The 12 Days of Yoga: A Song

On the first day of yoga, my teacher gave me...some hope and some spirituality

On the second day of yoga, my teacher gave me...really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the third day of yoga, my teacher gave me...shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the fourth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the fifth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...A LEVELLLL TWOOO PASSSS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the sixth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...extra savasana, A LEVELLL TWOO PASSS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality

On the seventh day of yoga, my teacher gave me...a no makeup challenge, extra savasana, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the eight day of yoga, my teacher gave me...organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELLL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the ninth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the tenth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...pressure to start teaching, too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELL TWO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the eleventh day of yoga, my teacher gave me...instructions to open up my sex chakras (what?), pressure to start teaching, too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the twelfth day of yoga, my teacher gave me....OMMMMMMMMMMM
instructions to open up my sex chakras (what?), pressure to start teaching, too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasana, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

Namste.

College: Elementary School, Except With More Tears

When I was in elementary school, I pictured college students as majestical creatures who knew everything about the world. To me, the dark circles under their eyes was the source of all their powers, and they could drink secret brew that made everyone laugh. They were superheros--and one day, I would grow up to be just like them.

Fast forward 10 years later. Scene: A college dorm, cluttered with stacks of paper, a hairbrush that hasn't been used in a month, and a disheveled looking pillow pet.

It turns out that in some ways, I already was just like them. Because, in more ways than not, college is a lot like elementary school. Except for, y'know, that whole future being at stake thing.

In about fourth grade, my mom let my brother and I choose what we wanted to eat for dinner. Having a bit of a uncontrollable obsession with taste for desserts, my journey to the pantry was something like trekking through gold. Forbidden peanut butter cups were everywhere. Chocolate chips were calling my name. The cake that was only for "special occasions" suddenly became the salad course. All of which, obviously, came before dessert.

The next week's sugar coma was well worth it.

Since than, I've realized that in order to avoid that whole diabetes thing, I should level out and eat real salads for dinner. It's easy when your parents do the grocery shopping.

Then college happens. And you're walking down the aisles of Giant, and you realize that, oh my goodness, there's a sale on Turkey Hill ice cream. Better get 50. And some Hello Kitty popsicles while we're at it. And who needs lunch when you can eat Lindor truffles for the next week?

Don't mind me, I'm just dinner

Let's just ignore the fact that last year's sugar coma is this week's muffin top.

Elementary school kids are pro at the "I don't need you Mom and Dad, I got this--no wait, where I are you...Mommy!!" By the time high school rolled around, I was convinced I couldn't wait until I didn't have anybody around to tell me what to do, or that back in their day, nobody smashed pigs with angry birds. I'd even stay out just a few minutes later than I said I would be back, just to show how independent I was, la dee da.

Once I actually got to the point where nobody was around to tell me what to do, the number of frantic phone calls my parents got became a little ridiculous. "HOW LONG AM I SUPPOSED TO MICROWAVE CHICKEN NUGGETS???" is not a thing a mature, independent adult cries to their parents.

Even the lesson plans are shockingly similar. Somehow, jumping from elementary school to college, we're still learning the differences between their, there, and they're.

Some things never change.

Namaste. 

The Product of Academia, Part Two

So, for people who have read my Product of Academia post, you know that both of my parents are English professors. As the Spring semester hits full swing, I've noticed a few trends about how to behave towards parents in academia, and how they will behave towards you during certain points in the semester. For the most part, don't ask them for anything once flu season rolls around, during midterms, finals, when they have "another goddamn essay" to grade, when it's right before class, right after class, or when a student just asked them for an A because their father promised her a teeth whitening if she got all A's (true story).

For the most part, if you walk into your parents' house with coffee, you will instantly become their best friend. Same goes for an extra supply of red pens.

It's helpful to gauge how advanced your parents' classes are. This 1) gives them an outlet to complain about how that guy didn't show up for the fifth week in a row, and is expecting to pass the class, but it will also directly affect your parents' expectations for you. If they're teaching a bunch of freshmen who can't even write a sentence, getting a "nice work, but make sure you tighten up the thesis statement" suddenly equals "oh my god, she can write! She must be a genius!" However, if they're lecturing a bunch of graduate level geniuses, you might want to re-think showcasing that B+ like it's made out of gold. It might just constitute failure. B is for bums, clearly.

Once grading/research/"impress your colleagues" time is in session, your parents' brains are going to look something like:

Because of this, your story about how you and your friends just had the best time going ice skating, and you have an upcoming test, but the professor is so lazy it'll be like two questions long, and oh my god you need to get your hair cut, these split ends are just so horrible--chances are--they won't remember that story in the morning. This isn't because they don't care. But the professor's brain has perfected selective learning. If it's not going to show up in their lecture, it'll be stored in that dusty section of the brain that awakens in the summer.

