Selfish Sharing

I sense my co-workers consider me generous for sharing my food. If they do, they are mistaken about my motives; I share for purely selfish reasons.

I’m a fairly healthy eater, and I consume a lot of produce. When at work, I typically eat an apple or a pear every afternoon and, typically, I dissect the fruit into bite-sized chunks. Upon arranging the chunks on a plate, I stroll from cubicle to cubicle, tempting my co-workers like Snow White’s witch. Sometimes I even encourage Alicia to snag seconds. Usually she does. My co-workers thank me as I make my rounds. I feel good about myself.

But what Alicia, Pete, Traci and Eliza don’t realize about my handouts is this: They are simply a means of mitigating my own future discomfort. Because as much as I love produce, produce does not reciprocate. Instead, produce ties my intestines into tight coils that build and bulge and bide their time until they can unfurl at only the most inappropriate times – namely, during group exercise classes. All that jumping and bouncing and bending is quite dangerous post-pear, and I’ve learned to limit my produce intake on downward dogging days so as to avoid any unnecessary clenching of buttocks.

The sweaty shirtless guy in last night’s Vinyasa Yoga class must keep all his pear chunks to himself. During my favorite pose, Shavasana, or “Corpse Pose,” he released a mighty wind, a thunderclap loud enough to rouse the dead. He certainly roused me from my meditations, deep ruminating thoughts on subjects such as whether my yoga pants make my butt look big and whether there was enough leftover spaghetti for dinner. My eyelids snapped open. I waited for the ensuing laughter, but nobody – not even the 6-year-old yoga prodigy accompanying her mother – snickered. The room remained silent, an unnatural silence suddenly devoid of the twiggy gray-haired lady’s throaty breathing and the neon tights girl’s coughing. Oh, mortification, Sweaty Shirtless Guy! Staring at the ceiling, I thanked the heavens my own musical fruit remained unplayed.  

I don’t want to be that guy.     

So, I ask you, Alicia: What’ll it be tomorrow? Bosc or Bartlett? Fuji or Gala? You pick. I’ll serve.

"Princess Grace" attempts yoga

I once read an article in which Jennifer Aniston credited yoga for the remarkably toned body she presented on the cover of “GQ” – the cover in which she’s covered in nothing but a man’s tie. I would have guzzled Smartwater or bathed in seaweed-infused Aveeno lotion if she had attributed those abs to either product. Either would have been preferable. Yoga, however, is not fun.

The goal

I seem to have a selective memory when it comes to yoga. Before class, I remember only Aniston’s abs. It’s not until sweat is blinding my eyes, my muscles are quivering uncontrollably to maintain a plank and I’m begging the hands of the clock to advance that I recall just how not fun this activity is and vowing never to subject myself to such torture again.

Beyond the “fun factor,” my aversion to pigeon poses and peacock postures is two-fold:

1. I’m hopelessly inept at meditation and…
2. I don’t possess a molecule of coordination, balance or flexibility in my entire body.

Let’s begin with the first, my ineptitude at meditation. My mind is forever leaping from topic to topic, flatly refusing to settle on any specific one. “Wow, that girl has gorgeous layers in her hair.” “Please God, don’t let this overzealous yogi fall on me.” “Crap. Once again, my razor missed that freakishly long ankle hair.” These are real, paramount concerns that have occupied my brain during yoga class. The Buddhists have an official name for such insanity, “Monkey Mind.”

As for coordination, balance and flexibility, the Winslow family’s share of these gifts was exhausted on my sister, the gymnast. In fact, my parents liked to refer to childhood me as “Princess Grace” to emphasize just how ungraceful I was. I’m still lanky and awkward and cannot for the life of me reach my toes or split beyond a 30-degree angle. Years of playing soccer have demonstrated my propensity to simply lurch over when challenged with the ball, a defense mechanism that might be tied to the weight of my notoriously large head; like a reverse roly poly toy, I topple head-first.

Yet, despite all these personal defects, I’m willing to give yoga a go. I joined this gym, so gosh darnnit, I will take advantage of my membership even if “Crazed Monkey” pose kills me. Lately, my poison of choice is Vinyasa, a yoga discipline with an undeniably impressive-sounding name whose meaning completely eludes me.

Edwina, the Vinyasa instructor, fits the typical yoga instructor stereotype: willowy with a hank of long, blonde, kinky surfer girl hair gathered loosely behind her head. She has sleepy Greta Garbo eyes, but her delivery is undeniably perky; She smiles through every instruction, a kindergarten teacher’s grin in her voice.

