Divinity in the details

In the early years of my yoga practice—really, for the first 30 years—I did little more than assume the shapes of the poses. I looked at what the teacher did and folded myself into the same configuration of arms and legs. I ignored verbal instructions—too boring!

But in the past five years, I’ve started to listen to the details and enter poses from the inside out. It’s a completely different experience. “Widen your thighs, drop your tailbone, firm your lower abdominals, lift your ribs, press your shoulder blades into your back …” The simplest pose is the culmination of scores of invisible actions. And though they’re hard to do, the details are not boring at all. They’re exciting, it turns out!

Shopping for the cure

I was telling a writer-friend last night that my attention span seems to be shrinking with age. From the moment I undertake a task, I focus not on problem-solving it or doing it well but on how quickly I can get it done, no matter how haphazardly, or how I can get out of doing it entirely. A task that requires concentration sends my mind spinning in the opposite direction. The prospect of mental effort makes me feel tired before I begin.

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s weird how even though I can’t settle into writing, I can immediately focus on, say, shopping online and be completely absorbed for hours.”

So I guess the cure for my ADD is shopping! 

Digitally remastered

I have a disorder called Dupuytren’s contracture, which causes my right hand to develop hard cords and lumps that pull my little finger into my palm. It’s not a life-threatening illness, but it limits my yoga practice—no downward-facing dogs or handstands—though I suppose it could expand my practice if I would only view it as an exercise in non-attachment to such earthly achievements.

The treatments can be radical: amputation of the affected digit; surgery to open the palm to remove the cords, which requires skin grafts and months of physical therapy; painful injections with cord-dissolving chemicals derived from gangrene bacteria; doing nothing and just living with the limitations.

This is what it looks like:

There is another treatment, not much practiced in the U.S., called needle aponeurotomy. In this less-is-more technique, the surgeon injects lidocaine into your palm and finger and uses the sharp edge of the needle to perforate the cord—over and over—then stretches the finger to break the cord into unattached segments. It requires no systemic anesthesia and no PT other than wearing a spring-loaded splint at night, and you can use your hand almost immediately.

I did this four days ago. I can’t do weight-bearing exercises for another week or so, but here’s what it looked like 24 hours after the procedure:

The trouble with being a giantess

As a very tall woman with short hair and a chest flattened by a double mastectomy, I often get addressed as “Sir.” I find this dispiriting. It pisses me off too. I’m obviously a woman. Didn’t I, after all, go to the trouble of putting on makeup, earrings and my uncomfortable girl shoes? Oh, right, this is New York, and that just makes me look more like a transvestite.

Some women are comfortable with androgyny. I find it more difficult perhaps because of my childhood and adolescent experience of being freakishly tall. I reached my full height of 5 ft. 10 in. before I was 13, and people assumed I was older than I was and expected more mature behavior from me. If I wept, I could expect ridicule rather than sympathy.

Even as an adult, now merely tall rather than gigantic, I sometimes feel there’s a societal expectation that because I’m big, I can bear more pain and effortlessly perform greater feats of strength. It’s unseemly when I whine. 

I wish I could say that external expectations have created internal fortitude. But that’s not the case. I may be even more lily-livered than my shorter-statured sisters. They after all feel they have to stand tall to be taken seriously, or so they tell me. 

The trouble with being a slut

Not long ago, I was talking to a gay man and a gay woman and I referred to Other as my “partner.” The gay man accused me of using that term to pass myself off as gay.

The fact is, Other is not my husband. We got together 40 years ago and have been monogamous (as far as I know) for all those decades, but neither of us ever wanted to get married—even when we had kids. In fact, staying single became a badge of honor. We have remained together far longer than friends whose elaborate weddings we attended. 

But we’ve never solved the problem of how to refer to each other without getting mired in explanations. “Boyfriend” sounds too childish. “Significant other” too governmental. “Partner” too ambiguous (apparently). “My old man” too much like a flashback. “Roommate” too chilly. “Lover” too hot. “Other” works in this blog (thanks, J, for the suggestion) but not in real life.

Recently, Other and I have begun to discuss retirement. Other is thinking about retiring a few years before me, and we talked about whether we should in fact get married so I could put him on my health plan. I felt a moment of anticipatory relief: finally an end to the nomenclature problem. But it turns out that my insurance plans covers domestic partners in committed relationships—even heterosexual ones. Sigh.

Jobs

Job Creator: Blythe Spirit
Who knew that there was a demand for an outdoor piano player of slightly schmaltzy classical music? But Crazy Piano Guy guessed the need and filled it. Nearly every Saturday and Sunday he hauls his grand piano a mile through the streets of Manhattan from its storage locker near the Holland Tunnel to Washington Square, where he tickles the keys for tourists for eight hours at a stretch. He does a little soft shoe from time to time too:
http://colinhuggins.com/vids.html (see charming second video)

Job Destroyer: Evil Landlord
I refound the wonderful imported-bead store that used to be on Mercer Street and four years ago relocated to Rivington. The reason for the move: the rent went up to $70,000 a month—yes, a month.

Old people

Here is what old people say to each other while they’re getting dressed:

He: "Do my wattles make me look like a walrus? Do I look old?"

She: "No,  you look unnaturally young. When I walk down the street with you, people say, 'Oh, how nice that that young man is holding his mother’s hand!'"

Here’s what passes for drama among old people:

I felt deeply guilty because I had a root canal that cost $1,700. It immediately failed, so now I’m having an implant that will cost twice that. Now I feel relieved because Other swallowed his crown.