No Life Jacket Required

Last week, I was in the yoga room 15 times -- for someone with a hyper metabolism and an effortless ability to ignore the all-important inner monologue of what a girl wants; what a girl needs -- this is a substantial amount of time spent sweating out some of which I may have been better off keeping in.

I haven't spent over 22 hours in the hot box since before I got pregnant over two years ago, at which time I was a sprightly 27-year-old; at 29, back on a full-time teaching schedule and fitting in a solid practice, I may have to start pumping electrolytes intravenously to keep from passing out at the end of the day. Either that, or I could just eat and pound coconut water constantly.

Whatever symbiotic solution I find to keep me ticking and ward off the several midnight incidents to which I've unhappily awoken, completely cramped -- paralyzed from the knee down, calf muscles calling out for me to treat them more kindly (salt and potassium please Miss Allison), for now I'll simply have to take my body's transitional state one step, breath, posture, class and day at a time. This weekend, for instance, I made the easy decision to (apart from teaching doubles both days) strive for allowing only the contraction that comes from strutting around in sky-high stilettos for a Friday night downtown worthy of stunningly uncomfortable shoes and a tastefully provocative cocktail-bandage dress. So far so good. As yet, an intake of wine and tequila seems to have adequately replaced my desire for 3 am bags of salted rice chips, so I must be striking a decent balance there somewhere.

Maybe it was the incredible dinners at Vij's and Sanafir, places I would not normally have the opportunity to enjoy back to back, that replenished my depleted resources, or the surprisingly irresistible charms of the tattoo artist with whom I spent an alluring hour last night at Adrenaline.

There are so many sweet sources from which to nourish one's body, mind and heart. This afternoon, I satisfied (as much as possible from a province away) the constant craving I have to see, hear and laugh with my daughter. Over Skype, she proudly displayed her newly acquired talent for holding a pen and instead of just putting it in her mouth, with the utmost concentration, pulling the lid off and replacing it repeatedly until I distracted her with greetings from some of my curious students. A cluster of buff, bared yoga bods eagerly surrounded my laptop and giggled along with Maya at her pen-handling genius. My heart full, I blew her a kiss and headed into my home away from home to teach a double dose of the ultimate effortless effort.

Now sitting alone (which I always hate -- particularly late at night), having downed a mega-sized coconut water, working towards even just pretending to feel comfortable tucked in by myself, I lie awake, trying to lull my busy mind to sleep with Jason Mraz -- not such a hot idea as listening to "Lucky" is serving no greater purpose than creating a hollowness in my chest as if the manic monkey from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs is ripping my heart out like he does to the unsuspecting evil gummy bear who, as a result, perishes heartless (if you've not seen the movie, stop lying to yourself and admit you loved it).

Tonight, on the floor of my sister's bedroom (my residence for only a few days more), the waters are inclement, there is a small craft warning; I could go down, flounder helplessly. But life is best managed calmly. With balance comes buoyancy. At least the clock has passed midnight and (apart from a tightness in the leg I had to keep still for an hour last night while my foot was being branded with words of limitless wisdom) my limbs are relatively relaxed. No signs of debilitating cramps this evening. Staring at my right foot, I find calm in the honest script so beautifully curved just above the instep. I will take my own advice and follow what is written there: trust, breathe, smile.

Life Lessons from the Indelible Britney Spears

Last week. I already pine for you and your final days of summer sun. The grueling schedule I kept of yoga and soaking up the sun at Kits Beach, left me little time for writing, but now the skies are ominous, offering nothing but drear and damp, so I'm back at the keyboard.

Heading home (as in the floor of my sister's bedroom, where I currently occupy a space the size of my couture IKEA mattress) in a haze of yoga high from a thick class on Commercial yesterday, I opted for the always ingenious soundtrack of Miss Britney Spears to accompany me home. Sometimes a girl just needs a little old school to remind her, no matter the current weight of life's circumstances and how unnervingly unforeseeable the future, everything will turn out alright in the end. Take our darling Brit: in the not-so-distant past, she was a completely disheveled (on the inside and out), unhinged, downward-spiraling, fury of destruction. Today, buffed and polished to a finish smooth enough to appear a once again competent mother, partner and artist (that's right, I referred to the princess of pop as an "artist" -- deal with it), she has re-emerged, relatively unscathed and back on top, continuing to dazzle and captivate legions of fans. And because so many worthwhile life lessons come from standout role models like Britney, when the going gets tough, but merits a tone none too somber and just scratching the surface of delicate introspection, her lyrics are full of diamonds in the rough.

Borrowing a gem from one of my faves, from the days of Britney's stellar acting debut in Crossroads I too have re-emerged -- a brighter, unobstructed by the expectations of others, independent version of myself.

"Say hello to the girl that I am! You're gonna have to see through my perspective."

