The Mother-in-Law of Deaf
For most people, summertime means enjoying time outside, in the sunshine. Well, maybe not this year so much … but usually.
Some people like to do things like hike the West Coast Trail, or go para-sailing, or bungee-jumping. Others, like me, prefer to pick berries. Perhaps swim in calm water, and then dry off in the sun, with a book. And possibly a glass of wine.
But I’ve taken my share of risks. Glad I did ’em, even gladder I’m done ’em.
For example: Many, many years ago, my husband and I took our staff on a white-water rafting expedition, a team-building/summer party sort of idea. Unfortunately, none of us had ever done this before, and we had no idea what those numbers – Class 1, Class 5 – meant, in terms of danger. For the record, the higher the number, the greater the likelihood of violent death.
Ours was a Class 4-5.
We didn’t figure this out until we’d already driven the three hours it took to get there, undressed in front of a group of hippies, squirmed into our wet suits, signed the waiver stating that we understood any mishap would render our life insurance null and void, leaving our children impoverished orphans, and then listened to the instructions on what to do when – not IF but WHEN! – we got thrown out of the raft, dragged underwater and lodged behind a snag.
Oh well, in for a penny and all that.
The very first thing they did was dump each of us into the lake, so we’d be wet before hitting the river. Now, it was probably around 30 degrees C in the valley, but this is a glacier-fed lake, high up in the mountains. The water was the kind of cold that makes your innards shrivel, your lungs contract, your entire body seize. And this wearing a wet suit. Then, once you’re good and wet, muscles frozen, they tell you to climb back in the raft.
Right. I can’t move enough to stay afloat but I’m going to haul myself up and into a raft.
So, they grabbed me by my wet suit and dragged me back in, like a wounded manatee. The humiliation. Once we were all sufficiently drenched, quaking and aware of our own human frailty, it was time for the fun to begin!
The guide on our raft was an Aussie (aren’t they all??) with a delicious accent, who kept yelling at us whenever we weren’t paddling hard enough. I was having enough trouble hanging on, let alone paddling, so I got yelled at a lot.
Being a good guide and understanding the relationship of entertainment value to his tip, he’d named all the various rapids. The Roller Coaster. The Dragon. The Swirly Whirly. As we came up to each one, he’d call out the name, and then add “OF DEATH.” As in, “Alrighty mates, paddle harder, here comes… THE MOTHER-IN-LAW … OF DEATH!
But, with his accent, it sounded like he was saying DEAF instead of DEATH. And despite the likelihood of our own imminent DEAF, we kept laughing at him. And maybe because of the laughter, we ended up enjoying the day, even THE MOTHER-IN-LAW OF DEAF!!
I can say with certainty that I will never go on such a trip again, but I’m awfully glad I did it.
Mostly, I’m glad we all survived.
Day 86 Say NO to Sniffing!
We had a sniffer in class today. You know the kind. We’re all lying in Savasana, waiting for the class to start. The silence in the room is broken only by the soft trickle of the humidifiers and the occasional rustle of people adjusting their mats.
Then… sniff, sniff. Snork, snert, sniff.
Pause.
Sniff-sniff-sniff. Rapid-fire. Like a Beagle on scent. Not a productive sort of sniff, which although grosser, at least one can understand. This was the unnecessary nervous-tic sort of sniff. Or maybe it was the type of sniff you do when there’s a dry booger way up high that’s driving you nuts, but it won’t dislodge by blowing, so you try to suck it back up into your brain instead.
Personally, I think it was an attention-getting sniff. A cry for help, if you will.
A damp towel applied firmly over mouth and nose for a few minutes, I thought. That would help.
I had to grip onto my inner peace with both fists, I tell you, because that’s the sort of thing to drive me right postal. I lifted my head to see if I could identify the culprit. (Why? What difference would it make? Would I really attack her with my towel? I have no answers…)
Snerkle-sniff.
Breathe-in. Breathe-out. Do not sit up and yell, “For God’s sake, get a tissue!”
What is it with people who do things like this? (The sniffer I mean, not me, the psycho-reactor.) Are they completely unaware of the fact that they are making the only – and certainly the most unpleasant – sound in the room? Are they deaf?
Perhaps I have nasal-mucous issues, I’m willing to admit the possibility. After all, I grew up blocking out the sound of my dad gargling on his own post-nasal drip, and still gag at the thought.
Sniff-sniff.
So, okay, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the only one getting irritated. Big picture, let it go, don’t sweat the small sniffs…
Then the woman next to me let out an overly deep breath. And another one cleared her throat, rather deliberately.
Coincidence? Maybe. The class started then, effectively shutting down the sniffer, so we’ll never know.
But I choose to believe that I’m not alone with my sniff-issues.
Day 80 110 Percent?
Uh, not when the thermometer says 110 degrees.
I’ve had some pretty strong days lately, I’m happy to say. I’ve given it my best effort and am making progress. Can straighten both legs (momentarily at least) in Standing-Head-to-Knee. The clicks and pops in my hips now occur at a much deeper stretch. My backward bends are getting much deeper – without pain. (“You want that stretching-pain sensation,” they say. “Back’s gonna hurt like hell,” they say. Well, unless I’m having a baby, I do not push through pain, I don’t care how long you studied in India.)
But today I was dripping before the class even started. Hot flash? I wondered. Malaria? Denge Fever? I simply cannot be this hot already.
Since hot flashes are pretty much a given these days, I lay back in Savasana, closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Drops of sweat trickled down my temples and into my ears. My limbs were slick and shiny, my clothes sticky, my towel damp.
All this, I’d like to emphasize, before the class even began!
I managed the standing series, but then when we hit the floor, I just sort of … stopped. I haven’t done that since the early days of my practice but I’m trying to be yogi-ish, so I allowed myself to do what my body instructed, and just observed the sensations.
Here are my observations:
The air entering my lungs felt thick, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen. The floor felt hot. The walls felt hot, shrinking around me. (Oh dear, that sounds like claustrophobia.) I could smell the breath of the woman behind me. (It reminded me of my long-dead grandmother and hers was not a generation that valued oral hygiene.) I could feel the thud-thud-thud of my pulse in my ears, matching the steady drip-drip-drip of sweat from my now wringing-wet top onto the towel. My mat squished like a sponge when I moved, so I stopped moving.
At some point I stopped observing and simply waited for it to end. I skipped the deepest backward bend and deepest forward bend. Camel makes me feel panicky at the best of times, and Rabbit, well, I could see choking on my own stench, then drowning in the sweat dripping up my nose, too tired to figure out how to get out of the posture.
A couple of people left the room today, which hasn’t happened in quite awhile, too. At least it wasn’t just me.
When I saw the temperature, when we were finally done, it all made sense.
“It’s not really 110 degrees,” Angela said, smiling indulgently at me. She hadn’t even broken a gentle glow. Usually the teachers are at least a bit red-faced by the end. She looked fresh and dewy as a daisy.
“Okay then, 120.” If she wasn’t so sweet, I’d have decked her. “Whatever, it was freakin’ hot.”
Someone setting up for the next class overheard me.
“Yeah,” he added with a worried frown, “it feels a little … soupy… in there.”
The only thing worse than doing yoga in 110 degree heat?
Being in the class right after.