Things That Make You Go Ohm

If you had told me four years ago that I would be writing about the amazing powers of yoga, I would have choked on my red wine from laughing so hard and blown a puff of a freshly inhaled Parliament in your face. But alas, here I am singing the praises of a practice in which farting is not only expected but encouraged.

I was (and am) a tough chick. I can out-lift any gay man at the gym, and I glare contemptuously at the actresses on the treadmill working off their morning lettuce. So yoga seemed a little sissy for me. If I wanted a good stretch, I would have one of the neighborhood kids drag me down the driveway by my arms. But for a real workout, I'd stick to kettle balls and boxing gloves, thank you very much. I was an idiot.

My first yoga class was a little over three years ago with a teacher I refer to as Ursula, Goddess of Yoga. I was so sore for the week afterwards that I limited my fluid intake because squatting to go to the bathroom hurt too much. Yoga wasn't what you did after a workout. It was the workout. I began going to Ursula at least once a week, and followed her through two studios and even a very cool art gallery where the owner was kind enough to let us practice on Wednesday evenings. The physical benefits were hard to ignore (they don't call it "yoga butt" for nothing), but what kept me coming back was the sense of calm and centeredness after each class. No one in my life has ever described me as calm. In fact, you could probably fry an egg off the frenetic energy radiating from my body. But this class, and in particular this teacher, was the chamomile to my triple espresso shot.

The heat, the sweat, the flow, and the music all contributed to this exhausting afterglow of serenity. I had become an inadvertent yogi . . . well my version of a yogi. I didn't have dinners in tree houses, and I didn't register for wind chimes for my wedding, but I did become in tune with my own spirituality (which may or may not involve a superhero alter ego). I learned to push my body even when my mind said to stop, and I was addicted to sweating out my literal and figurative toxins.

When we got to New Jersey, I tried a few classes but none were my style. This one was too "gentle." That one was too "hippie dippie." The other one was too "gym like." But a couple of months ago, I found PowerFlow (http://www.powerflownj.com/index.php). It's a power vinyasa flow class in a heated room . . .you can google it to get details, but the basic concept is push up, sweat, lunge, push up, sweat, lunge, push up, gasp for air, and then stretch. You feel like you're going to die. It's amazing.

I don't think I could have gotten through this past year, with all it's ups and downs, without some sort of yoga practice. It was so essential to step back from the hard days and just breathe (and sweat and lunge). I didn't worry about competing with anybody (that might be a total lie), and I took the time out to stretch and appreciate my body after all it had done for me. That is especially true now. There are days when my hips and legs feel mangled after the constant pounding I put them through, and that's why I head to the studio even when I would rather sit on the sofa eating a bowl of mashed potatoes and watching a Law & Order SVU marathon. I go there to push myself just a little more, and then to give my aching muscles the attention they deserve.

Namaste . . . I win.

I See Rude People

As a native Southerner, and generally judgmental person, I am particularly offended when those around me fail to extend the most basic of courtesies. Because this blog is theoretically devoted to my training regimen, I won't even discuss the woman at Shoprite who brazenly cut me in the checkout line when I let my guard down to get a Vitamin Water or Raul at Dunkin' Donuts who stares blankly at me each time I thank him profusely for my iced coffee, practically begging for some recognition of my kindness. No, I will not mention those instance, but I will post a few pet peeves regarding my gym brethren,

1. Kindly Shut Up. In Spin last night, I was appalled that a cocktail party was taking place behind me as a young couple giggled and flirted loudly as I was heaving uphill. Firstly, if you can talk during Spin class, you're not doing it right. Second, the bike is the only apparatus that you need to worry about mounting. Not only do such conversations distract others from what is designed to be an intensive and meditative workout, they also remind some of us that in the quest to train several hours a day, we may not have shaved our legs in a while.

2. Please Move It. I enjoy a good circuit training workout three days a week to keep up the muscles, but what I don't enjoy is having some meathead, jump on a machine I'm using (and intending to use again) only to linger there for ten minutes trying to catch his reflection in the tanning oil so generously applied to his quadriceps. Move it or lose it buddy . . . Us girls are here to work.

3. I Would Appreciate It If You Please Throw Your Cell Phone In The Garbage. No one is so important that they can't take an hour away from their cell phone. And if you are, shouldn't you be somewhere else besides a New York Sports Club in New Jersey? People who are serious about their workouts go to the gym to work. They dedicate that hour exclusively to their sport, sanity, or saddlebags. It's disrespectful to that work ethic when you chat on the phone while lounging on a bench. You wouldn't bring your pillow and PJs to the office, so see if you can leave the cell in the locker.

