NO-maste, or The "Om Mani Padme WHUMP" Incident

Yoga is still a really, really cool thing to do in Los Angeles.

I thought it would have fallen by the wayside, with all the crazy hybrid pilates classes out here. Do you know what Piloxing is? Besides sounding like a weird sex move (totally got piloxed last night), it's a combination of pilates, boxing, and  DANCE. I still don't entirely understand, because I've been too afraid to try it out. The only people I know who pilox (is that a word?) are my super beautiful model friends. Maybe piloxing makes you more beautiful... but I'm more afraid I'll show up and everyone will be all "WHO IS THIS UGLY TROUT WITH NO RHYTHM?"

(Have you ever thrown a fish on a mat and watched it flop around gasping for air? That's me. Maybe that's a visual only my southerner friends will understand. Not sorry, y'all.)

Yoga is wildly more accessible because it's 1) easier to cheat on difficult poses and 2) at least half crunchy granola people, so classes are usually less expensive. However, this being Los Angeles, they gotta make it a hundred time more complicated. Because in LA, exclusivity = more fun.

And thus, Bikram Hot Yoga was born.

Bikram Hot Yoga takes all the things a person tries to avoid when exercising (being hot, being around people, being reminded that you are exercising) and exacerbates them. It's really, really hot. It's really, really crowded. You're soaked in sweat and smelling others' sweat and being cajoled to move in ways that produce more sweat for everyone, thus reminding you constantly that you're really, really working out, in case you're able to forget for a milisecond.

Eeeeuuuggghhhhh.

I've so far been able to avoid yoga in LA by being "busy" which is usually code for "napping" or "guiltily eating pizza alone so no one knows my shame."

But I have a secret.

It's not the sweating, or the people, or the Enya that's keeping me away. It's the yoga itself. Yoga tried to kill me once, and it scarred me for life.

I started college with a lot of lofty/ridiculous ideas of "cool college me." For example, I joined like five Christian campus organizations so life would be one big youth group. Then I realized they were either marriage mills (Ring by spring! lol jk BUT SERIOUSLY.) or just boring as toast. But another "cool college me"action was going to Vinyasa Yoga at the student rec center at 8am. Obviously, I was going to be like, so flexible and enlightened and at peace with my strong core and meditation skills.

Also, I liked a boy who talked about yoga sometimes. That might have been a small motivating factor.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I would force myself awake at the cruel hour of 7:30am (which is funny now that I have to be at work by 6am most days. 7:30 is a laughable luxury). I would chomp on some cardboard/protein bar and chug a juice on my solitary trek to the studio, before forcing my body through rapid-succession motions for 45 minutes of dolphins squeaking in the background. Cool college me had a weird idea of "fun."

One morning I woke up at probably 7:55. Oh No(ga)! I contemplated skipping but knew discipline was key to physical and mental health. Also, what if I saw that cute boy at the cafeteria today and had nothing to talk about? THE HORROR. I dashed out the door, still in pajama pants, past the cardboard/protein bar sitting forlornly on my dresser.

By college, I had a pretty good grip on my hypoglycemia [For the record, that's low blood sugar,  NOT a type of cancer. I clarify this because my eye doctor's assistant saw it on my chart and said I "looked pretty good for someone going through chemo." What the hell sort of backhanded compliment is that?]. I knew the basics, like I probably shouldn't eat just Little Debbie Marshmallow Supremes as a meal. I skipped the breakfast bar partially out of lateness but moreso out of taste (cardboard is EFFING GROSS especially first thing in the morning). However, I reasoned that I'd had a huge, cheesy burrito at 1am (I miss you, Cosmic Cantina) that was still probably in my system, and I still had water.

Do you hear the ominous music booming below the dolphin squeaks?

I arrived to class a little shaky, but chugging water like a pro. Morning workout classes were why brunch was invented, probably. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw that cute setting up his mat in the corner. I of course did the logical thing of not actually speaking to him, or looking at him directly, but setting up front and center immediately facing the instructor. I mean, obviously I would impress him with my great yoga prowess and then he would talk to me and we'd go get brunch, and probably live happily ever after. That's how dating works, right?

We started with some floor stretches lead by our very calm, zen instructor. Ah, yes, sitting down, I can do this. Besides mildly dozing during child's pose, I felt extra fuzzy and warm and bendy. TOTALLY impressing this cute boy with my stretching abilities.

