga, you can say things like glutes without being looked at as superficial and vain. But as soon as we went into the choreography, everyone's hips looked like they were separated from the rest of their body, and my head was bobbing up and down like there was a massive cup of coffee on the ceiling. The mirror informed me I looked like I'd seen a boggart (yay Harry Potter references!) through the entire class. For such small movement, it's hard to make your hips look like they could take flight at any second. I felt about as sexy as an oversized cardigan.
Still, for a first class, it went well. I only partly made a fool of myself, and where's the fun in going dancing with friends when you can't laugh about how much of a doofus you looked like? I enjoyed breaking out of peace and serenity mode to shake my hips for a bit. College is all about new experiences, so hey, I may as well get a head start. I definitely plan on keeping yoga in my life, so I don't bite people's heads off from stress, but I'll make room to add in belly dancing as well. Maybe I can incorporate the two into one art--if you see me shaking my hips in downward facing dog pose, now you'll know why.

The writer's dilemma

Of course every writer is different, but I've noticed that we mainly fall into two categories: there's those who search for inspiration in every nook and cranny, but only see a blank page staring back at them. Then there's the kind of writer who are the ADD kids of the creative world--there's so much to take note of, so many stories to share, but as soon as it's placed in sentence form, it just looks wrong, or dull, or you realize that bestselling author just wrote the exact same story you thought you were so ingenious to conjure. All of these, by the way, have happened to me; I ended up fuming for a week, furious that the writers of Psych had stolen my idea! Mine!--which never left my house, so unless those writers were the next Shawn Spencer, they couldn't possibly have taken my plot line.
So what does one do when the words on a page seem better fitting for a 5th grader than the next hit novel? I'd take the mature route of crying, screaming, and hoping I'll find inspiration at the bottom of a pint of rocky road ice cream. Instead, what I find is a sick stomach and an extra heap of self-loathing. I'd write that into a story, if I didn't already have five going on at once. Yes, I'm the attention-deficit-"ooh, shiny!" type writer. I feel spectacular at a certain chunk of dialogue, and then I ram into the backstory and everything falls apart. I realize I actually have to know these characters, like I'd know myself, or a close friend, not some person I buy coffee from. There is a part of good writing that--gasp!--involves planning, outlining, and that awkward moment when I realize my eleventh grade English teacher was right. She wasn't just trying to torture us with those pre-essay assignments, nor were we just racking up mindless homework points. Still, as a rebel towards all things tedious, I consulted various books, articles, and experts on the world of writing. Maybe there was a loophole, where I could get away with not finding out when my characters go to bed, which end of the toothpaste bottle they squeeze, or what their biggest fears entail. All the experts essentially said the same thing: "What are you doing, reading about writing, when there's a notebook and pen in front of you? A mechanic doesn't call himself such by reading about cars; it's the same with the creative process." Only then did I realize my constant thinking about, and obsessing about writing, was my own form of procrastination. I had all the ideas floating in my head, but there they would stay if I didn't just sit down, shut up, and write. 
Most writers are perfectionists; I'm very familiar with the feeling that my first draft has to be worthy enough for Stephen King himself to be brought to tears. But just like with the pre-writing work, the revision process is pertinent to anyone's career. I can't bring myself to write total garbage, but I've allowed myself to write something, anything on a page, as long as it doesn't completely disrupt the flow of the rest of the story. I'm inspired to write maybe 1/10 of the time I actually put words on a page, on a good week. But it's so rewarding to see myself grow as a writer. I've gone from scribbling 180 pages of a story that was far too autobiographical (mainly it was rambling about how some boy didn't like this whiny chick), to planning and following through with more layered plots and characters. Even this blog has helped me grow as a writer. My life isn't nearly exciting enough to have some grand event to report every day, so I really have to work to find a new angle on the little things that happen in my daily life. It's helped me deepen my awareness of my own voice, and take a step back from the emotions that cascade through me. I still have the inner battle between the writer and the girl who wants to drink coffee in front of Pirates of the Caribbean, but it's gotten easier to let the creative side win, and to just write. 

