Wanna See Where I Can Put My Leg?

Can I just take a second to brag about the fact that I can do this?

Kirby is not impressed.

I'm here to tell you, friends, that yoga is the shit. A few years ago I could barely touch my toes, and now I can fold myself in half like a damn tea towel. And so, I have decided to present to you, in list form, all the reasons you should stop spending your time however it is you spend it and start practicing yoga.

1. Yoga is whatever you want it to be. If you need to relax and ground yourself, you can do a gentle hatha class that stretches you out in a low-stress way. If you want to sweat until you think you will die, you can do an ashtanga class. Whenever my muscles are tense and painful, instead of getting a massage (I'm an actor, people, I can't afford that crap) I do some yoga. Fixes me asap.

2. It can be a killer work out. A lot of people think yoga is all about bending and stretching and feeling your feelings. Well, it is. (And that's important. Flexibility is imperative to healthy joints and injury prevention, and very few other forms of exercise practiced in the Western world work on flexibility. And feelings are, you know, feelings.) But yoga also builds some hardcore muscles. Look up picture of arm balances. Look up pictures of  utkatasana (awkward chair pose). These are very difficult poses that will leave your muscles shaking, and then sculpt them into things of beauty. Although, of course, external beauty is not the point of yoga, which brings us to...

3. Yoga (really, any kind of exercise) can give you such a great appreciation for your body. When I see my body get stronger and more flexible over time, I start to love it for what it can do, not for how it looks. Cellulite doesn't seem to matter as much when I realize that those same thighs can hold me in utkatasana for minutes at a time. I'm not gonna lie, I definitely enjoy what yoga has done for my booty's appearance, but practicing yoga has made me love my body way more than dieting, make up, and push-up bras ever could. 

4. Yoga can inspire you to eat healthier. First off, yogis tend to be a pretty health-conscious bunch, so if you hang around them enough, some of that is bound to rub off. Yoga really teaches you to be aware of your body, and listen to what it's telling you and what it needs. Once I mastered that in class, I started to listen more to what my body was telling me to eat. I already ate pretty healthily, but now I'm better at determining if my body needs protein, or veggies, or water. Instead of eating the same thing every day, I pay attention to how I feel and what my body's craving. Alternately, it's helped me to be much more conscientious about what I shouldn't eat. In the past, if I turned down junk food, it was because it was fattening. Now, I think, "If I eat four slices of pizza right now, my stomach is going to be killing me in about 30 minutes". I still eat pizza, obviously (and ice cream and beer and occasionally copious amounts of Sour Patch Kids), but my reasons for eating these things in moderation is how they will make me feel, not how they will make me look.

5. Not only does yoga bleed over into other aspects of your physical health, but it absolutely transcends the mat and moves into your psyche. Did you know that the entire point of yoga is to be able to sit in lotus pose and meditate? All the other poses are designed to limber up your body to be able to sit in that pose for hours on end. There are countless bits of wisdom that have arisen from this ancient art, but this piece is probably my favorite. When you're holding a difficult pose, the body's tendency is to tighten up, to strain against it, to fight the effort going into it. This engages more muscle, making the pose even harder, and actually blocking you from going deeper into it. Some people try to counter this by distracting themselves, thinking about anything but the discomfort they are in. Only when you acknowledge the pose with full consciousness - how difficult it is, how your muscles are burning and stretching - are you able to deepen the pose with your breath, and ease further into it (and hold it for longer) than you ever could have thought. And then, once you get out of the pose, the discomfort is almost gone. There's a lingering soreness, but within days you are stronger than you were before. And you know what? LIFE IS THE SAME FREAKING WAY! So often, when we're going through something awful, we fight with everything we can against the bad feelings we have. We do anything to avoid feeling them. Or, we pretend we aren't feeling them at all, and distract ourselves, effectually shutting ourselves off of any possibility of growth. BUT, if we allow ourselves to feel angry, sad, hurt, frightened, whatever, and force ourselves to keep on going through the pain, we come out stronger on the other side. Not only that, but by really experiencing the pain and finding a way to make it useful, we understand ourselves better, and are fully healed - and healed faster. Nothing is permanent, not even pain. 