“Be the observer or the witness and forget the judge.”

Edwina has a habit of saying crazy things like that, nonsensical utterances that furrow my brow and monopolize my Monkey Mind as I struggle to understand just what the heck she means. As it is, I have trouble enough associating the correct pose with whatever tongue-twister name she flawlessly rolls off her tongue. The exception is the forward bend, the one called “Uttanasana.” I typically remember that one because it sounds like “puttanesca” when Edwina says it and never fails to make me hungry.

The reality (about to topple over)

If the other students share my general confusion, they don’t let on. I closely observe them through straddled legs or under an armpit so as to position my appendages accordingly.

Invariably, there’s one student who manages to wrap her legs around her head and balance on her nose. For awhile, that distinction belonged to a 50-year-old woman with slate-gray hair. Her favorite trick involved standing on one leg and folding the other until she could grasp her big toe. Then she would straighten the folded leg until its foot reached her head. Lately the class show-off is a 30-something dude whose yoga wardrobe consists of breezy drawstring pants and a sizeable wood medallion necklace. He’s Caucasian but has the tight-cropped hair and the mental concentration of a Buddhist monk. He bends and splits like no man should be able to bend and split. Naturally, I hate him.

“Take a rounded breath to honor your devotional.”

Someone in Edwina’s class takes all this breathing stuff a tad too seriously; his haggard, Darth Vader gasps drown out the rhythmic exhalations of all the other students, the gentle background music – even the rumble of semi tractor trailers buzzing past the studio window. I must know who’s responsible for that cacophonous clamor, and so instead of honoring my devotional, I crane my neck every which way in a vain effort to pinpoint the source. I’ve narrowed down the suspects to Red Bandana Man and Shirtless Man-Boobs Guy, the sweaty specimen who brandishes his butt crack with every Parivrtta Anjaneyasana, or “Revolved Lunge.”

Is yoga-ing shirtless socially acceptable? I wouldn’t know. I’m still completely baffled by female yoga attire and the correct combination of yoga pants and undergarments. So far, all signs point to “thong,” but I refuse to exercise in butt floss. The alternative is granny panties, but I can’t wear granny panties without everyone knowing I’m wearing granny panties (damn underwear lines). For a while, I obstinately stuck to my reliable soccer shorts, but that wardrobe choice required exposure of my blindingly white thighs whenever I raised my legs into the air and a commitment to regular leg shaving I’m just not prepared to make.

The solution, I’ve discovered, is strategic selection of the yoga studio floor. My preferred real estate is in the very back of the room where no one can observe how my underwear carves my butt cheeks into four equal pie pieces. If I’m lucky, I manage to squeeze into the far back corner, ideal for ping ponging off the walls whenever Edwina wants us to balance on one foot and I wobble back and forth like a drunk flamingo. This past Tuesday, she suggested we use the wall to improve the angle of our standing splits. At the time, I happened to be Downward Dogging it beside a window and when I thrust my left leg into the air, I narrowly avoided shattering the glass. Luckily, my big toe caught the window ledge on the way down, and I hung there until Edwina spoke again.

“Imagine: Your connective tissues are lubricated and happy.”

Huh?

My connective tissues collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Admittedly, there are a few parts of Vinyasa class I do like. I enjoy Edwina’s selection of Indie Rock, enough to surreptitiously “Shazam” a song with my iPhone once her back is turned (here's the strangely titled "Friends Make Garbage (Good Friends Take It Out)," by Low Roar. It's ethereal.) My favorite yoga position is Shavasana, which loosely translates to “Corpse Pose” and involves the incredibly technical act of lying flat on one’s back for up to 10 minutes at a time. Surely with hard work and dedication I’ll Shavasana my way to my own set of six-pack abs. At least that’s what Jennifer Aniston promised me.

A letter to my hard-working husband

Dear Matt,

I know you had to go to the Big Apple (or whatever you code monkeys call the manufacturer of that iPhone gadget) on Wednesday and earn money to support my unemployed butt, but you must come to the next Morning Gloryville with me. Here’s why:

Megan & Brice

My first rave began at 6:30 a.m. and ended at 10:30 a.m. Alcohol and drugs (which, I hear, is a rave “thing”) were noticeably absent. Instead, baristas served up kale smoothies and quinoa bowls. Our friends, 7-foot tall Brice and his adorable wife, Kelsey, wore multi-colored tights and skin-tight gold pants – though not necessarily in that order. I wore fishnet stockings and that $3 combat helmet I scored at Goodwill.

