You be the Judge

My daughter says I write too many stories about my grandsons. I say it's a miracle I write about anything else, I'm so crazy-in-love with them.

This week when they came to visit, Grayson, the two-year-old, arrived in his full Spiderman regalia, including, but not limited to, a red nylon hat with an eye shaped mask attached.  Soon Brody and I began to feel our wardrobe choices for the day were lacking, so we decided to remedy that by taking a trip to the costume treasure chest.

Brody, in a regal mood, was busy digging through rainbows of feather boas, looking for a crown. Meanwhile, I chose the monarch butterfly wings. He picked up my twinkly Glinda (the good witch) wand, evaluating whether or not it met his royal criteria.

He looked up for a moment, saw me flapping around the room and said,
“You're beautiful.”

Too many grandson stories? I think not!

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

The Goth Girl & Me

The tattooed Goth girl came at me with a pair of scissors.  She grabbed a fist full of my hair, then went for a razor and hacked at it. I felt tugging and could hear the sound of hair being ripped away from my head.  It was sickening, like a bird of prey attacking me. 

I kept unusually quiet - I didn't want to antagonize the girl holding the weapon.
"How many haircuts do you do in a day?" I finally ventured.

"Up to thirty-five." she responded.  "You have thick hair." 

("Had" I thought.)

"I put a lot of layers in it so it will lay nice."

When she was finished, she whipped off the black cape and was clearly proud of herself.  After I put my glasses on she looked at me again.  Then she put the cape back on and whacked at my hair some more.  Finally satisfied, she let me escape.  I thanked her (I did mention that she was holding a razor, right?) and as I got out of the chair, glanced at myself in her mirror.

Where I once had hair, I now have feathers.  Lots of them.
 

Yoga, Revisited

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I get on an elevator, descend into Hell, meet Satan's Mistress, and pay actual American currency for the privilege of attending her "Deep Stretch Yoga Class."


Deep Stretch Yoga is code for "Yoga for Old Ladies" and it focuses on flexibility and balance. I've never been particularly flexible and not even a stranger would mistake me for someone who was well-balanced, so this class is a good fit for me.


Today when I arrived in the studio, I noticed two chairs sitting sideways against the wall. Miss Mary Ann was feeling particularly feisty and had decided that today was the day we were going to stretch our trapezius muscles, doing a pose called the "fountain of youth."


I'm all for youth -- I even dimly recall being one once -- but had sincere reservations about this Cirque du Soliel move which consisted of suspending oneself with the head wedged between two chairs in what amounted to a headstand in midair.


Although I'm pretty sure that I verbalized my concerns, no one paid much attention to my pitiful whimperings and that is how I found myself in the aforementioned position and then, to add insult to injury, they took pictures of me.

If we're going to continue to do these types of moves - especially if I'm going to be photographed - I'm going to have to insist that we wear glittery outfits made of sequins and feathers, perhaps with the addition of a small, tasteful tutu.  In pink or turquoise.  Would a tiny tiara be asking too much?


People ask me why I return to yoga week after week when I make no secret of the fact that I don't enjoy this form of exercise one little bit. The answer is simple. I spend a lot of my time hunched over a computer and my neck and shoulders get tight and sore from it.


As much as I hate to admit it, I feel better after I leave yoga class.