And that is all the hippie-bullshit-psycho-babble I have for you today. To be fair, yoga isn't for everyone. If you've tried it and didn't like it, I'm not going to tie you down and om at you until you are crying in child's pose. I just think it has some really great benefits, and I think it's worth checking out. And on that note, I bid you all adieu. Namaste, bitches.

Side note: I can't really put my leg anywhere cool. I just stole that line from Shit Yogis Say. Also, I thought that title would trick more people into reading this post.

Best One Out There

I love Valentine's Day. I know people complain that it's just another Hallmark holiday, but I think it's pretty damn awesome that there's a holiday all about celebrating love. If you want to skip the commercial part, just spend time with your significant other and don't buy anything. And I've got to say, please don't be one of those Bitter Betties that hates Valentine's Day when you're single but skips around in a love-drunk haze of roses and chocolate on the years you have a beau. If you're going to hate it, at least be consistent. And if you know you only hate it because you're lonely this year, keep it to yourself and don't crap all over every happy couple's love parade.

My grandma lost her Valentine six years ago. She and my grandfather lived in neighboring apartments on Thomas Circle when they met, and got married a few months later. She was twenty, he was twenty-five. I was worried she might be missing him more than usual, so I called her up last Tuesday. We ended up talking for an hour and a half. At one point in the conversation, she mentioned a conversation with a friend about how horribly lonely it is to be the spouse left behind. Her friend asked if she would ever consider finding someone else.  She said she thought for a minute, and said, "No, because I would always be comparing. I think I really found the absolute best one out there on my first try. No one else could even come close."

After sixty years of marriage, to feel that utterly in love with someone? That's what I'm holding out for.

10 Cool Things About This Week

1. I went to Town with some delightful people. True, I met some of the bitchiest queens I've ever encountered (one guy literally face palmed my sister out of his way), but I also saw the hottest drag queen I have EVER seen. Seriously, this gal looked exactly like Beyonce. If you hadn't told me she was a dude, I never would have guessed. Also, I got to say "I'm going to Town tonight!" about 20 times.

2. The first class I took at my yoga studio back in October was an Ashtanga class, and it beat the living crap out of me. My muscles were still shaking when I got back to my apartment 30 minutes later, and I was very sore for about 4 days. I went back to Ashtanga on Sunday for the first time since then, and I was only mildly sore the next day. Progress, bitches.

3. My daddy and I had a fun afternoon of farmers markets and Korean food. Curt's a real gem.

4. I decided to become a die-hard Giants for the Superbowl. All my screaming and hollering and Patriot-hating worked because they WON.

5. The cute mechanic I pass every day asked me out. I said no, because that seems to be my knee-jerk reaction to every man that shows any interest in me these days. It made me happy, though.

6. I watched 50/50, and subsequently fell head over heels with this guy:

Great, great, great movie. One of the best I've seen in a long time. But this guy? Good grief. "I wish you were my girlfriend." WHAT?!? Get your bald, sweater-wearing self over here and make out with me asap. Lordy.

7. My newfound obsession attraction prompted me to reactivate my OkCupid account, because I realized the cancer-ridden boy of my dreams could just be floating along out there unbeknownst to me unless I carped the damn diem. (Yeah... this is probably going to be a theme. I give it a week before I decide I hate everyone and delete it again). This time around, I've decided to actually initiate interactions myself, instead of just waiting to blissfully reject every chap that comes my way. And, as it turns out, every guy I message is utterly disinterested in me. Karma, I suppose. The nice thing about this is it's caused me to ease up a bit on the guys messaging me. I still barely respond to anyone, but now I react with disdain instead of blind hatred.

8. The maintenance guy came to our apartment the other day, and upon seeing our stupid menagerie immediately informed me that he's terrified of rats and cats. Stella responded by following him all over the apartment and trying to lick his pants.

9. I went to a classy bar/restaurant with my friends Emmy and Vanessa, and had a nice girls night. Sipping wine makes me feel like a lady.