The Friend Zone and other High School Atrocities

After graduating from high school, I've found it easier to reflect on the social stigmas and regulations. When you're in the midst of all these teenage taboos, separating yourself from them can be a risky move. It's a tricky situation, fighting the system in five minute class changes. My legs would get far too sore. I've gone against the idea that curly hair makes girls look like they've stuck their head in an oven, or that a Friday night is lost if you don't watch two hundred pounds of aggression fling themselves at each other, but the one high school injustice I've yet to voice is the world of dating.
Watching these relationships is like watching re-runs of The Bachelor, sometimes with a mix of Jersey Shore (drinking, sex, massive regrets...it's all one giant party!). It's either "I hate you, you bastard, go die," or, "I love him so much, he's definitely the one, and I'm picking out my wedding dress after school." Sometimes both these statements are uttered, in the span of three class periods. High school seems sorely lacking in the friend zone, or, in other words, dating.
You don't need to be next to your soulmate to watch a quality film. Your future husband may be sitting across your overpriced cup of coffee, but he could also be that guy who makes for great punch lines over drinks. The most common explanation I've heard for not going on a date, is that they didn't know the guy. With facebook and texting on hand 24/7, there's an expectation that people know everything about their love interest's life: where they grew up, what their hobbies are, and what they had for breakfast. Where is the fun in live conversation if both people have already spilled their hearts, in 150 characters or less? First dates have gone from seeing face to sucking face.
I'm all for relationships, but I've always been uncomfortable with the idea that you blindly dive into them, like an impulse buy. When you skip from acquaintances you text when you're bored, to each others' world, it's like realizing you bought a house without actually looking at it; it was just the first available home you saw. There's something slightly off with planning your kids' names with someone whose middle name remains unknown. Dating helps with the natural progression to relationships. It's not cold or heartless, nor is it "cheating" to go on a few dates with a few different people. That instant attachment to the first guy you see isn't true love, it's a lovely little something called hormones. You might be the lucky sort who meets "the one" in the first few outings together. Or, more likely, he'll be the one of several, and then you'll have a lot of amusing stories to tell those other first dates.      

The essentiality of feather earrings

I am a fan of odd jewelry. If you got me in a store with any type of accessory, I would walk straight past the studs, and rage the collection of feathers, neon bracelets, and earrings that look like junk food. This may go hand in hand with my shopping addiction, but it is also due to the fact that I am an appreciator of all things funky. I once got a pair of earrings that were longer than my hair. So that was a thing that happened.
People are usually happy to get in discussions with me about the amazingness of glitter and all things shiny, but there are the few who aren't sure how to react to my eclectic style of dress. And how else would you establish your fashion dominance other than asking a cheetah-print sheathed girl if she got dressed in the dark? Granted, hot pink leopard spots are a bit much; I have reigned it in slightly since the sixth grade. But I still only save my jeans and tee-shirt days for when it looks like the sky decided to throw up all over the universe.
The line between enthusiast and materialist has always been a shaky one. I've used fashion as a conversation instigator several times, and a kind of disclaimer that I'm not nearly as cold as my "in between classes" face makes me seem. But my bandanas and bell bottoms (suddenly I'm in the '60's it seems) are not replacements for my personality. They simply help draw out the exuberant nature for the more shy people of the world. I can leave my feather earrings on my dresser and still act animated--which is good, since if I wore those things every day, I'd most likely get in a tangled mess.
Glitter and neon will always have a place in my closet, and I'm not one to apologize for a style of clothing that is something other than shorts and Ugg boots. Yet I'm also open to an ever changing wardrobe as my personality shifts. I never would have known I adore long, flowy skirts if it weren't for my ashram endeavors. If all I consisted of however, was an obsession with different kinds of fabric and jewelry, I'd get boring fast. So, just as it's important to have several layers to your outfit (especially if you live in Pennsylvania), the layers to personality are vital. I just enjoy drawing out said layers with shiny things. 

