story of my life

A cartoon from this week's New Yorker...

heat wave

from hotpixel on flickr

It's the hottest July on record here in New York City. Clothing sticks to people's bodies as they walk around on steaming streets. What at first may seem like a light, refreshing rain turns out to be air conditioner drippings. The dark, airless subways are hot like hell. Instead of throwing out the ice left over from cold drinks, every bit of cold is sucked on and relished.

I haven't worn pants in weeks.

Good things about the heat wave:
Not feeling bad about running the fan all night. Indulging in lots of sorbet. Spending lots of time in clothing stores and bookstores and libraries and movie theaters. Sleeping nearly naked. My skin looks great from all the water I've been drinking.

Bad things about the heat wave:
Wasting energy. Sweat stains and a perpetual sweat-stache. I haven't been to yoga in weeks. Swollen feet. Spending money in aforementioned air conditioned places.

As much as I don't want summer to end, I would love a respite from 95-degree days. Mother Nature, are you listening?

futbol

from boston.com

I am going through withdrawal. It has been just over a week, and yet I am at a loss as to what to do with myself. The FIFA World Cup, my friends. Alas, it is over.

No more screaming at the television for poor calls from referees. No more adrenaline rushes from a particularly stellar play. No more watching the game streaming on Univision, listening to the Mexican announcers yell "GOOOOOL!" until the air in their lungs runs out. No more drinking before noon. No more ogling the bodies of the most physically attractive men in the world. (You like how I got progressively more shallow there?)

The best game I saw, in terms of crowd atmosphere and overall outcome of the match? US vs. Algeria, hands down. The scene: Dempsey's, an Irish pub in the East Village. 10 AM. A long, tense game, what with all of Team USA's missed scoring opportunities. And then...THEN! The entire place (actually, most of 2nd avenue) exploded when Landon Donovan's ball found the net. What a celebration! Nothing compared to the gatherings in town squares in European metropolises, but still. Mayhem. Absolute, glorious mayhem.

I cannot wait for 2014.

play it again, sam

(from istanton on flickr)

You know those first few hours after you've watched a particularly engaging or compelling movie or play? Those hours where everything seems to be moving more slowly, where everything mundane suddenly seems that much more dramatic, where you can't help but imagine your own life in the context of said movie or play? No?

Maybe it's just me.

I remember, when I was little, coming home from the ballet, say, or a musical. I would go up to my little v-shaped room and twirl around, make faces in the mirror, pretending I, too, was a star. But there have been--there are--more pensive reactions. It's a sort of coma, almost. I watched Grey Gardens tonight. Not the best movie, but it did provoke a similar sort of feeling. Everything seems more alive, more important... It is a sort of dream world, I suppose. But I love this feeling. I feel creative.

So I will write.

if you like piña coladas

(from weheartit.com)

The other night, I was walking home a little past midnight after a few pleasant hours spent celebrating birthdays. The sky was a deep blue, almost black--but became purple every time a lightning bolt flashed across. All of a sudden, I heard a whooshing sound behind me and smelled the first few raindrops. It's both creepy and wonderful to see or hear the rain behind you, but to not feel it yet. I whipped out my umbrella just in the nick of time, just before it started to really pour. Hurricane, even. Maybe 'monsoon' would be a better word choice.

Instead of grumbling about getting soaked, though (and soaked I did indeed become), I loved every minute of my walk home in that warm summer thunderstorm. The smell and the mist were unbelievably refreshing. For the last few blocks, I closed my umbrella and turned my face upward, towards the sky. There was no one on the street--everyone had taken refuge in doorways. They probably thought I was crazy.

So be it.

experiences: summertime yoga

(from NamWizard on flickr)

Yoga is, in my belief, one of the best things you can do for yourself. Not only is it a good workout, strengthening the core and toning muscles, but it is also a test of emotional stamina. Finding balance, in many poses, requires immense concentration and focus. The end of the practice is both a relief and a moment of suspension. You have finished the workout, but you have not yet rejoined the world outside the yoga studio. The real world. It's a very pure, raw moment.

I went to candlelit yoga tonight, by myself. It's rare that I go to the studio by myself; yoga has become a very social "sport," if you will, the "cool" thing to do. But tonight I mustered up enough motivation to go alone. Summertime yoga is intense. The heat and humidity of the day weigh heavily in the air, and once 60+ bodies begin to move in sync, sweat droplets begin to form. They grow bigger during chair pose, forming rivulets that run down the back, the face, the bare legs. I used to hate breaking a sweat--but now it feels good. It feels good to know that my body is working, and it feels like I am doing something good for my body.

What is wonderful about yoga, at least the way it is practiced at the studio I go to, is that you can go at your own pace. You can take a break when you need to (and boy, did I need to). You can make any sorts of weird noises that you want. When the going gets rough, it is so liberating to be able to release a huge sigh or groan and not be judged for it.

The last few minutes of class find me practically glued to the mat, panting. We are able to take these last moments and go into any pose we'd like--so I go into my supported shoulderstand. My body is tired, dripping with sweat, but my pose is unfaltering. My concentration has not yet been broken. Finally, the teacher opens the windows, and a cool breeze comes floating through the room, and with it, some raindrops and relief. A quote is read:

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves."
-from Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

Together, we breathe one last breath. As we exhale, the Tibetan singing bowls are played, and the sound rings and echoes in my head for a few seconds after the teacher has stopped. The first few notes of an Iron & Wine song come floating from the speakers in the back, and the first few tears from a hidden well in the back, somewhere, float their way down my face.

boys and girls

(from i am tough via weheartit)

Last night, I was watching Say Anything, which I'd never seen before. I loved it, of course. I love eighties movies, despite the horrendous haircuts and ridiculous outfits. Perhaps, more specifically, I should say that I love eighties teen movies. There is something very honest about the relationships portrayed in those movies (like Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, etc.) Something honest, something real. Untouched by the media-saturated 21st century and the jaded-ness (if that's a word) that has come with it.

Anyway, one particular scene in the movie just made my molecules tingle and my whole body smile and ache for someone to love me. Perhaps an overreaction. Perhaps. If you've seen the movie, it's the scene in which Lloyd and Diane are in the backseat of the car, by the beach, at night, the waves crashing onto the rocks. Making out, obviously. Obviously. But for those who haven't, what made me love this movie was the dialogue within this scene. Simply put, Diane asks Lloyd why he's shivering. Is he cold? No. Then why?

"I don't know. Because I'm happy."

I died. I melted into a little puddle of endorphins and I died. Have you ever been so happy that you couldn't stop shivering? What a lovely feeling. And so beautiful. So human.

Despite the fact that interacting with people you're attracted to is nerve-wracking, how beautiful is that adrenaline coursing through your veins? You're alive, you're into someone, you love someone, you're putting yourself out there. It's a wonderful thing.

** Special thanks go out to two gentlemen who also inspired me to write this post: to the waiter who could not stop nervously fiddling with the postcards while asking me out, and to the old friend back home whose voice shook when he made some valiant efforts at flirting with me, I thank you. I thank you, and I love you. I need to be more like you and get the guts to talk to someone that I like.
** Also, Jim and Pam.