10. Banana soft serve. Look it up. Make it. You're welcome.

Ponderings

Wow. Well. This has been a week of some very extreme ups and downs. The ups included a bitchin' karaoke birthday party in Adams Morgan, a delicious Melting Pot dinner, reminders that I have an amazing inner circle of people who love and care about me and a night on the town that ended in me telling a shirtless stranger that he looked fantastic. The downs aren't worth mentioning.

Monday morning found me sitting in my car with a horrible, constricting weight on my chest, feeling small and alone and frightened. As I sat there, I started to think about how a belief in God is such a powerful force for people going through hard times.

I don't believe in God. Or rather, I don't believe in a personal, benevolent God. I feel like there's some order to the universe, something at play, but I think it must be so beyond human comprehension that I don't spend any time worrying about it. (To be clear, I have a hunch, but I am completely open to the idea my hunch is wrong. I'm a true agnostic - I guess how things work, but I readily admit I don't know. I certainly don't think I'm more right in my beliefs than anyone else is.) I don't feel like good is a greater force in this world than evil. I think that both need each other to exist, and your experiences and viewpoint determine which you see more of. I don't believe there is something watching over me, that has my best interests at heart, because it just doesn't seem practical to me. Out of my tragedies comes another's joy. Out of another's suffering is my gratitude that it isn't mine. It is necessary for some people to have horrible things happen to them, to have horrible lives. In the short term, this seems cruel, but in the overall scheme of things, to me, it makes sense.

However, as I sat there in my car, listening to Coldplay and trying not to cry, I remembered a time when I did believe in a God that had a plan for me, that loved me, that would make sure I was ok. In that moment, I wanted that belief back so dearly. I leaned back, imagined a gentle, comforting embrace, and pretended, just for a minute, to believe in God.

It gave me a sense of peace, but ultimately I couldn't suspend my disbelief for more than a few minutes. And so, because I have the best job on the planet, I got out of my car, walked into someone else's house, hugged a sweet and elderly dog named Sam and cried into his soft, black, curly fur.

I had a strong belief in God until I was about 19 or 20, and certainly don't feel a hole left by its presence. I believe in optimism, in love, in faith. I have a strong spiritual core, despite not believing in a personal God. I feel utterly at peace with the world and my place in it, and as I've mentioned before, I know that my life is going to be good. I have maintained most of the benefits a belief in God brings, I just draw them from different wells. This, though, for the first time in years, made me wonder if there's something about believing in a conscious higher power that you just can't achieve without that belief.

In the end it doesn't matter. I don't believe that, and can't make myself believe it just because there might be benefits to that belief. I'll just keep finding ways to get myself through hard times. I haven't failed yet.

Musings on OkCupid

Last November, I decided to try out OkCupid. I was getting a bit of an itch to get back into the dating scene, and it seemed like an easy way. I posted my obligatory close up, body shot, and "hey, I'm cute and quirky and can come up with fun and unusual dates to do like apple picking" pic, came up with a witty profile, and sent it out to the masses.

After about a week or two, I agreed to go on a date with a guy who'd been messaging me. He was decent looking, and it sounded like we had a lot in common, so I figured, what the hey.

Cut to the actual date. About two minutes in, it is clear to me that I'm not the slightest bit attracted to this guy. He's just not my cup of tea. Forty-five minutes in, he has barely let me get a word in edgewise, opting instead to tell me all about Lord of the Rings and the Civil War and why he loves The Music Man. The few times I start to talk, he cuts me off halfway through my first sentence. Now, to be fair, I can talk someone's ear off, but this guy was overdoing it even by my standards. And all the while he keeps sprinkling in little elusions to later dates. "Oh, you like this movie? I have it on Blu-ray, you'll have to come over and watch it." "Your roommate sounds great, I can't wait to meet her." "I'm going to take you bowling!"

I was polite, but I also tried not to seem like I was having too much fun, so as not to lead him on. I thought I was doing ok until he says, "So, I guess it goes without saying that there'll be a second date."
I, of course, handle this like a proper lady by promptly letting out a loud, nervous, slightly maniacal bark of laughter, then say, "Um... I'm sorry, but I actually don't really feel like we're clicking... I don't know that a second date is a good idea."