Then, we moved on to a lot of upside-down poses. Downward-facing dog. Warrior 3. Downward-facing-dog-peeing-on-a-fire-hydrant. The usual. Ahh, I was doing great. So calm, so focused, so much blood rushing to my head.

We were serenely encouraged to slowly transition to "mountain pose" (aka just standing up), stacking our vertebrae one at a time. I still don't know what that means. Like our spine is one of those child's ring toys? My vertebrae, at least, are all connected (poorly, crookedly, but still in one piece), so I just jumped straight up. I am mountainous, I am strong, I am... unable to see?

THUD.

I am collapsed on the floor.

I am sooo uncool right now.

I opened my eyes to my totally calm, zen, yogi FREAKING OUT. Am I alright? Do I have a concussion? Should he get the nurse? An EMT? He was definitely harshing everyone else's mellow.

I tried to laugh it off and said I just needed some water, and to carry on. I think I also started to say I was overcome by enlightenment or something, but trailed off because I forgot where I was. I semi-consciously comforted my yoga instructor, who looked to be near tears, and picked up my stuff to go to the hallway water fountain. In the hallway, I leaned on the wall to steady myself. Then, I slid down the wall to get a little more stability. Then I kind of just laid on the floor next to my water bottle. Close enough.

Somewhere in the fog, I managed to call my lady mom, probably to say my goodbyes and reaffirm that Lil Watz couldn't take over my bedroom even if I passed on.

"R. Grace WHAT ARE YOU DOING. Get up. Go to the cafeteria. Get food. Now." Lady mom wisely realized that my fog-brain could only process short directives. I weakly tried to argue.

"My stomach hurts. I think I just need to sleep. On the floor. Right now."

I should have been on the debate team.

She forced me, entirely through three-word-or-less sentences, to get up and cross the courtyard to the cafeteria. I think I argued with her about wether or not ice cream was an acceptable breakfast food. I settled on an omelet and some fruit. With each bite, I slowly regained brainpower and also the ability to feel humiliation. What had I done? Who had seen me?!

I ran into that cute boy later in the day. He said hi and I immediately launched into some stammer-y explanation about the events earlier in the day. He looked at me, baffled.

"Oh, R. Grace, I don't do yoga in class. I do it outside in the park by myself."

I was briefly relieved that I hadn't embarrassed myself in front of him (and thusly, anyone who mattered) in class that morning. Following that realization, I had embarrassed myself just now, with my long story, retelling everything in graphic detail.

So obviously I never went back to yoga again.

Go on with your yoga, my dear Angelinos. While you're cultivating superpowered yeast infections (yoga pants and intense sweat? HELLO.) and climbing the rungs to self-awareness, I will find my own path to inner peace and bliss.

And it most likely involves pizza and air-conditioning.

The Awful Audition Incident

The transition from high school to college is a rough one.

Probably not as bad as my impending doom transition to the real world, but as I have a few more months left in college I would like to feign blissful ignorance (or I've been looking at Rep companies and MFA auditions while eating a tub of buttercream icing instead of doing my homework and am now teetering on the brink of despair.) As my post-grad paranoia ever increases, I am reminded of my second-to-worst audition experience ever.

At least I've already lived through possibly the worst.

I used to get super nervous before auditions. Nowadays, I psyche myself up into thinking I am not dopey, clumsy, R. Grace, but her sexy superstar hot evil twin. And for 20 minutes or so, I am not lame, worrying R. Grace but totally-kickass-all-the-confident-parts R. Grace. Also I can buy myself a drink after. But back in the day, even in high school auditions where the drama teacher had clearly precast the entire show: BLOOD FREEZING PANIC. I would have nightmares for a week leading up to auditions.  I would prepare and overprepare and second-guess myself and overanalyze every second of the audition. I bit my nails. My stomach churned. I am surprised I don't have a stomach ulcer the size of Vermont.

Ironically, I don't get actual stage fright. At all. Ever. Put me in front of 300 people with a decent director, a well rehearsed show, and a cast I love? No big deal. Myself against three or so people (director, SM, casting director)? Sudden death.

I steeled myself for the first round of auditions my freshman year at college. We don't have a particularly notable undergrad program, but our MFA and Rep program is totally kickass. No big deal, right? I had my monologue from Wit forever embedded in my heart. I read the summary and snippets of the plays for which I was auditioning (three shows auditioning at the same time in separate rooms- eep!) I happily realized that my first audition was for a production directed by one of my professors. Sure, it was a big lecture class of a theater survey, but I'd answered two questions earlier in the week and talked to him after class - maybe he'd recognize me. That's a good thing, right?

