This past year we’ve gotten into rafting like never before. Sure, in the past I’d go with friends that had a boat, and I used to teach canoe lessons, but now we actually have a raft and the gear to be the ones inviting others.
Naturally then, my writing has tagged along, and I find myself writing more boating articles. Whether it’s a profile piece on a badass couple that makes dories and guides in the Grand, or a short 300-word blurb on a New Urban community developed by pro-kayakers, it looks like my repertoire has expanded.
Sooo, I’m trying to figure out an interesting lede for my story and my thought drifts to, maybe I’ll use some vivid imagery of a kayaker playing in the whitewater park the development built. But wait, I don’t kayak. Naturally to pick up some linguistic beta I begin perusing Mountain Buzz.
But my husband comes home and wants to go disc golfing. Now. So he suggests that I just post a request for words. And, I did. Now all I have to do is sit back and watch the — Carnage of my pride —
A couple years ago Matt and I were skiing with a co-worker of mine who lived in Vail, Colo. We met up with him and a group of his friends, a rather hip group of young upwardly mobile professionals.
It was a festive spring day, and while chatting atop a ridge the topic of Sriracha, the Asian red hot sauce with the green cap, came up. “My boyfriend won’t let me eat it,” one woman said. I didn’t quite get it, and in one very sincerely innocent, though flying straight to the mouth, moment, I ask, “Because of kissing?”
Maybe she heard me (which would make for a funnier story) maybe she didn’t, but she definitely just turned her head and skied away.
The practice of yoga has proved rather torturous for me. Rather than feeling at-one and centered, all I can think is “Don’t fart, don’t fart, don’t fart.” In fact, it used to be part of my schtick, “The thing about yoga is it’s an exercise in trying not to pass gas.”
That is, until last week, when I gave it another chance.
I’ve offended people before with my rant, one woman in particular who had spent many years devoting her life to yoga. Naturally she wasn’t too fond of me reducing it to a fart joke. In part, though, I launched into my routine because of that.
The type of person in point: My brother and I were at a café in Kathmandu last year and while walking out of the restroom I passed a woman who clearly looked Western, she could’ve passed for my cousin. “Hello,” I said, acknowledging her presence. Disdainful look on her face, she indignantly said, “Namaste!” The god in her definitely chastised the god in me. She would not have been amused by my yoga schpeal.
The thing is, I’m all about centered wellness and meditation. Last week a close friend asked if I wanted to join her in a free yoga class. Why not, it had been a few years since my last yoga endeavor. The entire experience was refreshing, energizing and all around wonderful.
Filed under Classy, Musings