You may not believe it, but this Morning Gloryville movement, in which techies, hipsters and freaks alike pulsate before work at an early morning extravaganza, is actually quite fun. It’s a raveolution – or so I’m told.

You know full well that San Franciscans are accustomed to the unusual. Yet even in the Mission District, “morning unusual” is borderline unique; Our little trio turned some heads as we strutted past the coffee-guzzling suits ensconced in Starbucks on our way to 2050 Bryant Street.

“Where you going?!” one puzzled sidewalk denizen shouted after us.

“To a dance party!” (Obviously. We were much too peppy for the Walk of Shame.)

Brice & Kelsey

Of course my clubbing experience is limitless, but even I must admit I’ve only seen venues like this Inner Mission place in the movies -- and on “Sex and the City” (as you know, those girls know how to party!). Let me describe the scene for you: A former factory in a row of former factories, the space was 10,000 square feet of dance floor with surprisingly clean – Aunt Audrey would say “edible” – restrooms. A second-story, saloon-style interior balcony supported a set of false-front buildings used for some kind of bawdy and, unfortunately, recently concluded circus performance known as “The Soiled Dove.” There was even a coat check (because that’s the kind of high-class place this was). 

If there’s a rave “dress code,” my experience at Inner Mission indicates it’s something like this: skin-tight pants for men and skin-tight leggings or metallic unitards for women. Bras, underwear and shoes are superfluous. Glitter, piercings, neon hair and blue eye shadow are musts. I know that by saying this I risk securing your attendance to a future rave, but remember the neon green wig, stuffed Hooters shirt and wings get-up you wore to Guavaween 2005? Wear that, and you’ll fit right in. The hunky specimen who checked our names off the invite list – and by “invite list” I mean a printout of customers like me who purchased a $20 ticket – wore skin-tight pants and wings. I tell you, if there was a line of male Victoria’s Secret Angels, this dude would surely make the cut. (Note to self: must bring sister next time).

If there’s a rave “dance style,” my experience at Inner Mission indicates it involves flowy arms and shifting one’s weight from foot to foot. That’s good, because even I could do that, and I am pretty confident you could too. Or there's always scrambling atop one of those wobbly circus pedestals and shaking your booty. Between shakes of my own, I tossed in a few “Sailor Steps,” my go-to move at those 60+ line dancing classes I’m always telling you about.

A male Victoria's Secret Angel?!

Brice and Kelsey immediately succumbed to a rhythmic trance in perfect beat with the DJ’s electronic tuneage. Not wishing to disturb them, I weaved in and out of the dancers on a quest to compile as many snapshots for you as possible. You’re going to love the pics of the male biker in the shredded pleather pants and the gyrating Elisabeth Shue-meets-Smurfette sprite who latched onto Brice’s tutu-wearing co-worker. When I encountered Toulouse-Lautrec in a pink faux fur vest and his friend, cod piece bulging in a pair of white boxer briefs, I insisted on a group photo. (You may notice the framed image adorning our mantle.)

Let me tell you, raving is hard work. Hard, sweaty work. You’re going to want to wear plenty of deodorant – and not that wimpy Tom’s of Maine crap. I know the scent of patchouli makes you gag, but you’ll undoubtedly prefer inhaling some of that sweet hippie tang to the Eau de Stank most everyone else (yours truly included) oozes after two hours on the dance floor. Close your eyes and embrace the whiff.

Now for breakfast, you must try the chia pudding. I know. I too thought those seeds were just for ceramic pets, but their puddified version has a nice, nutty texture. The baristas from Thistle serve it up with almond milk, cashews and cocao nibs – whatever the heck those are! 

With "Toulouse" & "Cod Piece"

When you grow tired of dancing, head over to the acrobatic yoga room, hula hoop your heart out or face plant for a massage (all three activities are included in the ticket price). I noticed it’s not unusual for five or six masseuses to simultaneously knead a single body, so don’t be alarmed to feel a dozen or so groping hands upon your posterior. Just listen to the thumping bass and drift peacefully off to sleep. 

“Going to that event makes me really want to dye my hair blue and get a cartilage piercing,” Kelsey said on our way back to Silicon Valley.

You must join us next time and experience that brand of post-rave clarity for yourself. But, if not, I’m pretty sure my sister's ready and willing.

Your loving wife,

Megan

Note to my readers: Despite any (attempt at) sarcasm you may have detected in the this “letter,” I truly enjoyed my Morning Gloryville experience, and I would happily go again. Thanks to Brice and Kelsey for allowing me to tag along! We’ll get Matt to show up eventually – even if we have to hogtie him.