Philosophical Foray

Bikram Yoga is like an escape from reality. Is it? Killed my Self in Cedric's class at Kits Monday night, in which he brought to our attention the backwardness of this statement. He told us to look at ourselves in the mirror and embrace this moment as our reality; this sweaty, awkward, emotional (more so for some) body-bending and strengthening session we put ourselves through so we can better manage life on the outside. I thought, this guy's for real. He know's what's up. The gym-jacked, perfectly-tanned, egocentric poser with the attention span of a toddler between me and Cedric created such a glaring juxtaposition, it was difficult to keep from laughing every minute of the 90.

This constant struggle, moving meditation, taking oneself to the brink, beyond and back -- this is reality. Walking into a brightly-lit room, wearing next-to-nothing, free of the accouterments to which so many of us are accustomed (the yoga room is one of the few places you will ever catch me without makeup), facing my own deeply introspective eyes, skinny arms, rosebud breasts, junk in the trunk, camel pose calluses attractively taking up precious real estate on my knees and not only accepting what I come into the room with, but constantly assessing every body part, muscle, ligament, joint, facial expression, to make sure it is working at its optimum level, to create a body that just won't quit and a mind so peaceful, it is overwhelmed by nothing -- this is honesty.

Reality is inescapable inside the sanctum of the yoga room, ever elusive on the outside. In an effort to make life seem easier, we often choose to make malleable the truth that is ourselves and our existence, but truth is unalterable -- it is exactly as it is and we must accept it as such if we ever hope to work with what we have, rather than against it.

I recommend coming to class just as you are, but carefully cognizant of whom that really is. Maybe you're someone who, out of habit and self-doubt, always sits down after awkward pose; maybe you refuse to practice anywhere but the farthest, dimmest, coolest back corner of the room; maybe you choose only to situate yourself front and centre, next to the podium, afraid you'll be too easily distracted or fail to push yourself otherwise (often a bad habit of mine). Whatever your deal, you're always welcome. Bring your inhibitions and transform them into wings that will enable you to become much greater than the sum of your parts.

Mr. Darcy has it Right -- Most Ardently

You know when the pieces of your life somehow untangle themselves, if only for a moment, so you can see them each clearly enough to evaluate which belong, which don't, if any need rearranging or require transformation or swift expulsion? For me, last week culminated in an epiphany of this sort; a clarity I knew existed, but had yet to reveal itself and its imperative nature until I let it.

Without my usual domestic responsibilities, as my daughter is currently with her Daddy in Edmonton while I fulfill my role as double Maid of Honour, I actually had time to reflect. I taught, practiced, partied, played, rested, relaxed and soaked up all the goodness I could get. I kept only the best company and was constantly content. Last week is up there with the best I've ever had -- and I was no where but my usual Vancouver haunts. The difference was the way in which I experienced them -- with a whole new appreciation; an openness; an optimistic warmth that lit me up from within.

I have always believed we create our own happiness; you forge the path you want or accept a life unfulfilled. Because life is short and so much of it is ridden with potholes, I choose to relish the smooth parts, even luxuriate in them. Having experienced that level of unbridled enjoyment, whenever possible, I rarely allow myself to expect less. As I draw another year closer to turning 30, I've come to acknowledge it's about time I grab hold of what I need and want before it's too late.

Positive changes already abound from my ambition to live ardently. The past few days, I have laughed to the point of tears almost once a day, felt passion, warmth and compassion in pleasantly unexpected places, worked my body only as much as I wanted, not felt I needed, exercised my mind and taught myself to hear and see things and people differently, watched zero television (with the exception of The Bachelorette finale because -- let's be serious -- that was important stuff), consumed only what I consider to be the best food and wine -- because, otherwise, what's the point? I have never felt more relaxed and satisfied. Reuniting with my daughter tomorrow will complete the picture and further elevate the appreciation I have developed for everything I have. It will also mean less selfish time, but more unconditional love. Fair trade.

Last night in Christian's class, I locked out in standing bow -- two feet in one line! I struggled and grunted my way through what I thought was (with my hamstrings) impossible and then found the sweet spot of letting go, the place where limitations cease to exist. As I started to give up, I chose instead to laugh at myself, and with a gentle nudge from Christian, kicked with everything I had. The aftermath of that class was the most relaxed contentment I could have imagined -- and it continued all night. Maybe it was the yummy Mexican food Dad took me and my sister for and the margaritas we downed or the Caper's dark-chocolate-raspberry tarts we devoured while taking in a late show of The Change-Up -- Either way, I'll have another of the same please. If Tuesday nights can be as fantastic as mine was and last week can be a game-changer, every day can be made to matter; to light the soul -- or at least try.

