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.

That old-time swoon incident

As I meekly chugged down Theraflu this morning (after two cups of peppermint tea) I remembered I could be feeling a lot worse. I patted myself on the back for forcing down oatmeal this morning. At least that was on crisis adverted.

You see, I used to have this bad habit of passing out. A lot.

I'm hypoglycemic, which means my blood sugar is like a fun roller coaster of despair, especially in the morning. If I don't eat an actual breakfast (as I learned in high school, Marshmallow Supremes do not count as actual breakfast). But there was a time where I didn't quite put two and two together.

Summer after my junior year of high school, I spent two months at a cool Summer College Program up north. I took college classes! I did kooky things like staying up until 4am and ordering pizza late at night! I was the master of my fate and the captain of my soul!

I also started dating the Dude and eating my weight's worth in chicken ramen then, so not all my decisions were quite so mature and adult.

But at the time, man, I was awesome.

One morning the Dude and my new BFF (we'll call her Chicago, one of the only other three out-of-state students) and I decided to get Dunkin' Donuts before class. We trudged in the sweltering 100 degree heat to the main street. I thought being in "the north" waived me from a hot, muggy and buggy summer. No such luck. By the time we got to Dunkin Donuts, after a long lecture from me about how Krispy Kreme is way better anyway (silly northerners), I was sweating and dehydrated and woozy.

And then there was a long line. So I struck my somewhat typical waiting pose and somehow inadvertently locked my knees. We now have the perfect storm of no food, no water, extreme heat and poor circulation. But of course I didn't know this. I had bigger things to worry about: should I order the CARAMEL double chocolate super espresso coffee milkshake or the MINT CHOCOLATE vanilla hazelnut super espresso coffee milkshake? I know, I know, such hard life decisions for a youth. I had finally decided on -

BANG.

A wave of overwhelming nausea and dizziness suckerpunched me out of no where. I almost fell over in line. I staggered to the thankfully single-stall bathroom and immediately felt drenched in a cold sweat. I shook. My stomach twisted and tumbled and the floor spun around me. I laid down on the cool tile floor.

Amazingly, a story involving me face down in a groady donut shoppe bathroom does not involve me contracting e.coli.

The waves of nausea slightly subsided, so I decided to tentatively make my way back to the line. But that whole standing and walking and having any control over my faculties just wasn't going to happen. The dizziness and heat and sickness because unbearable. I called out to Chicago that I was really sick and something was wrong and to get help. I then slid down the wall and fell into a semi-conscious haze.

Cue two kitchen workers FREAKING OUT and running into the hallway, the now hysterically upset Chicago, and a very irritated Dude. Because having your girlfriend pass out in public is SO LAME GOSH. The kitchen workers start yelling at Chicago to get me out of there, calling me unsanitary (rude), shrieking profanities in a different language and generally causing a scene. Chicago calls the program director, hyperventilating, telling him I need to get to a hospital NOW. Dude is hiding somewhere on the other side of the shoppe, not buying weed this time but yet again pretending he didn't know me.

Meanwhile, I'm lolling in some half-awake fog. Still on the floor.

The program director arrives and tells Chicago to go on to class. This provokes complete sobs and shaking, as she can't leave her poor, scrawny (oh the days of being a runner!) defenseless DYING friend. The program director calms her down, sends her and a very compliant dude on their way, talks down the panicking donut workers, and helps me walk outside to what I expected would be just a regular car to take me to the hospital.

Instead, I saw a police cruiser.

Apparently in all the fine print I'd agreed to at the beginning of the program, I'd signed away the ability to ride in a car with anyone who was not my direct legal guardian. Damn you, terms and conditions. The only way to get around this and get me to the hospital was to get me a private police escort. Another thing about police cars - a layperson can't ride shotgun.

I was being taken to the hospital in the back of a police cruiser. Like a criminal on the way to a psych evaluation. All this happening in broad daylight on the busiest street in Delaware.

Such a good personal ambassador from the great state North Carolina.