Shadows of family

Two reasons I'm thrilled to have shelled out eight bucks for the showing of Dark Shadows--reason number one being, of course, that Johnny Depp stars in it as Barnabus the vampire. He may be following the vampire fad that has swept up teen girls everywhere, but in a very Tim Burton-esque way. Think Edward Scissorhands meets Twilight, but with less suckery, blood and otherwise.
The morals of Depp's movies are certainly there, but they don't hit you over the head with a brick. I've learned quite a few life lessons from watching him; for instance, we should accept those who are different from us, greed will only get us so far, and one should always make sure there's a hearty stock of rum. Yet what I got in between the scenes of blood, gore, and fear of silver, was a theme that is prominent to everyone's regular life: there is no stronger bond than one between family.
It must be terribly awkward to go for a family visit after spending two centuries in a coffin; if small talk with strangers isn't hard enough, poor Barnabus had to learn the inner workings of the '70s. What a trippy situation--in more ways than one. But even though Barnabus had never met his eccentric family, as a Collins, he immediately felt a close bond and fierce protection towards each member. As Depp's character could never die, neither could his loyalty, despite the crazy witches trying to ravage then destroy him every two seconds. That always puts a damper on things.
I haven't let two hundred years pass me by, but I have gone without familial contact longer than I'd prefer. In the moment, it's easy to push aside the faces you don't see every day, or the voices you don't hear nagging you to "put your laundry away, I asked you to do that an hour ago". It's not an intentional distance either; I adore each and every person in my family, but I also enjoy designating my life to sleep, coffee, and blogging about how much I love sleep and coffee. So, in the midst of planning and chaos, I've seen quite a few relatives these past few weeks, and will be seeing more to come.
The pervading guilt of not keeping in touch speaks louder than any awkward small talk could, but as I've re-connected with cousins, aunts and uncles I haven't seen in years, I've noticed that such small talk was always kept to a minimum. From the first handshake to the goodbye hugs, my family has exhibited a strong sense of love and loyalty. Granted, there was some inevitable "how is work going?" and "what are you doing in college; you can only be eleven years old!" but the visits were mainly built up by a string of memories, of "do you remember when"s: the late night games of Candy Land Bingo (yes, such a thing exists), the beach house, where our two baby cousins fought over sitting in a plastic bucket, and watching our grandparents gently banter over nothing and everything. Seeing the people I love and respect more than anything once every few years gives me extra gratitude that I am surrounded by such a wonderful support system. There's that sense of joy of re-discovering how much I enjoy my family's company, and that I would do anything to see them happy. I may not tell them the everyday "he said that she said that they did" stuff, but I fill them in on the important aspects of my life, and I'm thrilled to hear the happenings of theirs. Loyalty doesn't die as the years pass, because as long as we are bound by love, I will always know that the shadow of family follows me, no matter where I go.

Namaste.
 

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Throughout my years in school, I've been reminded to stand up for myself, not to fall into peer pressure, and any other slogan that might sound good on the Disney channel. But after growing irritated at the people who are constantly in your face, persuading anyone who will listen about how amazing they are, I've wondered if there are some overlooked advantages about standing quietly, and listening.
Stephen Chbosky seems torn on the issue. In his novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, sixteen year old Charlie is the loveable nerdy kid who places himself in the background, only immersing himself when a friend is in need. He goes to the high school football games every Friday night, not because he is an avid watcher of football, but because he's seen that it's the "normal" thing to do, and he can watch his friends Patrick and Sam be normal alongside him. But if he was actively involved in the cheering, making out on the bleachers, or getting wasted (as high-schoolers tend to do), would he have been able to tell the reader that, "I look at the field, and I think about the boy who just made the touchdown. I think that these are the glory days for that boy, and this moment will just be another story someday because all the people who make touchdowns and home runs will become somebody's dad. And when his children look at his yearbook photograph, they will think their dad was rugged and handsome and looked a lot happier than they are" (53)? People who are directly in the action leave no time to reflect. They may appear happier, but the only thing we know for sure is that they are more ignorant. The football player getting that touchdown may not realize a moment's pleasure of downing after-game drinks will be years of regret. Charlie's friend and love interest Sam might look like she's in bliss by sucking face with that guy who could make girls swoon with a simple look, but her artificial relationships could scare her away when a decent man does come along. What blinds us, also chases us years later.
Yet too much reflection can bring us to a constant loop of playing catch up with our minds. There's that fine line of knowing someone and living through him/her. Charlie knows Sam so well, that he can catch her sadness a second before she even registers it. But his own discontent doesn't creep up on him until he's sent to the hospital. He lets his friend kiss him, even though he feels zero attraction, because he wants to be loyal; he knows his friend feels isolated and scared. But he tries to push away his own attraction to Sam because he thinks it will inconvenience her relationship with Craig--who, in the end, turns out to be a lying, cheating ass. Because Charlies spends so much of his time bouncing off of other people, he recognizes that "it's kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and you say your name. And it gets to a point where none of it seems real. Well, sometimes, I can do that, but I don't need an hour in front of a mirror. It happens very fast, and things start to slip away. And I just open my eyes, and I see nothing. And then I start to breathe really hard trying to see something. But I can't" (74). What is a strong physical reflection is only a minor emotional one for those of us experiencing the "wallflower syndrome."
I wouldn't consider myself a wallflower, but I have tried to convince myself that I don't exist. I'll be in my room, staring at my Johnny Depp poster like a normal person, saying, "Kira, you aren't real. You may go to bed an average high school senior, but you will wake up as Lindsay Lohan--with slightly less drugs and eating disorders."
Of course I'm kidding...I can already check the eating disorders part off my list. Ironically enough, that coincided with the rebellion phase, where I thought if maybe my physical body got miniscule enough, so would the rest of me. My body could realize that my mind was totally making sense, and I truly wouldn't exist. That didn't work too well; I ended up just getting hungry for chocolate cake. But I've seen some odd twists as I try to replace others' existence for my own. It probably confuses my exes to no end when I start watching football, and their favorite Five Finger Death Punch songs somehow end up on my ipod. It gets to the point where I stop feeling like their companion, and more like I've become them. As flattering as that sounds, people really don't want to date, or hang out with, themselves. And as soon as they fall out of my life, I'm lost. The girly magazines I used to devour seem immature and foreign. My body tenses up through yoga poses because I associate it with a friendship that will soon be distanced. Even my excitement for TV shows like True Blood come from my best friend's obsession with the show, and my obsession with having something to talk about.
On the flip side, there really are perks to being a wallflower. It's far easier to be in-tune with others' emotions. And by standing there, and listening, I grow to genuinely like and care about the people I talk with. How else would I know what its like to save someone's life from a fire, or write an entire novel in a month, or create a vest made out of chain mail? I wouldn't, unless someone gets cracking on that whole time travel thing. Having such an eclectic group of friends can be rewarding--as long as you subtract the expectation to have the same set of experiences. After all, if I thought that it was normal for all my friends and family to live in an Ashram for a month, they'd run away screaming. If I don't lose the hindsight that I too have something to offer, being the listener is an amazing setup for stories I otherwise wouldn't have even dreamed of.  If you're more of the listening sort, be proud, not wilting. Just be sure you can say your name in the mirror and not think the body you're staring at is a mirage. That would be slightly creepy if that were the case. And so, for wallflowers everywhere,