Damn It! I'm Not Right All the Time?

Even the most set in their ways can be undone. Today I learned an important lesson -- one I had been encouraged to consider previously, but have been guilty of failing to adopt as yet. Today, I lived the truth of some people being worth a closer look. I discovered a much deeper, kinder, generous impression of -- get this -- the intolerably distracted woman with the sweater in class. Today, for some reason unknown to me, she still came in with her cover-up, but practiced right under the podium, under my nose, looking up at me with a smile throughout class. Very strange, I thought. Maybe she simply felt wary of me up until today; I am, after all, a visiting teacher who hasn't set foot on the podium of this particular studio in over two years. As a matter of fact, almost all of the previously quiet, to the point of what I thought were disinterested, students have seemed to warm to me. They are even thanking me now after class and acknowledging me by name. The biggest surprise, however, for sure is "sweater woman."

One of my regulars this morning threw her back out, later explaining to me she had injured it a few days prior to her practice today, gotten overzealous, and pushed just a little too hard -- it's always a fine line. When in doubt, take it easy, honey. After coaxing her through how to lie appropriately in order to put the least pressure on her back, I helped hoist her up off her mat and supported her feeble limp out of the hot room.

As we finally make it to the door, who's behind us, carrying the injured party's mat, towel and water bottle? The one I had so swiftly dismissed as inconsiderate and flippant -- "sweater woman."

While this enlightening experience does not mean I'm going to ignore blatant laziness and hypocrisy from other instructors, it has encouraged me to give a person more then a moment to make an impression on me. I suppose I would appreciate the same, so why not? In the end, acceptance is just as important as striving for excellence.

Only Here for the Food

Araxi in Whistler: a dining experience we nearly aborted. Prepared to spend about $100 each for dinner, we had fairly high expectations. But even though disappointed loomed from the moment we walked in the door, none of our group of the pushover variety, we expressed our concerns at the apparent deterioration of such a notoriously impressive restaurant and they intelligently -- as on occasion I kiss and tell -- responded by rolling out the red carpet.

Upon the first sign of our distaste for our hobbit-like, mumbling to the point of inaudible, disgruntled server, the manager replaced him for a smooth, sweet, Australian treat who romanced every morsel served to us from the amuse-bouche to the double-chocolate ice cream brownie bar presented to us after we polished off the deserts we had actually ordered.

We were then brought a complimentary bottle of sparkling Okanagan wine and a full glass of the too-rich-for-my blood Cabernet Sauvignon I had asked just to taste to compare with my lower-end Malbec. Important discovery: expensive wine can be well-worth the frivolity. Drinking this particular Cab was like sliding into a mud bath (like the one JP and Ashley visited in Fiji) and being rubbed down from head to toe with warm, capable hands -- it brought a lasting smile to my face and perfectly prepared me for my first course: an albacore spicy tuna roll with which my deep appreciation of fabulous food was supremely satisfied.

Following the sushi extraordinaire was a lovely balance of creamy buffalo mozzarella and bitter/sweet beet-arugula, drizzled in a dijon-balsamic reduction -- stellar.

Bringing the tantalizing tastes to a whole other level was my main. Always one to order scallops if the preparation intrigues, I decided on the curried-salt variety, paired with aubergine and a chorizo-chickpea-tomato puree. I am a reliable predictor of choice menu items. This buttery, exotic, perfectly-balanced melding of flavours exceeded my expectations.

Funny how after swearing up and down we couldn't possibly eat another bite, when the server came over to offer us dessert, we all immediately selected something -- mine, of course, was chocolate. Barely able to eat half of the three preceding courses, I somehow managed to devour both the molten, Valrhona double-chocolate cake (which was especially prepared "double" for us as we had made it clear we were serious lovers of the good stuff) and the accompanying salted-caramel ice cream in seconds.

I share my appreciation for all things indulgent with words to the best of my ability, but sometimes words are -- well, they fail to adequately get across my intense love affair with really excellent food. But fortunately, as in my love affairs with really excellent people, I'm good at sharing.

The Hangover -- Part 3

The girlfriends who get slithered together, prance around naked (oh, wait, that was just me), share clothes, table dance (also just me), share dance partners, beds, hangovers, epic four-course dinners -- these are the ones who stay together. You know -- the ones around whom you can just be yourself and let it all hang out.