Note: Many professor parents can also accomplish short term memorization, otherwise known as grown up metamorphosis. They remember your stories, ask follow up questions the next day, then when they're in front of their students, BAM! Every personal anecdote, every parenting thought is out the window.

Because, folks, in professor world, it's not survival of the fittest. It's survival of the "I can be more intellectual than you, la la la." 

Never talk to your parents about your professors. They will use that as an opportunity to make lunch plans with your professor and gossip about you. And vice versa--if your professors know your parents work in the same department, they will tell your parents about everything you've written, said, and thought about in class.

Sometimes, your friends will have your parents as a professor. All of a sudden, you will know every time your parent's fly is down, every time they sneezed awkwardly, and every time they made a pun in class. Try not to melt into a puddle every time you receive one of these texts.

And finally, never try to sound impressive and talk about what you learned in class that day--unless you want an hour long lecture that is scarily similar to the lecture you just had in class.

Side note: No parents were harmed in the making of this blog. My parents are still the sweetest, kindest, funniest people I know. And another Foucault lecture never hurt anybody.  :)

Namaste.

Ceci n'est pas pain: Lessons from a Tattoo Artist

Sometimes, I say things. These things are usually promises like "I'm gonna exercise every day!" or "I'll stop eating Chinese food!" then I have a little laugh about it as I chomp on some Lo Mein while watching New Girl. It's a hard life, college.

So for the past four years of talking about wanting a tattoo, I expected it to actually happen in the way that some people expect to be princesses when they grow up. You can say with unwavering certainty that you're a princess to everyone around you, then trudge all the minimum wage jobs you're doomed to work at.

By the time I told my roommate I was definitely getting a tattoo, that meant I was kinda sorta serious about it, maybe in a few years, if that whole pain thing would go away. Or if I became a millionaire. Whichever came first. But then something weird happened. I made an appointment at the tattoo parlor. I was all here, let me throw $200 at you so I can feel gut wrenching pain, wheee!

On the day of the tattoo, I come home to my roommate a weeping, shrieking mess. The very idea of getting a flu shot sends me into shakes, and here I was, about to get a million and five flu shots, on top of the very real possibility of hepatitis C.

So my roommate and I get to the tattoo parlor, and trek down the stairs to an underground shop. Everyone around me has a million piercings, tattoos, and a faint aroma of smoke. Here I am, in my blond braids and sparkly eyeshadow, and I'm ready to bolt out of there like the place is on fire. I turn to my roommate. "I can't get a tattoo! People in motorcycle gangs get tattoos! Or people in punk rock bands!"

The voice of reason, my roommate tells me it'll be like giving birth, except with hopefully less screaming. It'll hurt, she says, but it's something you want. Here, have some chocolate. 

Our apartment runs by the strict policy that chocolate makes everything better. I'm suspicious. I've never given birth before; for all I know, that pain wouldn't be worth it either. I'm that person who gets a cut on her finger and writhes around on her bed for an hour.

So even though I feel like I've just volunteered myself as tribute, I head over to the little room with the big, scary needles. My hands are giant puddles by now. I tell the tattoo artist that I'm a little nervous. He says he is too, that it's his first tattoo.

He's joking. I still want to do this:

I try again. "I mean, I'm just a little scared about the pain. How much does it hurt?"
The tattoo artist looks at me like I've swallowed an elephant. The sharp whirrrrr of the needle fills the room.
"There's no such thing as pain," he says.
Oh, great. I'm letting a crazy person stab me with needles. 
"There are certain sensations that we try to label with pleasure, or pain. We want to be able to associate something with how we feel. But let me ask you this: hasn't the fear of pain always been worse than the pain itself?" he says.
I'm wondering if this guy thinks he's Eleanor Roosevelt. I'm trying to think of glorious examples where I felt like my body was about to shatter into a million pieces. My mind draws a blank.
"I guess not," I say meakly. I'm annoyed with myself that I've never broken a bone and felt real pain.
The needle approaches my skin. I hear the whir get louder. And then...
A pinch. It kind of tickles. It's no massage, but I don't feel like I'm gonna drop dead any second. The sharpness gets duller and duller. It's like my skin is getting drunk; it loses that ability to go "hey, listen. There are some needles poking at me...that's like, not healthy." By the time I have an om symbol on my back, my skin is so excited by it all, it's going "I want more!"

I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt at all. I wouldn't stick a needle in my back just for the fun of it. That's called acupuncture insanity. But I didn't keel over, and now I have a sweet om symbol on my back. Maybe Kelly Clarkson was right all along.

Namaste.