Cold and Hot

The biggest compliment I ever get is, “Hey, write something again, already.” Actually, it’s not the BIGGEST compliment. That one is awarded to a certain teenager who thinks his charm will be compensated with unlimited egg sandwiches and brownie sundaes. “Britt… have you lost weight?” Sit down, kiddo, I’ve got steaks for dinner. A similar kindness was delivered during Curriculum Night Cocktail Hour, which is a thing… a very good thing. Sweet, funny, cool, brilliant Michelle reminded me that I have this little virtual journal over here that’s been languishing in the back-to-school hubbub. Michelle encouraging me to write was a compliment, indeed… and she’s not even expecting egg sandwiches.

And now I find myself with some time. I’m currently shivering in a Chicago hotel room waiting for my thermostat to win the battle against refrigerated public spaces. I loathe air-conditioning nearly as much as spin class. Even air travel is a dreaded, trapped eternity where we are squeezed into small spaces and kept chilled like Diet Cokes in a Coleman. As I wait for the room temperature to approach room temperature, I’m fondly reminiscing about my last hot yoga class. Yes, exercise and “fondly” in the same sentence. That is how much I love being hot.

Vinyasa flow landing on Yom Kippur meant most of a local high school girls soccer team could trade Trig and turf to downward dog with a room full of moms who take this class for far more frequent, physical atonement. We couldn’t help ourselves from asking them who they were. It’s unusual to see physically perfect teenagers with high ponytails and borrowed mats at the 9:15 class, filling our quiet sanctuary with poorly stifled giggles and chitchat. But goodness, they were beautiful: bursting with youth and vigor and everything-ahead-of-them-ness. It was hard not to stare at them, harder still to not want to be them for just one humidified hour in clingy clothes. Finally, places were found, the room quieted, the yogi said his ridiculous yogi things (fodder for another post), and class began.

And the girls… those toned and tanned and lovely girls… they SUCKED. And it was delightful. They were inflexible and off balance, mock chagrined and truly embarrassed. Their make-fun-of-this stage whispering we could all hear was another bonus. Young pretty soccer girls were flailing and falling and flummoxed by exercises minivan moms and AARP cardholders do regularly, with ease. There was sweet beauty in that. I wondered if the other 9:15 regulars were having similarly ungenerous, stay-in-your-lane thoughts as we toweled off in shared spaces. Or, maybe other people who do yoga aren’t horrible people. But it was my favorite power hour ever… even with the far too many ohms at the end.

I hope all of us went back to closets and mirrors and scales with a little more kindness toward our (older) selves. How odd to look through the eyes of girls in their own physical prime and find ourselves elevated in the comparison, if for only one morning on a hot mat. It’s a big enough compliment to reward yourself with an egg sandwich. Bagel. Extra cheese.

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One of the reasons I do hot yoga…

Traveling with Asians

If you didn’t know me super well, you might think I like to travel. Those of you who know me well already did the spit-take on that idea. Bernie and I are big old crabs on the zodiac and prefer the couch to any castle or cathedral. Air travel is disgusting, and the world is still a bit unprepared for the (gasp) interracial couple. I’m used to being waved away from my family with a chipper offer to extricate me from these Asians: “Ma’am, I’ll take you over here!” But this week, traveling home from a week abroad, a French couple actually inserted themselves between me and my children right there in the security queue.

TSA checks are such an enormous stress bummer. I’ve already written oodles of times how it’s additionally fraught for the cancer-ed as a pseudo-scanner reveals our fake bits to everyone on the other side of it. But no one enjoys being berated for forgetting to take out the laptop or being an idiot with liquids while exposing feet and midriffs to surly uniformed staff and impatient (French) travelers who sigh loudly because you have children or difficult buckles or a watch. I was diligently getting all of my things in order when this over-tall and stylish couple pushed my tray back a few feet and plopped their carry-ons right in front of mine.

“What sort of brazen assholery is this?” I asked with my entire face but, you know, not out loud. TSA was blasé. TSA was probably preoccupied with the single dad ahead whose boys packed every electronic they own to go to Europe. Honest to God, Teddy brought a full size keyboard and a gigantic microphone to Barcelona.

To be fair, I don’t look my children. But it takes only 12 seconds of observation to see that I might be associated with or employed by them. Also, while traveling, Teddy is unrelenting with rhetorical questions and observations that include an introductory so Mom? so Mom? Mom? Mom? followed by a dissertation about European urinals or stage whisper wondering if that guy totally just farted or inexhaustibly explaining why his bracket is winning. You know, the sort of charming chitchat you save for your mère. But even when they are exasperating, I still hug them tight and touch their perfect faces. It should be plain that they are mine mine mine.

In June we’re going to Taiwan and probably Japan and possibly Korea–with the kiddos and my in laws. I need matching travel clothes. In the bottom of drawers all of us have I LOVE TAIWAN t-shirts. (Of course we do.) It might be a bit like wearing the ears to Disney Land, but hey, maybe it’ll keep the French from cutting the line.

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Duh. They’re totally MINE.