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.

Black Sheep

Immersed in the carnal wonderland of True Blood last night, after making my customary mental notes on ways to expand my sexual repertoire, I became uncharacteristically melancholy over the show's title, and how it reminds me how untrue my own blood is.

Technically, I have a younger sister and two parents, but since adolescence -- about the time my independent nature became apparent and alienated me -- I have felt orphaned and been in search of replacements for the family that, to this day, behave as if I was unplanned and unwanted.

Always an original, demanding attention and doing things my way, whether it warms or cools the hearts of my relations, I tread my own path. Being a separatist has come with more than it's share of difficulties, but this comes as no surprise; agreeable people are easier to handle. My impassioned, energetic, open spirit is more often than not overwhelming for my relations who would rather I nod, smile and bow to whatever unsuitable or irrational demands they make.

The outcast of my family, I speak my mind and heart too much for their sensitive natures and spend fruitless tears on their exclusionary treatment of me. And some who think they know me wonder why I'm an attention seeker; aren't we all in search of ways and people to fill the holes in our souls?

I've managed to close the gaps with friends and their parents who love me as if our ties were unbreakable; I've found fulfillment in romantic liaisons with fiercely affectionate partners whose warm families, so different from my own, have embraced me wholly; I've created life -- a daughter whose smiles and snuggles brim with an attachment only (most) moms understand; mine often treats me like a fair-weather friend and saves her Gilmore Girls style of mothering for my sister.

Maybe I'm the problem -- I expect too much of those near and dear to me. I love hard and fast, which makes it difficult to understand any other way of expressing a sentiment essential to happiness; so perplexed am I by emotional inhibition, I once broke off a relationship fueled by the sizzling chemistry I'd only ever imagined because even though I knew he loved me, he never said it. Over brunch one morning, I remember feeling defeated by a comment he made in response to a couple next us exchanging "I love you's." He'd smiled fondly at me and remarked how "cheesy" and "unnecessary" it was for two people who felt that intensely for each other to vocalize it. Right then and there, over coffee and croissants, I decided his cowardice was unnecessary and left him.

I've had more than enough cold in my life and need all the warmth I can get -- the catalyst behind my addiction to hot yoga? Perhaps. The moment I first stepped into that room, thick with exertion (as those who practice know, it becomes tangible in there), I was enveloped with a sense of belonging -- pure comfort in working myself harder than I ever thought possible. Through the surrender comes a constant evolving, an emergence of one's true self.

Accustomed to facing challenges, I thought I'd learn to accept the fight to fit in with my family as a constant battle, worthy of my efforts if real, unconditional love resulted; but last night I came to question the importance of being included by my true blood. Are those who refuse to reciprocate a modicum of what I give really worth it? I know my sister can give me what I need and I will never give up on her -- ours is a friendship worthy of weathering any bullshit impediments. My parents, however, may benefit from a little less of my struggle to obtain their affections; one can only swim against the current for so long before growing tired and drowning.