Yoga Is Not Easy

Or: Why I Achieve My Best Zen Rocking Out to Journey in My Car

I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions*, but I like to think that January is a nice time to make healthy life changes.** So I talked one of my friends into investing in yoga classes with me. Because yoga isn’t as fun if you don’t drag people into awkward poses WITH you.
*Not true. I make all kinds of resolutions. I resolve to eat all the chocolate in my pantry. I resolve to talk to my cat only when no one else is around. I resolve to close my blinds before I dance around my apartment in my dinosaur costume.
It’s just that I can’t keep any of them, so I like to pretend I never make them.
**Shop all the “health and fitness deals” on Groupon.

Yesterday was our first class.

Things started well. I arrived on early***. As I pulled into a parking space, the sweet melodies of Journey started to play on my radio. So, obviously, I put the car in park, cranked the volume up to 11, and proceeded to rock out like I had a perm in my hair and was wearing spandex pants.****
***This is nothing short of a miracle. Just ask anyone who knows me.
****I really was wearing spandex pants, guys! Because yoga! I am so prepared!

I WILL NEVER STOP BELIEVING

This is actually how I dance in the car. It’s kind of dangerous to be a passenger during a parking lot dance party.

I preened as I exited the car and found the right part of the building for zen and stretching.

It is not a mystery why I'm single.

This is, in fact, the patented “Wearing Yoga Pants to Do Yoga” walk. And I do it in real life.

And as we got our mats and positioned ourselves in the room, I was strong in the confidence that I’d done this before, and there was only one guy in the class, so how much could I possibly embarrass myself?

Really? They don't?

Do words not float around you when you do yoga the right way?

So much, you guys.

Somehow, despite my efforts to end up in front of the instructor***** but away from the one guy in class, I ended up directly in front of the one guy. Which implies that I have more confidence in my yoga pants than I actually do. And then we started yoga-ing.
*****Because – let’s be honest – I need all the help I can get, you guys.

As it happens, I have no sense of balance.

I probably deserve an award.

I’m possibly the only person who can fall over while doing seated yoga poses.

No balance whatsoever. I’m not sure my yoga instructor knew anyone could be that awkward at yoga…

But she didn’t see my sweet in-car dance moves.

In short: I would probably be great at yoga if Journey was our background music.

Let’s Talk about Blondes

Oh, oh, I see your brain whirring right away. You’re looking for the joke, right? Well don’t stifle the urge. You might break something.

Got it out of your system? Ok then. Let’s roll.

I’m blonde.* Very blonde. I have been blonde all my life. I was born with wisp of white hair topping my round pink head. I grew into a childhood mop of towhead white-blondeness that would make the Children of the Damned go all glowy-eyed with envy.
*Thanks, genetics!

SO MANY BLONDES!

In your face, you fakers. Those are OBVIOUSLY wigs.
Click for source, because shockingly I did not have this photo on hand.

Unlike my in-it-for-the-short-term childhood peers, however, my hair stayed pale white-gold as I grew. I never transitioned into sandy blonde or light brunette.** And I hated it. Every second of it. My hair was light while my friends were all crowned with dark hair. They didn’t look like snow-topped lobsters when they got sunburned. They even tanned in the sunlight.
**Though I did enjoy phases of blue, purple, blue again, red, orange, red again, orange again, black, tiger striped and blue-black.

But my parents forever told me my long blonde hair was beautiful, something enviable and precious.*** It was something I should show off and value – not every girl was a natural blonde, you see.
***Dad was not as fond of blue, purple, blue again, red, orange, red again, orange again, black, tiger striped and blue-black as I was.

This didn’t fly with me. See, blonde just isn’t awesome these days. A generation or two ago, it was a Hollywood goddess look. It was a mark of beauty.

She's so...so...shiny...

Thanks, Marilyn. You left behind a legacy of lies. Also, how does your hair do that?
Click for source.

But these days, it’s a hair color just as easily bought from a bottle. And girls who buy it in the bottle are better off, because, well, they can probably tan, too. I’m not saying blonde isn’t thought of as pretty. I mean, if it weren’t thought of as attractive, why would girls do this to their hair?

When you do this to your hair, it smells like burning

Jenna Marbles is a magical woman who knows everything about hair and boobs and tiny dogs and click this to go watch her right now.
Also I have no idea how to do this to my hair.

But over the years, there’s been a vicious campaign against blonde-hood. We’re ditzy, and slutty, and simple. Apparently. Because the color of your hair clearly shows how smart you are. Smart must be a dark pigment that lives in your brain and stains your hair as it grows out of your head, right?****
****Like, OMG, that’s so totally how science happens, right?

So very, very wrong.

Anyway, I thought hair color stereotypes were a silly thing of the past. We’re all basically even, any color can be bought in a bottle, and no matter your hair color or ethnicity, we all know that Asian girls won the popularity contest. Right? That’s what happened. Or so I thought.