He stares at me for a good three seconds. He draws a deep breath, and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. Then he screws his face up, covers it with his hand, and as he draws his hand away, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

This is about the time I start to panic.

He then proceeds to spend the next FIFTEEN MINUTES begging me to go on a second date with him. He tells me he had a bad day so he wasn't his best tonight, gets angry and asks if he's not "dark and dangerous" enough for me, tells me I have eyes like a Disney princess ("Not big and creepy like an Anime girl, but like, the really beautiful Disney princess kind), all the while occasionally hiding his face and coming up glassy-eyed. I try to be patient and explain, and really, I feel bad for the guy, but the whole time I'm thinking "OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD PLEASE DON'T START CRYING I CAN'T HANDLE THIS OH GODDDDDDD".

I finally escape, go home, and promptly delete my OkCupid profile. Time goes by, I date someone else for about a month, things are good.

A few weeks after my brief December romance, however, and I'm feeling a little bit lonely. It seems that seeing someone reminded me of the nice things about dating, and now I'm finding myself a little dissatisfied with my singledom. (Ironic, seeing as I ended things last time around because I was missing being single). So, bearing my last disastrophy in mind, I cautiously re-activate my OkCupid account.

Here's the thing I've learned about me and men. It is damn near impossible for me to determine if I'm attracted to someone based on pictures and self-descriptions. I just cannot tell until I see someone in person - not because of how they look, but because personality is such a big component in attraction for me. In the world of online dating, there are two ways to handle this predicament. One, you can be open-minded and give OkCupid gents the benefit of the doubt, going out on many dates to see who you might click with. Or you can assume they all suck, and respond to any advances with unadulterated hostility, like me.

Perfectly Pleasant Guy: Hey, how was your day?
Me: Who the fuck is this guy?! He doesn't know me. Why the hell is he asking how my day was?!
Ann: You don't really get the point on online dating sites, do you?

Charming Gentleman of the Internet: Saw you like red pandas. Do they remind you of foxes?
Me: WHAT THE FUCK? Does he think that's witty? Does he think it's clever? OF COURSE THEY REMIND ME OF FOXES, ASSHOLE! Do zebras remind you of horses? YES! What a stupid question!
Ann: ....

Ann: How's it going with this guy?
Me: Ok, I guess. He seems cool, and we've been talking for a couple days, and it seems to be going well, so now I'm afraid he's going to ask me out for coffee or something.
Ann: WHY ARE YOU ON THIS WEBSITE, KATIE?!?

It was about then that I decided OkCupid is not for me, and deactivated my account once again. I'm not sure exactly why I reacted to all these men with such needless hatred, but I think maybe it's my subconscious' way of telling me that I'm not done being single. If Mr. Perfect shows up in my life tomorrow, I'm in a good enough place that I could start dating him without feeling like I've lost a sense of self... but I don't think I want a significant other enough to start actively seeking one out. In the meantime I'll celebrate my singlehood like any other red-blooded woman: by staying in on Friday nights and doing photo shoots with my cats.

Oh god.

Stella Sucks.

Finger update: I caved and went to the doctor when I realized my finger no longer needed a joint to bend. It's broken. Splint 2.0 is way sexier.

My weekend has been filled with friends, auditions, and cat wrangling. It has not been filled with the room-cleaning and laundry-doing I promise myself I will accomplish every weekend. The laundry thing might happen today though, because yesterday I made Ann smell my clothes to see if they were too rank to wear to an audition. True story.

The cat wrangling primarily has to do with these fools.

Early September I adopted the little lady on the left (Stella) to be a sister for my gingercat Sir Kirbington Ginger Sacksy of Sandy Desert Pyle. Kirby. They complement each other perfectly. He is very clever but very cranky, and she is frighteningly stupid but adorably loving. Something about her sweet, dumb little face wormed its way into Kirby's heart and brought out a kind, gentle side I'd never seen in him. It's adorbable.

