Hi all, if you’re getting this blog post, you may have read my column on elephant journal. I love you.
This is the place I can say whatever I want without the fun police shitting all over my writing. I almost feels like a teenager who’s parents are out of town. And right now I’m home, watching a stupid Jennifer Aniston movie and while I should be thinking about what to write next for elephant, I’m ruminating on what I’ve already put out there.
I wrote a piece last year I really love: “Why Men Are So Dastardly Fetching,” an homage to gorgeous, three piece suit wearing, cigar smoking manly men everywhere. You know, the sweetly old fashioned, Cary Grant type. And it was my first experience in an avalanche of shocking, anger-fueled backlash, with cute little phrases like “sexist clap trap.” I’m insulting and cruel, it’s “no surprise here that you’re still single,” (erroneous) and one of my favorites: “You want your man to take charge? What are you going to do once he starts beating the shit out of you?” Word for word. WOW.
Maybe I should have called it “Retrograde Gender Enforcement,” like one dude. My response to all the Negative Nelly’s? “Get over yourselves. There’s nothing less manly than a man acting like a fucking infant. Go rent some Steve McQueen movies and figure it out.” Damn, I was mad that day. Sooo not sorry for that one.
Was I pissed? Oh, yeah. Did I quit? Hell, no.
I kept writing. I wrote about snarky bastards in my class, and sleaze balls who hit on girls at yoga. Just last week, I wrote “Dirty Little Secrets of a Yoga Teacher.” Hey Carmen, if you’re out there, watch your typos before you leave me an inane, unreadable comments like this: “Grow up! And…YOGA is an adorable way to body and mind….connection. Learn! Educate yourself! This lady IT IS NOT –a Yoga— instructor. Namaste.” I can’t figure out if you’re 12, or if you’re drunk.
What were you expecting? Some unoriginal, feel good piece called “How Yoga Increases Flexibility & Calms The Mind?” I’m gagging.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I love writing for elephant. They have a sense of humor, and they let me get away with a lot. However, I’ve learned people really don’t like it when you come off bitter and arrogant when it comes to relationships, and especially when it comes to yoga…
Here’s the thing:
>>It’s almost 2014. None of us live in a cave in the Himalayas. You might be reading this on your 128GB IPad Air in which case, I’m jealous. My point is, yoga saved my soul, but stuff still gets to me. It’s a good thing I have lifetimes ahead of me to figure it out.
>>I’m from L.A. The yoga climate here tends to lean toward the vapid and the ridiculous. But I love it.
>>I would say it’s all just words and musings, and that it’s nothing to get all worked up about. But the truth is, words are powerful. It’s F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words that made me want to write in the first place. It’s Henry Rollins’ poetry that inspires me. It’s my old Shakespeare anthology I can see on my shelf that makes me smile. My dad was a writer, and his notes still stick out from the pages he bookmarked.
I kept writing. I wrote about rude people in yoga class, I spilled some dirty secrets about teaching yoga, and I wrote about a fucked up L.A. chick who finally grew up, even though it was the absolute last thing she wanted to do.
I wrote about my first album I ever bought (Led Zeppelin IV), my first boyfriend and my first love. I wrote a piece called “Dirty Annie, Raspy Poem.” I wrote about my husband, who I worship. No better man has ever walked the earth.
I wrote about the day my mom died, and the day I got married. Both these things happened, in that order, within three months of each other last year.
Sometimes I don’t feel so fearless when I write, and it’s not because you may disagree with me, or you tell me I’m an angry fucking brat as you’re shaking your fist in the air, screaming about how you’re going to unsubscribe to elephant journal. (I’ve gotten that one too, more than once.) But I’m pushing against that fear with everything I’ve got. It’ll work out. I do plenty of Chaturangas.
And now that it’s 11:40 at night, I’m going back to finding something clever to say while I wait up for my husband to get home.
What do you guys think?
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