Namaste

recollections and rants

To anyone who doesn't remember what they had for breakfast, much less where they were a year ago, I recommend starting a journal. But if you're the sort who is easily embarrassed, critical, or if you have any heavy objects near your head, I'd recommend starting anything but a journal. Unfortunately for me, I fall into both categories. Yet a stack of recollections and rants still lies underneath my bed, just waiting to be ridiculed. I think my sixteen year old self watched far too many cliches, since she bemoaned being an "empty shell" every other day.
Yesterday was one of those days where I'm snuggled up in my covers and "text moose-aging" sweats by 9:00p.m. It's what I call Thursday nights. And while I have a huge pile of books to be read, thought about, and re-read, it was my old journals that I dove for, unaware that past idiocy makes for less interesting stories in written form. Unless, of course, you're Anne Lamott.
I read about what my best friend has coined "the dark ages," in which I learned to sword fight and pretended to know how to ski, all for a boy, who I resolved to completely ignore at least twenty times. The wish to be in college right now swept through the pages, only to be followed by "oh crap. College is soon." From freshman to senior year, I was always astonished how, the older I got, the less I knew. It also seemed as the years progressed, my hair got increasingly less annoying.
Throughout my rants, I noticed a pattern that I would make the positive events of the day a side note. I'd brush across the fact that I had a lovely dance class, or that I laughed so hard until I cried with friends, but then I'd go on to say "here's why my life still sucks." And two and a half pages of suckery because--gasp--he didn't say hi, makes me want to throw my notebooks across the room. So with the embarrassment of putting a negative spin on a neutral life, comes the realization that the little things do have meaning, and they can add up to be powerful. I may remember the time I completely bombed an English test, but I also remember the insane sleepovers with friends where we started our running joke of being "trunk" (drunk off of tiredness). I complained that my brother hated my guts, but in between journal entries we would make up languages and plan out entire worlds in which cats had all the power. My hatred of growing attached to people only amounted to half the joy when I was with them, creating recollections of the small things.

