Sweat, testicles, and my inability to move gracefully

Last week a stranger’s naked testicle came alarming close to my face and I found myself thinking:

‘Is this really worth it Menace?’

But then I reminded myself of Jennifer Aniston, and why I started this in the first place.

Allow me to elaborate.

I think we can all agree-that body is incredible

A normal person may stumble across this advertisement and think to themselves:

1. She’s hot

2. I’m thirsty

3. She’s hot

But what do I think when I stumble across this?

1. She’s hot

2. I could look like that (seriously?!)

3. Yoga.  Yes, I should take a yoga course.  No wait, I should TEACH yoga.  But first I should take a course.  Or maybe a few.  Or maybe try out the various different kinds of yoga and then I will look like that and people will pay me to stretch about and teach my moves so they too can look like this.

4. I need to buy a book on yoga.

So it was in late January that I set out to the bookstore.  Fifteen minutes later I was reading a novel written by a woman from Seattle who fell in love with yoga.  Approximately two hours after that, I had located a hot yoga studio down the block from the apartment.

I’m fairly certain that a normal person who stumbles into a hot yoga studio would not agree to sign up for something called the 30 day challenge in which one agrees to complete 30 courses within 30 days.

But by now I’m sure you know how normal I am when it comes to grand ideas.

So without hesitation, I agreed to complete the challenge.

In order to really understand my genius in this decision, let me explain hot (bikram) yoga to you.

90 minutes of Hatha yoga stretches conducted with strangers in a room that is heated to 104 degrees F.

They really aren’t kidding about the heat.

Also, there are a lot of rules.  These include sobriety, coming in hydrated, and staying inside the room for the full 90 minutes.

To recap, I pledged my allegiance in the basement of a Soho studio to maintain the willpower to remain sober, H2O soaked, and dedicated.

For 30 days.

Twenty minutes later I found myself lying half-naked on a mat in an ungodly hot room awaiting my first session.

Two minutes into it I looked like this:

Yes, sweat actually drips of one in this fashion during a session

I’m blue here to emphasize how incredibly soaked I was during the first breathing exercise.

Basically I’ve been blue for the past 30 days.

Against all odds, I completed the challenge.

I got used to the heat.  I did not get used to some of the outfits chosen by my peers.

Hence, the naked testicle.  Uncomfortably close to my mat.  Granted, it being in the room at all is uncomfortable.

But come on man, no one needs to see that.

Rogue genetalia aside, I’m hooked.

Though I now want to study other forms.

Preferably one in which I appear graceful, stoic, and stealth.  While practicing bikram yoga this red-tomato wet girl with horrendous hair kept reflecting back to me in the front mirror.

I assume it was faulty.

The mirror, not the girl.

Regardless readers, this is the latest in my serious of ‘Greatest Ideas Ever’.

Stay Tuned, only a matter of time before the next one strikes.

Strainer on head, corn-chip baths, and new pants

Future me popped up today.

I really hate it when she does this.

Standing there with what looks like a strainer woven with pipe cleaners on her head, she puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat until I acknowledge her presence.

As if I’m not busy enough sorting out current self.  I’m expected to entertain future Ryan just because she falls in love with a mad-scientist sometime around 2019 and steals his time machine after she finds him in bed with her tailor?

Sigh.

She never has anything positive to say.  Just a whole lotta judgement about what 29 year old Zilla is doing with her life.  Well you know what?  We can’t all be mad-scientist muses.  It’s a select group lady, and clearly; I’m not there yet.

The first time she showed up she was 84 year old me.  She got all offended that I couldn’t recognize her.  Also, she smelled like Fritos so it’s good to know that they serve those in whichever asylum becomes my home in 2064.

Today was 53 year old Ryan.  Rocking stilettos and massive jewellery.  I couldn’t get her to tell me how she came to own such lovely possessions, which was annoying.  She smelled good though, so the descent into bathing in corn-chips clearly doesn’t happen until much, much later.

She told me to keep writing and to be more responsible.  I raised my eyebrow at her on the latter point, but she pretended like she didn’t notice.

No one wearing kitchen supplies as a helmet has the right to lecture me on responsibility.

She wouldn’t tell me winning lottery numbers (claims she wouldn’t remember them even if she tried-of all things, I find this most believable).  She wouldn’t tell me if she has children or if they drive her crazy.  Though the long sigh and nod of exhaustion indicate a daughter capable of my own antics in my future.

She laughs menacingly when I ask her how many times she’s been married.

Which of course I find comforting.

The only thing she’ll tell me is to keep writing.

Seems to have done her some good.  Her sense of humor still dominates her personality.  She deleted the first draft of this post.  Her expression while doing so indicated she thought that was downright hysterical and thus merited a victory dance.

53 year old Ryan dances no better than her younger version.

Then she popped out of the air while giggling.  The last I heard was a shout that sounded like:

‘stock up on tight pants in 2011.  You’re gonna need them!!”

So it’s really not my fault that I went shopping this afternoon.

Was just taking the advice of someone older, wiser, and more sophisticated.

I’m pretty sure that’s a universal law.  Just like gravity and (evidently down the road) time travel.

So that’s why I have new pants.

Who can blame me?

Houston, we have a leg-warmer problem.

Someone alert hospice care, I’ve lost my dignity.

I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night.  I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character.  Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.

This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.

Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture.  Rachel of the no IQ.  Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”.  Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.

Loyally at my side, Man_Shopper too had chosen a persona.

Kayti the Starbucks barista.  Kayti with the chip on her shoulder.  Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling.  Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school.  Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.

She looked like a rock chick.

Dark, mysterious, sexy.

I looked like an 80s escort.

Pasty, curvy, moronic.