WRONG.

I go in for auditions, fill out my forms, ask the students running auditions if there's anything special I need to know (of course not, you'll do fine, you're totally prepared sweetheart blah blah blah). I present my audition piece, a little nervous but hopefully directed and focused and poised. I smile, thank them, turn to leave and -

"So what are you going to sing?"

Um, what?

"What piece are you going to sing? This is a musical."

I am going to die.

I have a terrible phobia of my singing voice. It's probably the positive side of mediocre, and I was even in elementary glee club for two years. I don't sing along to the radio when friends are in my car. I had a round of really poor quality voice lessons in high school that made me feel like an idiot and a braying goat, and I've never really recovered. In some weird Freudian way, this probably explains why I dated a slew of musicians. I don't sing. Ever. No.

Also, how in the HELL had I missed that this show was a musical? I'd read probably four sources, and nothing mentioned songs. I felt foolishly underprepared, and decided to save face, explain my screw up, and bail.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize this show was a musical when I read it so I don't have anything prepared. I apologize, sorry for wasting your time. I'm just going to go-"
"You're in my class, aren't you?"
"Me? Um, yes. I am." Cue five seconds of me pleading in my head: Please just say "oh you don't need to sing, it happens, go about your merry way." Instead, I heard:

"It's not actually a musical; were turning it into one. Since you're in my class, just sing something off the top of your head."

Off the top of my - what? I don't even hardly listen to the radio. A song? What song? What time of musical is this? Tomorrow... no, I'm not 10. Phantom of the - oh bullshit, like I could hit those notes. How much do they expect me to sing? I don't know that much musical theater. Oh god they're all staring at me. FIGHT OR FLIGHT. Run awayyyyy-

"Y'know, I don't really sing, I'm sorry for the confusion but I'm just going to leave-"
"Don't leave. Sing something. Now."

In retrospect, he was just trying to give me a chance to redeem myself by encouraging me. His requesting me to stay wasn't done out of malice, but trying to get me to confront my fears. But this wasn't a case of the freshman jitters, this was full-on panic. Even cool swagger alter-ego R. Grace would be reduced to tears at this point. I was probably visibly trembling.

My mind went completely blank except for one song. The song we used to audition for 5th grade glee club. Well, shit.

You Are My Sunshine.

My first audition for college theater and I was 1) unprepared 2) uninformed and 3) singing a nursery song. My voice was shaking so much I actually stopped in the middle of the song and apologized, but they waved me to just keep going. So, to recap the past minute:

1) I sang a kiddie song (all of it, what does this "16 bars" mean? It will take washing my mouth with 16 bars of soap to remove the taste of shame?).
2) I pleaded to be released from the audition instead of following through.
3) I stopped MID-SONG to apologize.

Finally, the torture was over and I ran out of the room in the midst of their "thank you for auditioning" closure. The cool college kids audition sitting looked at me in horror when I came out, completely pale and trembling.

"Are you okay? You look sick."
"Why did nobody tell me, when I asked if there was anything special about this audition, THAT I HAD TO SING?"
"Oh yeah, about that..."

On the plus side, I made it to the bathroom before I started crying.

My next two auditions were a blur of disappointment, shakiness, and failure. I was so hung up on my first audition that I barely stumbled through my monologue, zombie-like. No callbacks for me. My dream was crushed. Back to being a hard-hitting investigative journalist. That's what I came to college for, anyway. Theater was just a stupid dream. Despair.

The next day I received an email from my professor, explaining they couldn't offer me a callback because my astronomy lab conflicted too much with rehearsals and performances.

My astronomy lab. After all that, it was my schedule, not my complete ineptitude at life, that disabled me from continuing on. Well then.

I was still traumatized enough to not be involved with theater in any way whatsoever until the next year, in which I was forced by a friend of an ex-boyfriend and my fantastic floridian friend. And since then, I acted (and toured!) with a show that involved multiple southern/gospel songs. This time, I was more prepared. I didn't fall back to "you are my sunshine."

I sang Amazing Grace.

It seemed only fitting.

The Notecard Romeo Incident

As I printed a script in the student union this afternoon, I noticed an awk freshman boy leaning out of his chair, ignoring his study group to stare at me. Clearly he was impressed by my aura of senior swagger, because the curly-hair, no-makeup, glasses, baggy-shirt combo I am currently rocking does not emit babe vibes. But it reminded me of another strange incident from my freshman year...

I hate modernist literature.