4. Thanks For Not Peeing In The Water. As a newbie to the pool, I have found a few drawbacks to this water sport (no pun intended). My Wednesday night swims are at Asphalt Green on the Upper East Side which boasts one of the nicest pools in the city. However, last Saturday I did a run/swim combo here in Livingston, running to my local gym, swimming a mile, and then running back. At this less than illustrious pool, I was surprised to have to share the space with a four-year old's birthday party. I had the single lap lane, and they had the rest. In addition to big bouncy balls and foam tubes drifting into my lane, imagine my surprise to see little brown "gifts" perhaps meant for the birthday boy but so generously left for me. On the bright side, it's good practice for the Hudson.

Thank you for letting me vent!

Hey Mr. DJ

I first discovered the power of music in college when I sat perched in my bathroom sink, glass of wine in hand, cigarette drooping from my mouth, and "Anna Begins" blaring from my CD player on repeat. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "I am so amazingly cool and poetic. Nobody but myself and Adam Duritz understand what it's like to truly be this special."

Fast forward ten years . . . Cigarette is gone, wine is replaced by SmartWater (most of the time), and I have stopped sitting in bathroom sinks (mainly because when you're that close to the mirror fine lines are much more noticeable). But I still need music to keep me going. There's nothing like a little Ben Harper or John Mayer (don't you dare judge me) to keep the Vinyassas flowing, and many of you know that I am huge fan of Lionel Ritchie inspired dance parties. However, my workout playlist is suffering from a serious case of the 1990s . . .

I need new tunes!

I've had the same workout mix on my iPod since before Madonna went Kaballah, so it needs some updating. Obviously, my new "Tri-Mix" needs some fast tempo beats to keep me going, but don't get too crazy with the suggestions . . . I don't like techno inspired verses because I'm not a hipster. I don't like metal because I'm a girl. And I don't like rap because I constantly find myself criticizing the grammar. Basically, I like music that when I close my eyes, I can imagine myself as Beyonce in a dance off with J-Lo at the Grammys (obviously Beyonce wins). Lyrically, I prefer songs with the message of strength, power, or a general sense of superiority. Also, you gotta love a bad ass female power house. Pink, Christina, and Alycia are all welcome. No offense Taylor, but I could drag you by your extensions along my morning 6 miler.

So let me know what keeps you moving!

Ready. Set. Go!

Law school? Done it.

Bar Exam? Check.

Marriage? Own it.

Husband overcoming life threatening brain injury? So 2009.

Employment? We'll get back to that one.

Finally losing the baby fat (o.k. the adult fat)? Ancient history.

Move across the country? Did it in my sleep.

So what's a girl who has tried everything supposed to do next? My answer to that question was to sign up and train for the 2010 NYC Triathlon. This olympic distance event will have me swimming in the Hudson, biking up the Riverside Parkway, and running through Central Park July 18.

I've always had a competitive spirit (when fellow yogis are chanting "om" in class, I am quietly muttering "I win"), but was nervous about entering an endurance event having spent the better part of three decades watching the Golden Girls and eating Mexi-Melts. However, after spending the last two years working out with the best trainers any Grace looking for a Will could ask for, I knew that I was physically up for the challenge. I could run just as fast and just as hard as those long legged gazelles. And even if I couldn't, I was smart enough to put a leg out and trip them . . .

This recognition of my newfound (and hard earned) strength and athleticism made me incredibly grateful for what my body could do for me. Along with this appreciation came the realization that there were many people out there whose bodies were incapable of such feats due to disability and illness. This hit home in the Spring of 2008 when I lost my aunt to cancer. I remember thinking as I ran on the treadmill one afternoon, "What wouldn't she give to be able to move like this? To be healthy like this?" And I ran faster. Seven months ago as my husband remained confined in the ICU fighting a ruptured brain aneurysm, I took a break to run laps around the park across from the hospital to clear my head. I began to think how unfair it was that my legs could carry me anywhere, and he could not even sit up in a chair. And I ran harder. This is why I chose to compete in the triathlon for the American Cancer Society. I would be strong for all those others who could not. I would be their legs and arms (as long as they don't mind short arms).

This blog will be a chronicle of my experiences as I train for the event. It will be a venue for me to share everything from incredible workouts to bike shorts that make me look like a member of the Lollipop Guild. You can also use this site to donate to the American Cancer Society in support of my endeavor (just click the link to the below).

Welcome to my world of lunges, dolphin kicks, and the occasional middle finger salute!

CLICK HERE TO DONATE