Man, am I fortunate to have friends with whom I can abandon all pretense -- like the kind I am forced to exercise in front of people who suck. As my mother and sister sit out on the patio of the condo at which I am currently staying (I can't refer to it as my mother's home, because it belongs to her fiance and in it I am treated as an inconvenient guest, rather than a family member). But this kind of cool reception is something I have become accustomed to in the bizarre world of my parents and their transient lives. Shockingly enough, I was not invited onto the patio to sit and have lunch with the girls -- so I continue going about my day looking out for me.

This morning I was fortunate to have a dose (however small) of warmth from both the students and the environment at the studio I waltzed into before the sun had risen. I taught a double, surprised to see so many hard-cores in my 6 am on a holiday, sudsed up under the ritzy rainfall shower heads in the spa-like change room and booked it to JJ Bean -- my little peace of heaven -- and solace.

A chocolate-whipped cream-laden mocha and visit to Whole Foods later, I was happily high on the simple pleasures I enjoy whenever possible and cruised home with an infectious sense of serenity I was more than ready to share until the patio party shut me out -- yet again.

But, of course, yet again, I will survive this slight. My sister knows not the exclusionary damage so unsuspectingly inflicted upon me, which is why I still want to take her for some quality bonding at Kits Beach.

So, while I head off to oil up, strip down and spend a little time at my favourite spot in Van with my sweetly oblivious sibling, indulge -- if you dare -- in evidence of some of the shenanigans that went down over a memorable bachelorette weekend in Whistler. Don't forget to blame it on the alcohol.

I Messed with the Law and the Law Won -- So Far

Beyonce knows what's up. As I'm placating the morning's sorrows in Noodle Box leftovers, tea and Much Music, mesmerized by her latest release, Best Thing I Never Had, I find myself inherently salivating over the couture wedding gowns in which she's frolicking along stunning beaches, attempting to show her ex what he's missing. As the song winds down, she smiles sympathetically and leaves me with, "Bet it sucks to be you right now." Damn right doll -- today, in this very moment, it kinda sucks.

My day started pleasantly enough with a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate-zucchini muffin and a mocha at JJ Bean Yaletown (their coffees make my heart smile). There's something so special about the ambiance at this particular location of my choice cafe; it's like the juxtaposition of the hipster staff and the pretentious air of Yaletown create a perfect vibe -- a place you just want to be -- simultaneously relaxed and fabulous.

After soaking in as much JJ Bean as my schedule allowed, I hopped on the Canada Line to teach a double at what used to be a studio to whose standards I held all others. Maybe it was just a bizarre collection of practitioners this morning, but it was pure chaos up in that joint. People left the room to pee without even appearing to consider whether or not the necessity was real or imagined. Hand towels to (gasp) wipe away any signs of sweat were rampant. One shining star actually brought a sweater into the room (obviously she does this on a regular basis) and proceeded to put it on and take it off at random intervals. I told her if she was cold, she should work harder. I'm not known to run a cold room -- ever -- unless it's beyond my control. It was like teaching in a bubble of disconnect. Just being in the room with that kind of unfocused energy gave me an overwhelming feeling of futility; the complete opposite of what I experienced practicing at a different studio last night.

Having narrowly missed a 5 pm class yesterday at Bikram Yoga Commercial Drive, I killed time in the always-electric neighbourhood, checking out the ecclectic shops and (of course) popping into the sweetest spot in the city to pick up a stash of my to-die-for dark-chocolate-halva cups. Thank you for your creations, Sweet Cherubim. I suffer dessert deprivation without you (okay, really only halva cup deprivation as I attempt in vain to find replacements).

Just before 6, I walked into the studio, warmly greeted, ready to get my sweat on in one of the now two practice rooms. Class was amazing -- somewhat like going swimming in a really hot pool with 30 of your closest friends and leaving the pool with no hamstrings -- fantastic; just what I needed. More please. Hopefully, I can hit up the Drive again tomorrow to re-energize, re-organize and re-vitalize the damage my enthusiasm for the yoga sustained teaching in the land of the lost today.

As usual, my love affair with words has delayed my disclosure of what really knocked me down this morning: a cop on a power trip. That's right, 24 hours in Van and I've already had a run-in with the law.