Seriously, I even had leg warmers.

Rachel's accessory of choice.

Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.

Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready.  Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.

When we got it perfect, it was time to go.

Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.

I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:

“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet.  Cardboard brains.  How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”

I vowed not to break character.  No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick.  No sir.

Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else.  She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.

I didn’t have a cool excuse.  I just love to play.

So off we went.

It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us.  My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.

But yet…

Sadly….

That is what happened.

Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION.  ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.

Gone.

Finito.

No characters.  No conversation.  No free drinks.  No eye-flirting.  No. Anything.

Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.

The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.

So that’s it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.

I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense.  Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.

One things for certain though.  Tomorrow, I’m gonna wear the sexy tight pants I bought today to make myself feel better.

Zilla down bloggers, Zilla down.

If you want her version of the events, click here please.

Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and my pledge for adventure

When Sleeping Beauty was banished to eternal snoozetime, I doubt anyone took the time to make sure she was on memory foam.

I’d rather be Cinderella.

At least she has stories.

I went to the ballet last night, in case anyone’s wondering why on Earth I’ve chosen to discuss fairy tales.

When I got the invitation, I was less than excited.  I mean, punk-shows are one thing, but the ballet?  Anyone who follows me will recall my childhood ballerina nightmare. So it’s not surprising that I wasn’t overly ecstatic about the idea of watching a bunch of dancers flutter about onstage.

Turns out I was wrong.

With just the right amount of wine warming my cheeks, and the amazing set-design and choreography, Cinderella done post-modern was inspiring.

I mean, not enough to make me want to twirl about in slippers, but still.

The whole show took place in London 1940 and the stepmother was a drunken ballerina.

So that was fun.

They even did an inebriated dance which was pretty creative, all things considered.  I walked in expecting Disney on Ice or some unholy equivilant, and was happy to discover art.

Just goes to show, I should be getting out more and trying new things.

No time to start like the present.  I’m sitting in the Eurostar train station as I write this, awaiting the arrival of one very crazy, very witty, very good friend.

I’m meeting Man Shopper, and yes-we have a plan.

It involves characters, corsets, and my pledge to attempt an evening sans sarcasm.

Stay tuned.  Like the ballet, this could turn out surprisingly inspiring.

Either that, or I’ll be forced to locate some memory foam, a hot water bottle, and my pj pants.

Wizards, fox-roaming, and a mild cocaine addiction

I knew she was drunk when she repeatedly picked up the receiver in the public phone booth to ask for the Minestry of Magic.

When that didn’t work, she started hollering:

“Dumbledore, Albus.  Just trying to make this damn phone booth work m’am.  Just a muggle in need.”

It was two days after Christmas.  It was cold.  My cousin and I were stalking the streets of London in search for excitement.

Being two outgoing American ladies, we managed to finagle our way into a conversation that led to an invitation for pub-crawling.

Obviously this was a good plan.

Or not.

By the time the invitation was offered, we had both consumed several beverages.  The woman suggesting this great adventure was British and judging by the manner in which she kept licking her gums and disappearing into the bathroom-I’m guessing she was a little too into powdering her nose.

But no matter, her friends were fun.  They knew a club.  We chose to follow.

It was on the trek to the establishment when my cousin and I fell behind due to her fascination with the phone booths.  Well, that and my obsession with spotting a fox.

I know what you’re thinking, but hear me out.

Wild foxes roam about London.  Seriously.

I saw one in front of the National Gallery one day that stopped traffic.  The thing was so tame it wandered up to a woman on her cell phone and started sniffing her shoes.  She glanced down expecting to see a dog, but found a red-furred carnivore lazily seeking sandwich crumbs.

So while my cousin sought out Hogwarts’ finest, I set about looking under parked cars for Robin Hood.

It took us some time to catch up to the others.

By the time we did we could no longer locate our sniffing companion.

Not that it mattered.  The club was interesting and full of characters.  I talked to a man who claimed to have seven toes on one foot.  She managed to get herself tangled up in a conversation where she attempted to convince a British chap that she was speaking with a proper English accent.

She didn’t succeed and I didn’t get a proper toe reveal.

As the club grew stale, she and I wandered back outside in search of a taxi and the warmth of our beds.  Giggling in the car, we came to the conclusion that we’d just started our own Christmas tradition.  Forget roast goose, with pub-crawling, wizard-seeking, and near fox-spotting this was true holiday bonding.

If Dickens was watching, I’m sure he was proud.

Buckets of bird, battlefields, and my hunger for vengence

Eating drumsticks makes me feel like I’m in an epic movie.

sponsor of middle earth

I imagine myself roaming fields littered with orcs, monsters, dragons, and other fantastical beasts while ripping the flesh off the bone with my teeth.

Which is why this is not the greatest food for me to eat in front of other people.

I just get too excited.

Every bite bursts forth an orchestral soundtrack, images of battles, mead, and big-breasted barmaids.  Usually in this scenario I picture myself in worn armor, unsheathed sword in one hand, drumstick in the other.  Blood and dirt streaked across my cheek, head of a beast underneath my mighty foot.

Needless to say, this makes trips to KFC a bit awkward.

Thank God for delivery.

Now it’s just the one witness who stands by in silence while I hand over payment in a velvet-pouch.  Shaking the hand of the good man who ventured forth to bring me the feast, I nod my head in somber gratitude for all those who fell during whichever flick I’ve had playing in the background.  Smiling greedily, I then take the bucket of bird into my private lair for consumption.

Tonight, for all who fought against Mordor, Lord Voldemort, Troy, and the Sheriff of Nottingham (both animated and Alan Rickman)-I raise this leg to you.

Good eve, bloggers.  Good eve.