Yoga, revisited

As I'm almost three weeks back into my "normal" life, I've found yoga to be slipping away from me. Physically, I still attempt to twist myself into a pretzel three or four times a week. I even take fuller breaths, only after realizing I've been holding my breath for a few seconds in the midst of all life's tensions. I'm playing dress up with yoga, but all the ways that it has unveiled itself at Shoshoni, become less visible as stress, caffeine, and celebrity promises that this lip gloss will make me completely irresistible, come into play. This week, I'd like to get to know yoga again--maybe view it as a few blind dates, although not nearly as expensive, and with less awkward pauses. What a nice thing about yoga, that its silences aren't cause for a bout of "awkward silence turtle."
I'm a reactor. People's thoughts and emotions instantly meld into my own, and I've often felt the "shadow effect" of being others' echoes. This is helpful when one day I'm listening to Slipknot with one friend, and a few hours later I'm going shopping for hot pink shoes with another; floating in between labels has allowed me to experience a myriad of personalities without much judgment. But when a relationship feels one sided, or I want to apologize a million times when my dad yells at the printer right next to me, that's when passivity makes me feel like I'm twisting through the cracks of life, unable to stay long enough to make an impression. So what attracted me to yoga was that its students could make a statement without being flashy--one can only keep up the "bam! I exist!" act for so long. The philosophy of yoga seems solid and pragmatic, but not so much that I feel like I have to do twenty million verses of "om namah shivaya" before my past regrets can finally be left behind me. My mouth would get far too try by then.
Yogis often stress the importance of detachment, hence the resolution not to buy twenty pairs of earrings that end up living in the depths of my purse. But being detached doesn't mean I have to put on a pouty face and be un-interested in people. It just helps me observe their opinions, and recognize our differences, without storing them in the bank of my experiences. That would make for some highly expensive baggage. Through yoga, I'm trying to focus less on a perfect Warrior II pose, and more on my own version of detachment--where I offer my own thoughts, without an engraved invitation to speak. I don't want to become an overly blunt person, but nobody likes the repeat cycle of "what do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" Unless of course, they're watching The Jungle Book. Living in fear of one's own personality is almost as bad as saying everything that's on your mind--you don't make as many enemies, but you also don't enjoy the company of as many friends.
As for the other aspect of my detachment, where I don't shop as though it's my last day on Earth, it's going quite well. I went into Barnes and Noble and Plato's Closet, and didn't buy the entire universe. That's a lot to say, considering there were at least twenty pairs of shiny earrings and ten Jodi Picoult books. But hey, you can still be detached and read library books.

Namaste.  

State of life

The state of life, for many of us college freshmen, is a pretty huge transition, both geographically and emotionally. Some will be uprooted from this quirky little town in Pennsylvania, to huge, sprawling cities that seem to have no end. Some may go the opposite route--to drive through nothing but farmland, and hit a traffic jam with a buggy or two. And then there's those of us who were born and bred Penn State observers, who get jolted into the mix of Penn Staters.
I've grown up yelling "we are Penn State!" at a sea of blue and white on the television screen every weekend. "Peachy Paterno," seemed a staple ice cream flavor. As a kid, I was thrown by the lack of buzz other cities--one that can only be displayed by a hoard of twenty-somethings who were excited, nervous, and perhaps a little bit tipsy.
I may go into college having watched these traditions, and knowing the general vicinity of campus, but I've always felt separate from Penn State pride. It's as though I've been watching a TV program my whole life, and suddenly, with a minor audition, I'm an actor in the show. I've walked around campus at least one hundred times; only yesterday did I associate that with cramming for finals, or in which room I'd be tacking my Johnny Depp poster up on. I may not be quenching my thirst for adventure in the traditional sense, but I view State College differently. What used to be the town I grew up in, is now my town.
I realize though, that just because I'm in my comfort zone, doesn't mean I'll jump into orientation feeling perfectly safe; the feeling of isolation will be present, what with some of my favorite people leaving. It's scary to hang out with friends, and do what we would every other weekend, knowing that there will be a definitive end. One of my best friends is leaving for Georgia soon; while we walked around downtown, talking about everyday life, I found myself almost crying and reminiscing in the moment. It was the first time we both seemed to consciously be creating memories for us to share whenever we were scared or lonely in the coming months.
It's strange to see how one place can be both familiar and intimidating at the same time; it makes me see that it wouldn't have killed me to be more observant and notice a few building names. A few people in my situation complain that freshman year will be like starting the 13th grade. Yet I'm sure we'll go through the same ups and downs that someone from Timbuktu would have coming into PSU. The state I'm in may be the same, but the state of life will be something new every day.  