Apparently my aptitude for using the Canada Line is not up to par, as I failed to validate my ticket before ascending the stairs outside one of the stations. As I got to the second floor of the terminal, I was verbally accosted by a gruff, old dude trying to pull off his police duds as if he wasn't past pushing retirement. Squinting through his spectacles, he pointed out the fine print on the back of my ticket (because everyone reads the back of bus tickets), detailing the correct procedure to pay for and board the offending train. He dismissed my Alberta ID, explaining that my clear understanding of the English language was enough for him to assume I know the rules and was in violation of them enough to merit a $173 ticket. I know -- ouch. More than I made teaching two classes for which I had to ride the militarily-patrolled transit system.

But, alas, all's well that is made bearable by some of the best food in the world -- and that's certainly something Vancouver has aplenty. Tonight, we cool the burn of belligerent fuckers with cosmos and pasta at Anton's. Thanks Sarah for waiting in line with me and thanks Dad for the company -- and paying.

Hometown Glory

Waiting in the exhilarating Edmonton International Airport (it's so modern and stimulating, there's one Starbucks) to board my flight to Vancouver, I take way too big a mouthful of divine date square just as Mr. Handsome with a mischievous grin comes over to pass the time with idle morning conversation. Isn't that always the way? At least he seems entertained as I struggle to utter a response to his greeting with as much grace as I can muster in the moment. Fortunately, I'm not here to exercise my flirting skills.

I'm literally vibrating in anticipation of spending an entire month in my home sweet home -- as much of it at the beach as possible -- in the company of people and places I hold dear. I will, however, be without my mini-me, whom I have left in the capable hands of daycare and Daddy. This is the first time I have chosen to allow myself more than a few hours of adult time and, while it should prove to be a much-needed respite from domestic doldrums, I did experience several pangs of anxiety over being without my Maya for two weeks. I'll just have to party extra hard to compensate for stings of loneliness.

Shouldn’t be too difficult considering I’ve got the first of two epic bachelorette parties this weekend and at this point, I've planned tequila and cupcakes for Friday night’s menu. As it has been at least a good month since my highest stilettos have seen a dance floor, I’m overdue for a serious night (or two or three) of dropping it down. Watch out Buffalo Bill's – we ladies tend to bring with us shenanigans that are both raucous and unpredictable. Last time we graced the crowd at Bill's, I was pretty prego and threw my first drink ever on some idiot whose physically aggressive flirting methods merited him nothing more than a wet crotch and a police escort out of the bar. What can I say? I enjoy a little drama every now and then – and it was only club soda, so I knew it would wash out of his Sevens.

This weekend’s anniversary girls’ getaway (I seem to end up in Whistler for the weekend with my ladies about the same time every summer) is sure to include some theatrical moments, as any solid bachelorette weekend should, but as I won’t be an incubus of raging pregnancy hormones, and am more than prepared to deal with at least a few character-building run-ins with alcohol-fueled dudes, there should be no need for using cocktails as weapons (unless of course five girls sharing a bathroom becomes more than my limited patience can bear).

I will, however, spend a great deal of time wielding whatever kitchen gadgets I can find to keep from living on takeout or developing a vitamin deficiency staying at my Mom’s. No offense Mom, but we all know you treat muffins as an essential square meal. And as I have been honing my culinary prowess of late, prepare yourself to be highly impressed.

This past Saturday, in an effort to conquer the ever-intimidating poaching of eggs and making hollandaise from scratch, I made eggs benny. After going through only three or four eggs, attempting to delicately drop them into boiling, vinegar-infused water, I mastered the flick of the wrist required for such delicate artistry, poached perfect eggs, laid them atop whole-wheat English muffins with avocado and tomato, bathing my creation in a healthy dollop of lemon- dill-yogurt hollandaise. Check it out – I complemented my all-time favourite brunch feast with rosemary pan-fried potatoes.

Delicious. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up – actually six – as Maya and Nimrod heartily approved. Watch out world – my bistro attached to a yoga/dance studio on the beach somewhere fabulous is coming. For the moment, I’ll have to dazzle on a smaller scale.

I should say, “watch out Vancouver” – those who know and appreciate my particular brand of sharing (sometimes too much of) myself with almost everyone in my path would agree: I tend to leave a mark. Hopefully, I’ll give and get as much as I need from this visit. I’m teaching a few classes at Bikram Yoga Richmond, dropping in to a few classes at Harbour Dance Centre and eating/drinking my way through as many of my hot spots as possible. So ready for this. I think I’d better start with some really great chocolate.