Monday, April 10, 2017

Curbing carbs and sweatpants

There's nothing that induces guilt quite like seeing my vegan stepdaughter's bowl of fruit on Instagram after eating scrambled eggs with cheese and six strips of bacon, my greasy fingerprints still visible on the smooth surface of my iPhone. I always have the best of intentions when it comes to nutrition but then I find myself polishing off an entire box of KD and washing it down with a couple beers. I suppose I'm a bending contradiction, being a yoga teacher and food abuser.

As I write this, I'm being a time abuser, procrastinating getting to my playwriting by blogging instead. I'm a little too hungover to have ideas. I could sit here and stare blankly out the window wondering why I'm not outside on this unusually warm, mostly sunny day. Although, occasionally I hear a slightly aggressive breeze on still bare trees and that encourages me to stay indoors.

I've recently discovered that I can wear my sweats and slum it at Timmy Ho's without judgment because they have free wifi. No need to pull together my hipster cool outfit for Starbucks. Of course, spending the afternoon writing at Timmy Ho's doesn't have the same legitimacy as being seen in more trendy coffeehouses but, in the end, not having to change out of my sweatpants into something more uncomfortable for sheer vanity wins out.

This is what happens when you stop working in an office and cease wearing socially acceptable clothing. Now I'm consumed with making loose-fitting fleece fashionably respectable. Let's remove the stigma of the sweatpant; the assumption that a fleece-wearing person has given up on life. What if the opposite were true? That life is so good, I need to be comfortable to enjoy it; that a skirt and high heels will impede my creativity and hence, ability to make a living using said creativity. My talent for rationalization is truly something to behold. 

I've even started doing yoga in my sweatpants. The once sacred space of the skin-tight legging is giving way to loose-fitting fleece. Where will it stop? Is there a support group for an addiction to comfort and soft fabrics, and complete lack of regard for highlighting my female desirability? 

Thursday, March 30, 2017

Does flaming out fan my inner flame?

Beware expressing unbridled enthusiasm for profound life changes because once the fairy dust clears, fear and self-doubt creep in. "WTF am I doing?"; "I'll never make it in this business."; "How will I make ends meet?"; "I should just give up now, and find another cozy cubicle where my soul can atrophy in peace."

I know, I know... You're all like "Dude, join the human race. We all feel that way." I just need to momentarily believe I'm the only one who's ever felt this way in the history of time, so as to have an effective pity party. If my feelings of inadequacy are diluted by the masses, what's the point of complaining? Maybe I'm just tired, and seeing things through the embittered eyes of exhaustion.

If you're not careful, constant enthusiasm and optimism will burn you out, especially when you're not used to it. Pessimism comes much more naturally to me. Existential crisis feels like a soft, warm blanket in which to comfortably wrap myself. Does familiarity breed contempt or laziness? And is laziness so bad? Perhaps it's only mislabeled. Maybe laziness is really contentment. Ceasing to constantly need better, bigger, faster, stronger, and getting really comfortable with "what is".

Maybe contentment is really gratitude. Gratitude for this hot cup of coffee I'm drinking this morning; for an able body that lets me gracefully (mostly) move through this life. Maybe constantly chasing the spotlight or some idea I have of "success" is only indicative of an inner emptiness I'm trying in vain to fill. As Marianne Williamson states: "To the ego, self-acceptance is death." What if I agreed to die? Figuratively speaking, of course.

Maybe an experiment is in order. What if I expressed my creativity with no other intention? Just create for the sake of creating, with no thought to any particular result, no desire for praise or recognition, no utility or value judgement. It might be a golden opportunity to mine that deep chasm of self-hatred instead of embarking on yet another futile pursuit to placate it. Or a great excuse to start drinking heavily.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Exploding head ass kicking

I realize it's been a while since I last posted here. I'd like to say that's going to change and I'll write more frequently but I've been busy posting pictures of my cat on Instagram.

Since my last post, my entire life basically blew up. Ok wait, I should be more specific: my entire professional life. I best word this carefully for legal reasons. The Universe decided I needed a good kick in the ass in the right direction, and surprised me with a new life. How's that for equanimity?

So now, probably for the first time in my life, I'm pursuing what I really want to do: teach yoga and write plays, like, full-time. It's scary as shit, crazy fun and I've never been happier. Every day is different and I'm fully in charge of my destiny which is daunting at times but it's really forcing me to focus my energy where it needs to go, and trust that everything will work out, hence my renewed obsession with social media.

Whereas sloth used to be my biggest challenge, now I have to learn how to turn off my brain and take some time for myself because I'm so stimulated all the time with shit that I love and am totally passionate about. It's like being on life crack. It's an adjustment and I have to be careful not to OD. I was living in black and white, and now everything is in full f*cking technicolour. The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades.

Yesterday, I got hooked up with Bryan Kest's Online Power Yoga classes. What does this mean? Yoga, every f*cking day. Yeah, I'm still learning not to take a puff of that life crack pipe too often. My head's about to explode.

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