I was out the other evening being an adult***** when the girls at the table behind me started talking about one of their exes. (I’m a life-long eavesdropper. I love spying on other people’s conversations, because sometimes they’re better than mine.)
*****Celebrating the fact that Prohibition ended long before I was born. Because I’m American and I respect my history. And definitely not because margaritas are better than chocolate.

The ex of one of the girls was apparently dating a blonde. And this was somehow his worst transgression. The new girl’s perfect blondeness had stolen away a man. She’d bewitched him with the yellow-y color of her hair. He’d been enchanted to move on from the emotional ruin his ex-hood should have left him in.

Because that's how witches happen

GASP! Even Samantha from Bewitched is blonde! BLONDES ARE WITCHES!
Click for source.

So, apparently, blonde devilry is still a thing, and no one has ever bothered to inform me how to do it. Not cool, guys.

OK, Fine. ONE blonde joke, and that’s it:

Three friends; a blonde, a brunette and a redhead are stranded on a desolate island. One day, the three of them are walking along the beach and discover a magic lamp. They rub and rub, and sure enough, out pops a genie. The genie says, “Since I can only grant three wishes, you may each have one.” 

The brunette says, “I’ve been stuck here for years. I miss my family, my husband, and my life. I just want to go home.” POOF! The brunette gets her wish and she is returned to her family. 

Then, the red head says, “I’ve been stuck here for years as well. I miss my family, my husband, and my life. I wish I could go home too.” POOF! The redhead gets her wish and she is returned to her family. 

The blonde starts crying uncontrollably. The genie asks, “My dear, what’s the matter?” 
The blonde whimpers, “I wish my friends were still here.”

So just remember: always let blondes go first.*
*Unless it’s in a horror movie. In which case, I want to go in the middle.

I Don’t Know What that Costs

No, really, I don’t. I work in Marketing. Marketing tells people why they want things. We know why you need it, why you crave it, why your life simply is not complete without it.

But I don’t handle the pricing.

I have no idea what three hours of a developer’s time is worth. If you asked me, I’d say “Mountain Dew and a box of Reese’ Pieces.” But for all I know, it’s actually a 2-liter of coke and five Slim Jims. I don’t know what it costs The Company to dedicate a project manager to an assignment. I don’t even know what junk food they eat.*
*It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that I work with them less.

I don't understand.

Is this not how people are quantified?

It’s a little bleak, but I like to think of Marketing as working a long con. It’s my job to get to know you.** It’s my job to find out what your needs are, so The Company can anticipate them. We’re here for the greater good***, to make sure you get find the right products and services that will make your life better.
**The royal “you.” The one that means everyone, and doesn’t mean I specifically spend my time stalking you. I definitely don’t do that. Because I’m not a weirdo. And I have no idea where you live. Why are you closing your blinds?
***Consumerist Evil.

It's possible I don't know how jobs work

“Women who wear boots and fluffy skirts like things that can be carried in bags.”
– Factual Marketing Observation

And get paid. I have college loan debt. I am really, really interested in getting paid.

But there is an inherent problem with working in the Marketing Industry. That problem is Sales. Sales does not care what you want, or what you need. Sales cares about what you think you want to buy. Sales cares how we can bend your needs to match The Company’s products. Sales really, really, really wants you to buy what we have to sell.****
****Ok, ok, I do too. But I really want to make sure you want it, too. I have to do research and stuff. That’s why it’s called “market research.” Duh.*****
*****This is not why it’s called “market research.”

And here at The Company, Marketing has almost nothing to do with the prices of what we sell. Sales handles that. Because they’re selling it.****** It’s an obvious assignment of responsibilities.
******And because Marketing is a rabble of adorable, creative-minded individuals who probably can’t be trusted with math.

Seriously.

You never know just what might happen when you give Marketing numbers.

But this never stops anyone in Sales from asking our department complex questions about how prices are determined and issued. In essence, when tasked to determine the price of a good or service provided by The Company, Sales comes running up to Marketing and asks “How much does this cost?”

Marketing does not know. 

More importantly, not only do I not know, I cannot be trusted not to make up an answer.

Vortex eyes of doom!

Nothing The Company sells costs $7. Unless you ask me. Then absolutely everything The Company sells is sold for $7. Because math.

So, by all that’s good and right in the world, can everyone please stop asking Marketing how much things cost? We don’t know, and we don’t care. We only care if you want it, if you’ll buy it, and if you’ll Tweet about it.

I should probably just start pointing out the comic on my desk

NOPE NOPE NOPE.

From The Oatmeal. Go show him all the love, because he’s brilliant, and this makes me happy.
Click this and cheat to the comic in question.

This Explains So Much about My Love Life Recently

I really want to read this

Seriously. It’s all so clear now.
Click to check out the source.