The parental unit

The relationship between kids and their parents is often a tumultuous one; this statement probably isn't much of a shock to you, since children have been resenting their authorities since they drew the wrong sort of cave art:
"Dad, I wanna draw a mammoth; don't tell me what to do!"
"And I want a million throwing spears. We don't always get our wildest dreams."
"I can't draw a stupid monkey."
"Go to your cave corner, son!"
And so on. The basic principle is the same, only with more things that beep to take away from children. I've been lucky enough to get along with my parents, although it seemed a horrible coincidence that they went to extra lengths to embarrass me through the ages of twelve to fifteen. Imagine that--all I asked for was that they don't talk, breathe, or walk into my room and burst into folk-like versions of "Girl Power." But even in my short rebellion phase, I was led by the guiding principle that I loved these determined--albeit eccentric--people, and that they were the deciders. And as long as I was living under their roof, eating their food, and taking all their coffee, they always would be.
What often gets overlooked, however, is the relationship between adults and their parents. I've heard stories of overbearing parents, and I'm witnessing the "sandwich generation" as my grandparents fall into shaky health. But the transition between being taken care of to being the caretakers themselves seems invisible; it's as though childhood is sidewalk chalk that never quite rubs off, and then a rainstorm sneaks through the night, and poof--it's gone.
As an incoming college freshman, I take independence for granted. It's my life--I should be able to take the classes I want, eat the food I want, and have the stories of regret where I look at my kids and say "your mother was an idiot. Don't you ever do that in college." Yet my father does not take for granted the tuition bill that arrives at his house every semester. And so begins the battle between college provider and college participator. Part of it is fierce protection and love, but that's difficult to see in the moment, when the check-in guide at advising day asks for your name, and your parent answers for you. The horrors! Taking two honors courses in four years was a moment of pride; now with a few thousand dollars on the line, it's vital I take seven. It's as though we're slipping backwards in time. I was so used to not being nagged in high school, and having a dad who was the perfect balance of being there for me but not butting into my life, that this new dynamic seemed a horrible injustice--suddenly I was being told what classes to take, who to talk to, and that nothing good ever happens after midnight. This being said to the girl who considers it a wild night if she goes to bed at 11:00.
I can't wrap this up with a definitive realization. I'm still unsure about this new role of parent/child, although I accept that even though I'm officially an adult, my parents have more years of being one, so they have much more to back up their advice on. I may be frustrated by this (very minor) case of helicopter parent, but I know it comes from my dad wanting me to have the most enriching four years of college. So there may be times when I have to say "I love you, but I'd rather fall on my face and learn from my mistakes than get special treatment from the 'inside' of the college system." But there will also be days when all I want is for him to make me a grilled cheese sandwich and let me cry on his shoulder. Because the independent, grownup college freshman is still clueless. I may not be blinded by the assumption that my parents are all-knowing anymore, but they do know a heck of a lot more than me. So perhaps I should ask them a thing or two, without acting like they've thrown a snake in my face.    

You say you want a resolution

Many of us have love/hate relationships with resolutions. They make us better people, we can feel more accomplished, and also like we want to eat all the cookies in the pantry. I, along with the rest of the universe, tried to think up some things to change about myself on January first. If I could stick with my list, by the end of the year I'd be a weight-lifting, wheatgrass-drinking supermodel! Life would be beautiful--after I just finish off that last pint of ice cream and watch an episode or two of Gilmore Girls.
Mainly though, I resolved to make more resolutions. But the last four months, I've had that itching thought to just go through some uncomfortable change, since that builds character and whatnot. My character has felt no less built after my New Year's resolutions, but that's what my parents always tell me, coincidentally, after handing me a pair of rubber gloves and a sponge.
So begins my goal for the month of May: to not be a shopping maniac. It's ironic to be an advocate of detachment and simple-mindedness, only to grab my paycheck, run into a store, go "whee, money!" and proceed to buy a 5th pair of feather earrings and spiky shoes that will tussle in the back of my closet. I believe I've scared multiple cashiers by now, with the crazed "must. buy. now" look, where my eyes turn into the size of golf balls.
I'd normally logic my way out of feeling bad; the side of me that needs ten pairs of jeans says, "hey. This is the only time in your life that you'll practically have a full time job, but no bills to pay, no groceries to get, and no kids who will just die if they don't get that Barbie/Ken combo." Apparently the fact that college textbooks might as well be made of gold, has no meaning to me. "College?" ten-pairs-of-jeans girl says, "that's lifetimes away!" The trouble with time, however, is that it has this pesky habit of not freezing, and what was once lifetimes away, is now a month. And somehow I doubt that striding into class in leopard print pants will make the professor no less impressed if my books were bought in an alternate universe. One where I had an endless supply of money.
In order to only be a semi-broke college student, rather than a totally broke one, I will limit my purchases to yoga classes, movie tickets, food, and gifts. It can be done; at Shoshoni, I went an entire two weeks without throwing money at a cashier, and it was a delightfully freeing feeling, minus the pervading headache that came more from lack of caffeine than anything. But I'm not giving up coffee just yet--that's for the more experienced resolvers of sorts.