As we (the program director and I, the policeman leaving after thanking me for not vomiting in his cruiser) waited in the urgent care lobby, the program director decided to call Lady Mum, who was on the drive up from NC to pick me up after the commencement party two days later.

From this I learned how important it is to order news correctly.

"Hello Mrs. W, I'm at Urgent Care with your daughter R. Grace right now... we picked her up when she was unconscious at a Dunkin Donuts... she can't speak to you right now... oh, but she'll be totally okay."

Lady Mum told me she almost swerved off the road at the first sentence.

They took me back and poked, prodded, and tested me for a bit while I was still floating in a stupor. I was too weird-sick-high to even watch them draw my vial of blood, which is usually my favorite part and usually freaks out the nurses. (Dr. Dad taught me well!) Fifteen minutes later, they bring me my treatment.

A cup of orange juice.

"Your blood sugar was really low. And you're anemic. Drink this and don't walk around in the heat without food." Grunt, glare. I was the medical equivalent of slut-shamed. I was a doctor's kid. I should know better. So embarrassed.

All that panic because I couldn't be bothered with an early-morning bagel. Eesh.

And proceeded to have two more increasingly dramatic fainting issues within the next two years. I don't ever learn the easy way. However, I now know I will never be tempted to take heroin. I can get the same floaty exhausted high and brink-of-death feeling if I just skip a couple meals.

The Ramen Incident

I used to judge people who ate ramen noodles.

They are the epitome of the broke, clueless college kid stereotype. They are the most meager form of sustenance. No cooking skill or dignity required! I ate them all the time when I did this college-experience summer program in high school, when I was scared and alone and broke in another state. Ramen tastes like loneliness to me. I had more class, I had more dignity, I had more RESOLVE than to stoop to eating ramen noodles ever again.

And there I was in the Harris Teeter on Sunday, holding a 12-pack of chicken flavored ramen and wondering just how low I'd fallen.

Frequently visiting someone who does not own a working oven or a well-stocked pantry has forced me to eat ramen on multiple occasions. (The things we do for love!) I'll admit, it was tolerable and filling and not too awful. I'd been looking for ways to cut my food budget for the summer, because my craving for calzones is an expensive one (and stems from another awkward story) and let's be real - I'm stuck in my college town doing nothing but working almost full time. I might as well save money. I might become one of those extreme couponers... so bored.

At Harris Teeter, I hold the 12-pack of chicken ramen for a good two minutes. Was I really that desperate to save money? Would I even eat it? Didn't I want to eat healthily? What would my housemates think? Would I be able to live with myself after stooping so low? Are my dreams of becoming a picture perfect Williams-Sonoma housewife forever crushed?

My stomach growls and I throw it into my cart, burying it under fresh organic vegetables and cake mix. I run through the grocery store at warp speed. Being caught with a gigantic pack of ramen would be more embarrassing than that time I ran into my crush at the drugstore with a jumbo box of tampons in my hand.

I thankfully make it throw my shopping list and arrive at the check-out counter. Unmarked vegetables and my aversion to self-checkouts placed in the line of a very pleasant cashier. She began scanning my items and a bag-boy appeared out of the woodwork.

"Plastic okay? WOAH that's a lot of ramen." The second half of the statement was directed at the cashier. "They make big packs of ramen? What for?"
The cashier laughed, "yeah, they got 48-packs down at Sam's Club."
"What you need that much ramen for? Who eats that much ramen?"
"Some people you know..."
"Haha wow, that's desperate."

DESPERATE. You are a bag boy at a grocery store, sir. I am standing right in front of you. I wanted to launch on a tirade about the time saving benefits or health aids, but I couldn't think of anything. And isn't that why I bought the ramen in the first place? Desperate. And too bored and lazy to cook.

I rushed out of the store and headed home... to cook myself a bowl of ramen. Was I embarrassed? Yes. Ashamed that I'd stooped so low? Yes.

But it tasted pretty damn good.