Guys. Apparently people aren’t as afraid of being murdered as they are of being alone. And someone wrote an academic thesis about it.

Man, Craigslist IS good for everything.

I, on the other hand, am way more afraid of being murdered than I am of being alone. So there’s my problem right there.*
*Well, that and the fact that I fall down while bowling around strangers. That might also be a problem.

LOL My Thesis may be my new favorite thing on the Internet for today. And that’s even counting my blog, which usually gets a biased vote from me. For one thing, it makes me feel more academically reassured about my own thesis-for-bachelor’s-degree. For another, it both makes me want to go back to school, and reminds me why I chose NOT to go to grad school.

Tell me more! Tell me more!

Know what? I really would be.

These are complex feelings for a one-liner Tumblr blog to trigger.

It also makes me ponder questions I have never pondered before, like:

Go thesis writer. Go!

I don’t even know what to say to this, but I can see how this is probably true.

Face it. You want to know more about that,too.

So, to keep your paralyzing curiosity distracted, and therefore not paralyzing, here is a terrifying picture of a clown. A strange man at my favorite antique fair** tried to sell it to my friends and me***. I don’t know why they wouldn’t buy it.
**Weird flea market masquerading as an antique fair.
***You just checked this grammar in your head, didn’t you? I swear, “me” is correct in this instance, you cute little grammar nazi you.

The Saddest Murderer

Just look at that slow tear. It’s so moving. He is clearly the saddest murderer.

I mean, it would just look so amazing in their living room. I even offered to buy it for them.

Some people just have no love of art.

More Sweet Poems from the Internet

The Internet is an amazing world of creativity, facts and possibilities. It’s also a dark pit of online dating sites. We’ve already discussed the fact that Zoosk thwarted my attempts to quit their online matchmaking services, but now I have a confession.

I can’t bring myself to miss out on the amazing entertainment value of the seduction attempts of The Men of Zoosk.

Curly mustaches!

The Men of Zoosk: Making handlebar mustaches look better than ever.

For the second time, I bring you:

Zoosketry
(Better defined as “Zoosk Poetry.” The dulcet words of potential woo-ers in the Land of Zoosk.)

I think UR a QT!
(Are you a real person? Or are you a Dateline spy trying to trick me into dating a 42 year old man for some special report? I’m on to you!)

<Series of numbers that are probably a phone number but I’m going to pretend they aren’t.> Tex mi.
(Oooo….Is this like the DaVinci Code? Will that series of numbers lead me to understand exactly what “Tex mi” means? Or are you a Texan? There are just so many possibilities here.)

If I sound drunk, it’s because you intoxicate me.
(Dammit. I’ve always wanted to be someone’s anti-drug. I guess I’ll have to settle for being a form of booze. Life goal failed.)

Oh so your too cute.
(Oh so grammar is not your thing.)

What’s your favorite type of naked game?
(Ok. Ok. We’re drawing a line right here. Because this is not a thing real people EVER SAY TO STRANGERS outside of a mental institution. Also, my favorite type of naked game is the one where everyone’s clothes are still on so everyone’s naked is still a secret. Keep it in your pants, or I’m calling Dateline. I have a direct line to them now.)

Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Because you’re obviously an angel.
(Yes. It did. A lot. It’s not very nice to ask about someone’s traumatic history.)

What does it feel like to be a blonde joke?
(…At last. A man interested in my life-long struggle.)

If I sound drunk, it’s because you’re so intoxicating.
(Guys! GUYS! I got this one TWICE! It MUST be true!)

Nerdy is hot sometimes.
(Oh. Are we playing the “sometimes a fact statement” game? Because stovetops are hot sometimes. And the weather is occasionally inclement.)

Honestly, it’s just amazing that these men are still single.* Fellow single ladies, we have our pick of the litter.
*Proving Darwin’s theory of natural selection reassuringly true. 

In other news, sometimes I indulge in activities that aren’t just on the Internet.

This past weekend I went bowling and ice skating. And, because I am a coordinated lady, I fell during bowling. But not during ice skating.***

Figure skaters would look amazing on hockey skates

My hockey skates bring all the boys to the yard. Errr…the ice rink.

***Ok, so I also fell during ice skating, but when ice skating, I fell on top of someone – so I had help. During bowling, I fell all on my own

I would marvel at this, but there’s an obvious explanation. When bowling, I was trying to convince a charming man I was charming, too.**** I went ice skating with friends who already know of my tendency to fall at unexpected times.
****See? Sometimes I interact with real live men. It happens. Don’t look so shocked.

No one to impress = less falling. It’s basic physics.

Only I could find a dinosaur on a date.

As a consolation, I found this tiny orphan dinosaur at the bowling alley. So, you know, there’s that.

So, in summation: Darwin is a genius, and I really like dinosaurs. Happy Monday, everyone.