However, Stella, aside from being cute and stupid, is also surprisingly an utter tyrant, and Kirby, for some unfathomable reason, has decided to go along with this. When they eat, she growl-chews, and Kirby sits back patiently until she lets him eat. As a result, he's wasting away while she's turning into a bit of a chunkster.* She also has deemed it necessary to assert her dominance by peeing on everything I own.

Seriously. Everything. The wood floors in the corner by the kitchen table are stained black. My hand-me-down rugs all have little yellow stains. The new scratching post I got them for Christmas was immediately pissed on. And the other day I put on a sweater only to find it was stiff with dry urine. (This could have been avoided if I didn't pick up dirty clothes off the floor to re-wear. See above section on my lack of laundry-doing and room-cleaning). Yesterday she peed in her litter box, meowing to herself the entire time (both my cats are extremely chatty), then promptly skipped around the apartment in plain sight of Ann and myself, squatting until we sprayed her full on in the face with the spray bottle and screamed obscenities at her.

And that's the other thing - unlike Kirby, whose days of youthful disobedience were marked by a clear "I don't give a fuck about you or your feelings" attitude, Stella clearly wants our love and hates when we're angry at her. She just doesn't seem to have made the connection that jumping on the table/running out of the apartment/waking me up at 6 every morning by shredding the fabric of my box spring/peeing on everything is precisely what makes us loathe her. And she does all of these things EVERY FIVE MINUTES. And is shocked every time when she gets sprayed in the face, or yelled at, or locked out of my room.

So my weekend included a lot of that. More specifically, Ann's weekend included a lot of that. Stella apparently went on a pee-rampage for about an hour after I left for an audition, and Ann was left to desperately defend our belongings/security deposit. Thanks, boo.

Stella's delightful, snuggly ways mostly make up for the horror that is her young, kittenish self. I'm pretty sure she'll outgrow this in a year or so. In the meantime, we'll just keep making our neighbors wonder who Stella is, and why we threaten loudly to skin her all the time.

*Kirby's not really wasting away. What kind of cat mom do you think I am? He's just fashionably slender.

Ouch.

About a month ago, I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, followed by an older gentleman. As I scurried up the stairs, my foot slipped and I fell, bending the tip of my middle finger backward.

As in any such embarrassing situation, I turn around to look at the guy behind me and make that "Hey, wasn't that embarrassing that I just fell down the stairs but good thing I have enough of a sense of humor about it to laugh so it's really not that embarrassing after all hahaha" face. He, however, is beet red and determinedly not making eye contact with me. This makes me feel like even more of a dumb klutz, so I gather myself and my dignity and run up the stairs to my apartment as fast as I can.

In all the hubbub, I missed out on the fact that my finger was hurting like a mf-er. This became pretty apparent once I got to my place. I put some ice on it and went about my life.

Three weeks later, my finger is still swollen and pretty painful. After consulting google and some accident-prone friends, general consensus is that it's fractured. Being the starving artist that I am, I figure I can either go to the doctor and get charged $300 for them to say, "Yep... it's fractured. Here's a splint". Or, I can go to CVS and buy a splint for $7.

I was pretty pumped about this splint at first. I think injuries are exciting. They get you attention, and I like attention. Plus, insta-conversation starter. Most of the conversations are pretty basic. People ask what happened to my finger, and I basically say verbatim what I just wrote. (So... if you already asked me, and now you're reading this and hearing it all again... sorry). Sometimes, however, you come across gems like this:

Plastered 60 year old rich lady: That is ADORABLE.
Me: Oh. Um, thank you. It's not really a fashion accessory though... it's a splint. My finger's fractured.
P60YORL: You know, in the '80s I used to get my one pinky nail plated in gold - real gold - and that reminds me of it!
Me: Oh. That's... good.

I've had this thing on my finger for a week now, and the novelty has worn off. It makes my finger stiff and makes it hard to do things and I worry that drivers in other cars think I'm flipping them off when I drink from my water bottle... and my finger is still swollen and painful. According to my dad, who's had more than his fair share of injured bones, I'll probably need to leave this thing on anywhere from 3-6 weeks.

At least the baby boomer elite of DC think it's classy.