Dog Down

I just can’t even with the yoga right now. The 1%ers with the 0% body fat and the $100 tank tops and nowhere else to be at 11:00 on a Tuesday are killing me. Clearly, there is some self-loathing going on since I myself am here at 11:00 on a Tuesday, jealous of thier clothes and bodies. Yes, that’s what I do at yoga – compare myself to others, and hate all over that giant mirror to avoid looking straight ahead.  I’m doing it wrong; I know. 

I’m instantly intensely angry at the introductory instructional inspirational bullshit about thanking myself for making time for my practice and how its the best thing I can be doing in these challenging times.
Really Becky?

Pretty sure you left out the words “for yourself” Best thing you can do for yourself. Don’t even frame this hour as anything other than a guilty pleasure in these “challenging times”. We both know that your keratin treated, extended eyelashed, shiny skinned audience is blissfully unaware of/unaffected by current geopolitical challenges. Trust me, these perfectly pedicured ladies did not shed a thought on immigration while they were busy not speaking to the woman scrubbing their feet.

Phony as a facelift and nothing to play with

I’m pretty sure there are infinite better uses of my challenging time, if not for selfishness, than you putting a shivasina rock on my forehead. In fact, while you did that, I thought of at least 100,000 ways I could better serve my children, my job, my fellow Americans, and fistula centers in distant places where women walk 20 miles with parts of babies hanging between their legs to get help.

Yup. That’s  what I thought about while you put your little rock that reeks of the anti-bacterial shit that breeds superbugs and will eventually wipe us all out, on my head. But I’ll keep coming. I have to now; I wrote it down.

The cost of motivation I’ll stay with.

Just so that my physical condition does not deteriorate faster than my mental. Cuz then I’d be dead soon. I have no allusions of attaining nirvana. I am simply too weak now to fight my way through the trendy boxing class, so yoga it is. Even if I mediated, or just breathed, successfully in class, I would lose any inner peace immediately upon hitting the grocery store on my way home. I’m just stuck in anger, righteous or ridiculous, right now.

Simmer down now.

I hit bottom every February. It starts with fall: the dying, the darkening, and I am holiday seasonal affective disordered from Halloween to the Super Bowl. I’m worse than I seem until I really lose my shit for Black History Month. Then its March and croqui and basically, manic light and love. This holiday season has been exceptionally infuriating and mad just feels better than sad right now. I know, boo fucking hoo – poor me – yoga is hard, check my privilege, blah blah blah. If I’m annoying you, stop reading. Right now. This is my therapy, not yours.

I’m mad at the people telling me not to be mad. I’ve listened to complaints with an open heart and worked toward unity and compromise. I’ve done that. I’ve tried respect and empathy and compassion. I’ve failed. Now, even on my most optimistic, positive days, when I get convinced by the yoga instructor that I have to put my oxygen mask on first before I can assist others, and I start to detox the anger, and relax, I leave class and just get all wound up crazy at the grocery store again.

The local little grocery store is a different demographic than the recent transplants and Mayflower society girls at yoga class. Those people are at Whole Foods right now. Here are my fellow suburban descendants of white flighters. People with OFD fathers and grandfathers of the greatest generation who used the GI bill and reverse affirmative action mortgage deals to settle into split-ranches with restrictive covenants, back in the day. I know their story. And I think about our similarities and bridging our differences with conversation when I hear one say Merry Christmas! to her acquaintance who replies

YES! WE CAN SAY THAT AGAIN NOW!

My, what an interesting interpretation of election results, you dumb fucking ostrich bitch. I need a Keegan Micahael Key-like anger translator, only the exact opposite, to lean over and gently inquire, excuse me, but I’m hoping you might help me understand your viewpoint? See, I don’t know how to interpret what you’ve said except to think that under Obama, people felt compelled to consider the possibility that the recipient of a canned well wish might not be Christian. But post-election, that’s just not something you need to think about? Is that it? Or did you just never think about it at all. Just heard somewhere that those bastards made a rule that you can’t say Merry Christmas and ran with that?

From experience, I know that there is no tone nor words kind or soft enough to kick off  this dialogue that does not immediately make the listener feel attacked and afraid. That the people openly bitching about the War on Christmas are not open to logic or reason on the subject. No matter how much I want to talk and come to understand, and not to “win” the conversation, there is nothing that I can say that will move them to consider anything outside thier own echo chamber. I already know that the person is not open to listening to me explain, nicely, that nobody gives a fuck if they say Merry Christmas to thier friends who celebrate Christmas. And I’m too fired up to truly hear her shit right now anyway.

No amount of intellect and reason is going to penetrate that straight up fear of equality and insecurity about her culture’s superiority. At its very core, it is based upon an unwillingness to consider, nevermind respect, the other’s feelings. That’s the whole point of her story. ME FIRST. ‘MERICA FIRST. That’s the whole fucking platform.

And I already know that it bothers her that her work has a “holiday party” or her kid’s school has a “winter concert” instead of a Christmas Pageant. I don’t know how else to nicely explain that the idea is to share the celebration with people who have traditionally felt left out. Or worse. I already know, from her loud and proud proclamation, that she is not interested in healing through conversation. She just won. She has no reason to consider or compromise.

You are like a two-year old, Lady, shouting “MINE! All MINE!” about your Christmas spirit, for chrissake. Blow out all the Menorahs and Kinaras, so your Christmas candle can shine brightest. Well, this little light of mine says fuck you to the darkness in you. Namaste bitch.  Congratulations on your imaginary new rights and freedoms. Celebrate ’em while you got ’em, I guess.

Spent time hating and that ain’t changing it

I will spend time hating the twisted interpretations of Dr. Martin Luther King’s messages that will flood my feed, and the innaguration, and the inFormationless Gaga Super Bowl for another month. I am soft as a grape, in my mind and body, but will do my best to avoid inappropriate public fragile white tears. I will go to yoga until I am physically capable of sitting still in an open and receiving posture again. For now, I will sit here with my chest caved in, and let Mr. Bey manage my mayhem.

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