"Overprotected" -- the theme song of life in the Sinclair (my maiden moniker -- we even have a darling tartan) clan. Released about 10 years ago -- about the same time, at 19, most of my girlfriends and I felt similarly hampered by our parents' view of the course our lives should take. Good work Mom and Dad -- I really used the four years I spent at UBC effectively. Because you said something along the lines of, "If you don't go to university right away, you will be an epic failure and no longer a member of the family we will choose to acknowledge. Well, we might acquiesce to identifying your body when the police find it under the Granville St. bridge frozen solid, because you won't survive the winters here sleeping in a box outside, which is the only accommodation you'll be able to afford if you elect to forgo higher education." Yep. I'm pretty sure the open-minded, warm and fuzzy advice of only the best intentions with which my parents provided me went something exactly like that.

At one time, I was a relatively obedient daughter, hoping to glean some affection from the confounding creatures who brought me into being by following a path I thought would appeal to their ideologies of what good girls should do. But never being one to blindly follow the pack and conform to a life that doesn't make me happy, I decided within the first semester of my English Literature Degree to do pretty much whatever I wanted. Sure, I read all the books, but only because I enjoyed them; I handed in all of my papers early and always seemed to do well, never being handed back work with less than an "A" of some description scrawled across the top. But I allowed my science requirements and electives that failed to interest me fall by the wayside, giving me a decent amount of recreational time -- which of course I filled with partying.

I managed to work my way through a solid roster of lovers, friends and everything in-between. I thought at least the life experience I gained from experimenting with what I wanted and didn't want in the people I kept close to me would prove useful, but thus far, I am still somewhat clouded with those silly lures that so often accompany short-lived unions -- you know -- a look, a touch, a smell, a certain mystery; something extraordinary that is magnetic but sadly doesn't turn out to have staying power or realness. I did, after all, manage to marry a man I hardly knew at all, but did he ever have a je ne sais quoi -- like none other.

Anyone who has played the game of love, lust and all necessary and unnecessary associated evils knows the couples that last are (much more complex than it sounds, trust me) the ones in which two people genuinely like each other; they have to laugh with each other, listen to and actually appreciate most of what escapes one another's mouths, so much so that just words can turn the wheels in the brain that ignite the fire in the heart -- and other, much lower regions in the body equally important in maintaining a certain level of interest and intensity between successful lovers. However rare, such connections do of course exist. One can choose to need them, want them, or simply settle for whatever comes -- or nothing at all.

I"ll take one of everything please. I'll see whatever comes; if it's not what I need and want, they'll be something just around the corner that is. "I need time, love, joy; I need space; I need me." If I ignore the expectations of others in the process, the only disappointment they truly experience will be their own -- in themselves.

I Am Me -- Without Apology

Does anyone near and dear to you look upon your lifestyle with disdain? If, like me, you are merely a yoga teacher in this crazy mixed up world -- you know, the one in which most people live to work -- you may be misunderstood. My parents somehow fail to grasp the notion that I am content doing what I do for the modest income with which it provides me, for which my real compensation is relaxation and happiness. Oddly enough, their heavy-handed judgement comes from a place of hypocrisy. They are not stockbrokers, real estate moguls, successful entrepreneurs, doctors or lawyers; mother is an elementary school teacher and father is now a retired police officer. Throughout the course of their careers, neither one of them has really seemed to enjoy a single day of that with which they chose to define themselves. They brought in decent coin -- nothing to impress the neighbours with -- but enough to live comfortably and raise two kids. They have healthcare benefits and pensions, all of which are, to some degree, important. But what confounds me more than anything is the lives they've carried on with for over 50 years, without ever seeming to live.

I meet a lot of people like my parents in this void of passion respect. They did what they did and do what they do because they choose to govern their existences by following the road more travelled -- the straight and narrow. Scintillating, I know. Sure, such paths have stability, predictability -- but lest we forget, nothing can be completely anticipated. Think about how many people you know today who have been slapped across the face with the news of an aggressive, life-threatening cancer, even the people who lead the cleanest, healthiest lives. Think about the random life-snatching acts of nature, human incompetence and -- worst of all, but less often random -- nurture.

How can those in this moment granted the privilege to live choose instead to adopt a "walking dead" existence? I find them unnerving -- those insipid individuals who simply move through the motions of one day after another, the fire (if it ever existed) in their eyes burnt out.

Sure, part of being an adult is accepting some level of responsibility, especially an adult (like myself) with a daughter. But irrespective of the challenges thrown at me, or the ones I create, unless it's to hook up with a vampire, I'll always choose to live among the living.

Teaching yoga, I may never be in the upper echelon of money-makers, but I'll always have enough to enjoy the simple pleasures (like this morning's mocha) -- and if I don't, I can move to Mexico. Of the highest importance will be my happiness, and the warmth it will always allow me to impart upon my daughter and anyone else so deserving.