It is so damn hard to read. Nonlinear, changing narrators, metaphors out the ass. As John Mayer would huskily whisper-sing: "say what you need to say" and not a damn thing more. I get that the World Wars really messed you guys up, and I'm sorry for that, but seriously. Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf? I AM.

But my freshman year of college, I thought it would be a cool idea to take a freshman literary seminar examining how different cities were represented through modernist literature. Doesn't that just sound so... hip? complicated? bullshit? College. It sounded like a "college" class.

So here I sat, in the top level of the student union, cross legged on an overstuffed armchair, trying to force myself to read (and understand, dammit) the first half of St. Petersburg by Andrei Biely. In English, of course. But just like a Chekov play (theaters professors LOVE them some Chekov) the story became extremely difficult to follow because everyone had long, complicated double names with two or three nicknames, depending on who was addressing them.

It was like the Count of Monte Cristo, but with less action.

I am laboriously applying myself to the task at hand. As much as I disliked the subject matter, the class and the professor were AMAZING. The professor remains one of the smartest people I know. She's on the MLA board, for crying out loud. Every wide-eyed high schooler who's ever had to cite a paper or buy an MLA handbook breathes in a collective gasp.


So focused am I on this book (My only contribution to the class discussion at this point would be: Who the hell names a character Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov?) that I don't entirely notice the person placing something on my desk and walking away.


This is a commonplace thing. People are always handing out mini-fliers for comedy events, cancer-fighting-things, interesting meetings, ect. I once amassed six separate handbills for events over the span of one lunch in the cafeteria. The student union is a popular place to hand out these bills. If the person currently at the table doesn't take it, someone else will come along in 20 minutes and be passionately interested in your cause.


After a long, arduous journey around St. Petersburg (roughly 5 minutes later) I look up at the flyer on my desk, hoping for some distraction. But instead, I saw a plain white 3x5 notecard with a name on it.


Way more interesting than Apollo Anotononin-too-many-damn-syllables.

To this day, I can't really remember the name, and I profusely apologize to you. I know it was two syllables, ending in an -en sound. Nathan? Kevin? I think it was Kevin. Nathan/Kevin, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.

On the front side, Nathan/Kevin was printed in jaggedy boy hand-writing with an arrow to the back. Flipping it over revealed:

"... is a really nice guy who would like to take you to dinner sometime if you'd leave your number #_____________."

Um. What.

Suddenly the overwhelming feeling of someone watching me washed over my being. It was like a screenwriter couldn't decide between a romantic comedy and a stalker slasher film.

"Be cool," I thought. "He's probably waiting for your reaction. Don't act weird."

I acted weird.

I glanced around the rest of the room, holding the notecard. No one made any move of recognition, no head-nod, no hand-wave, nothing. If Nathan/Kevin was still in the room, he made no move to call attention to himself.

And I had nothing to go on.

I had a very generic first name (no last name), so I couldn't facebook stalk. It wasn't like I was in a classroom where I could look him up on the class roll. I had no number or email. I hadn't looked up when Nathan/Kevin placed the card in front of me, because I assumed it was just another handbill solicitor, and like with rabid animals, you don't look them in the eye.

Well damn.

I was really flattered (and single and young and overly romantic) but I was not about to leave my number on a random card in the middle of the student union. If Nathan/Kevin had already left, heart crushed that I hadn't reacted to his immediate presence, the card might not be picked up by Nathan/Kevin the Romantic, but Bob/Ted the Serial Rapist. And I already had enough problems as a freshman without adding "stalked by a psychotic murderer" to the list.

I put the card in my bag and looked around a bit more, winning-smile on my face (hopefully giving off "don't you want to talk to me?" vibes and not "I am a crazy bunny-cooker" vibes). No one approached me, but the creepy feeling of being watched persisted. I got up slowly, packing my books away. I lingered by the stairs. Please, please, follow through with your grand romantic gesture. Talk to me. Do something. I want to go out with you but I have no idea who you are!

Also my bitch roommate would be super jealous.

But alas, Nathan/Kevin never approached me.

I sat in the same area at the same time for the rest of the week, hoping for contact. I had no possible way of discerning him. The weird feeling of being watched never came back, and instead the broke-up-with-my-highschool-boyfriend-to-come-here-and-nobody-likes-me loneliness came back. I kept the notecard for around a year, buried in the bottom of my bookbag, and I always glance around when I'm in a crowd, just in case.

Nathan/Kevin, wherever you are, I would have gone out to dinner with you.

But seriously man, you've got to step your game up.