Still Joy

After devouring Gretchen Rubin's book The Happiness Project (in which she goes on a year long quest to be happier), I've been wondering what it actually means to be happy. It's a goal that all of us aim for, even as some are masked by teenage, nihilistic reveling in pain. But how do we measure our joy? How can something we can't see, and are sometimes fooled by not feeling, be an ultimate goal?
Rubin tracks her happiness by how often she contributes to the greater good, how many friends she can lean on for support, and how often she cleans. Clearly the woman is sent from the heavens, because all of these things involve scheduling, planning, and wearing something other than sweats and a hoodie while doing so. And in such times of stress, I end up looking like a swarm of moon craters have landed on my face. Volunteering and friendships certainly do have their places in my life, but an endless throng of obligations makes me want to drown my sorrows in a vanilla chai latte and a romantic comedy. Maybe cry on a friend's shoulder or two.
I used to compare my joy to how much I talked, and how others reacted to me. The after-guilt of "over-eager puppy" syndrome didn't seem to play into the equation. After all, if I didn't voice my opinions and state my presence repeatedly, wouldn't people forget I existed completely? Having something to say has always been a struggle for me; I can easily blend into a group of people and simply watch their dynamics. So to compensate, I've ranted about my hair, the weather, and other people more times than Brad and Angelina have adopted babies. My friends and family may not have forgotten about me, but they probably also wanted to smack me over the head with a frying pan.
It wasn't until the senior prom that I realized what my happiness really means to me. There I was, in my aggressively anti-prom earrings and dress, unable to talk to those even two feet away from me. At first, it was frustrating having to interact with friends only by eye contact and hand gestures. It's quite difficult to tell someone her dress is adorable with my hands and a myriad of facial expressions that made me look like I was on crack. But after hours of not talking, and just, well, being, I saw how much of a relief it was not to feel pressured to be comic relief, or the "dumb blond." I could be with a group who genuinely liked me, without having to prove how entertaining I was. I could laugh at two of my best friends getting down on the dance floor, without the pervading thought that I wasn't included. The joy from watching isn't anti-social, or rude; it's just different.
Since then, some of my happiest moments have come from quiet. I've sensed the most love from reading in the living room with my dad, or going to meditation classes with friends. I embrace my own idea of joy, while still having those days of excitement and rants about absolutely nothing. I haven't turned into a totally mute person--the only difference is that my spastic moments and bursts of energy aren't forced. There's still joy in me.

Just Wanna Live

I'm not one to take moral codes from Good Charlotte, but as I'm listening to their "I Just Wanna Live," I've realized two things:
1) That whole celebrity "woe is me, I get way too much attention from bothersome fans" bit is about as convincing as Velveeta cheese trying to be food. In other words, it's fake and and leaves a rubber-like taste in your mouth.
2) Minus the paparazzi part, this is what people are searching for in life. We too just wanna live, sans judgment, or fads that change every two seconds, or people telling us we can't act a certain way, breathe a certain way, etc.
God, I hate it when people use the word etc.
 Perhaps you think I'm overreacting, oh reader of blog. But yogis do tell us how to breathe. One time, I was doing alternate nostril breathing like a normal person (block one nostril, breathe in, block the other nostril, breathe out), and the teacher, in a gentle breathy, "no-judgment" voice, told me I was doing it wrong.
"You have to breathe for the same amount of time on both sides."
I looked like a puffer fish, trying to inhale for five seconds.
"Just relax into the breath; deep meditation will help your inhale."
It certainly helped me look like I'd forgotten to breathe. How very Bella Swan of me. Here I was, swarmed by deep thinkers, people who could exhale ommmm for a million seconds, while I myself was gasping for air, wishing I could just be left alone to some chick flicks and a giant bar of white chocolate.

It wasn't until my last breathing class, that I realized my desire to "just live," wasn't based so much on happiness, but rather, on fear. I mistook what was out of my comfort zone, as odd, and only something people with Sanskrit tattoos and vegan diets could do. I actually told myself I wasn't a correct breather. But what hasn't been normal in my daily life before, doesn't mean it's a prison sentence, or that people are telling me how to act.
My way of life, as goofy and weird as I pride myself to be, used to be like every other teenage girl's mode of thinking. I compared. I plotted. I set up hour long battles between my hair and the flat iron, trying to straighten it into submission. When your thoughts are taken over by "she wears it so much better," (I think I may have read one too many People magazines) or "I'll eat that cupcake, only if I can subtract 400 calories at dinner," it's like living on pause. Life has seemed frozen to me, with the promise that tomorrow I'll take full advantage of life, and really dive into it. Trouble is, tomorrow never arrives.
Maybe I'm not as chilled out as I'd hoped to be after yoga camp, but I refuse to keep myself on pause until this hypothetical day where it all makes sense. Yes, I'll have days when I'm self conscious and feel like the answer to "what's wrong with this picture?" But it's helpful to realize rather than react. I can be aware I'm having one of those days (gotta love adolescence), without heaping two tons of makeup on my face. I can realize I'm having a splurging day with the extra cookie, and not run around like a chicken with my head cut off. Because while I'm on this earth, I'm gonna take full advantage of just living.

Just do it

Before my trip to Shoshoni, I was bound by expectations for epiphanies. Surely just stepping into a spiritual place, I would return a clear minded being who found all the answers I could barely pronounce (my Sanskrit sounds something like a British person speaking Chinese). Oftentimes, what I thought could only be a philosophical question none other could conjure, I'd look through some spiritual books and realize every other yogi in the universe asked the same question, only with more words like "shakti" and "pujas."
What frustrated me, was that if all the spiritual questions were sisters, the answers were the Olsen twins, with slightly less makeup on. As I was searching for the inner self in the midst of "bubbly blond" and "deep thinker" masks, I was taught to surrender. The woman whose family didn't understand her new lifestyle had to surrender. Your head's been chopped off? Surrender.
So I did. I surrendered. At first, I did it because I was tired of staring at the wall of my dorm room. It was so much less productive than poking around on facebook and checking my email fifty times a day. But as I breathed into all those chakras that were taking forever to get aligned, things people said, things I did or didn't do, or might have done if Jupiter looked slightly different that night, came rushing to my head. All from years ago! That kid who called me fat in the 6th grade, I wanted to smack his head with a frying pan. I found my knuckles curling at my stepmother's comment that I had only gotten a haircut because it was the "code of youth"; I believe she said this to me when Walkmen were still cool.
If this was what happened to those who surrendered, surely I'd go insane by the end of the month; it was horrible! I didn't come here to deal with baggage from the past! Couldn't I just skip that part, and become a totally transformed human being who had a cool spiritual name and wore hippie skirts?
Unfortunately, no. In order to successfully release all things shitty in my life, ignoring them was, apparently, looked down upon. I had to let them go. It worked great for two seconds; I could feel all the tensions flow down and out my fingertips. Trouble was, they had a pesky habit of returning to me, and I'd seethe yet again at comments from years past. Then I'd let them go. Then they'd come back again. I realized I hadn't signed up for the fast track to enlightenment. Perhaps that would be the June yoga immersion program. For now, instant gratification only existed for movie people, and those for whom it was socially acceptable to want their Mommy.
Surrendering--as entertaining as it was for my roommate to see my face turn into a human tomato--got boring, and chores seemed like a vacation after taking several trips to my own mind. It was a clever trick they played, making chores seem like the next great thrill since True Blood. This could be, after all, the day I stop avoiding dishes, and people would see me scrubbing, and congratulate me on my true growth as a yogi and human being.
While it wasn't exactly a blast, doing the dishes turned out to be just as therapeutic as all the other chores I'd done. Nobody said a word, other than "hey, this still looks pretty dirty. Do it again?" Yet throughout the hour of scrubbing, washing, and doing mantra (I think I said "om namah shivaya" 1,000 times that day), I realized there was no solution to those obstacles life enjoys throwing than to just do it. It's ironic that my first mini-sized epiphany was also a slogan to a large corporation, but hey, maybe those Nike guys are onto something. Surrendering to the dishes wasn't about pride, or ego, or "I can be more spiritual than you!" It was just doing what had to be done. And there would always be more, so why try to argue your way out? Even if my to-do list was one hundred items long, if I was in the present moment of each chore, just letting the trash pickup and garden digging surround my entire being, it didn't feel nearly as intimidating.
While I'm still resistant to all "to-do" lists that have greeted me upon my return home, the tools of surrender continue to be useful. I only procrastinate three times out of five, and chores seem more fun, with my ability to chant cool sounding phrases that freak out my family. My ego has a tendency to keep getting in the way, but with each breath, and each tension that I can momentarily let go, I find surrendering, and "just doing it" to get a little bit easier. Plus I can wear cool hippie skirts while letting go. That helps too.

Namaste.