Dear Hot Yoga,

Do you remember our first time together?

When the room was sweltering and the people were all in varying stages of nakedness and I had no earthly idea what the hell I was doing? When my plan was to just do whatever the guy in front of me was doing but his tiny little shorts made it so I couldn’t look directly at him without worrying that I was going to end up staring at his junk? When my infantile giggling led to dirty looks from everyone else in the room – because fuck me for blocking their chi? Fine with me, weirdos – If you want to shun me out of your super-special yoga, that’s awesome, because frankly, I never planned on returning.

I know we got off to a bad start – with me hating you and everything. But I am writing to you today, ten years later, with my hands at heart center, to humbly beg your forgiveness.

You teased me with a free week at Core Power (the new Starbucks of yoga studios…) and enticed me with your myriad promises. Did I want to sweat it out? Oh yes! Did I want to get fit? You bet! Did I want to wear yoga pants to an actual yoga class? And how! But most importantly, did I want to prove to my co-worker that yoga is for posers and hippies? Boy howdy!

You challenged me with Monika the (probably) Hungarian (mostly) female body-builder teacher who yelled out instructions in an old-country accent that made me not only drip with sweat but shake with fear.

You twisted and contorted my body into odd positions. You had me gasping for breath and praying for the sweet relief of a Chemistry midterm. You were all of the Hell and misery that I remembered from our first date so many years ago. And like so many other relationships in my life, the more complicated you became, the more I wanted you.

Maybe it’s the romantic mood lighting. Maybe it’s the New Age music on a loop. Maybe it’s just that I’ll pay $20.00 to sit in a hot room anywhere in Chicago from the months of November through May. Whatever it is, you’ve leased (with an option to buy) a place in my heart, hot yoga. And like any girl in love, you have me acting completely irrationally. $75.00 for a LuluLemon towel is completely reasonable, right? I look like a badass in a headband, don’t I? 6:00 a.m. seems like the perfect time to be awake and a 1/2 hour into Ujjayi breathing, doesn’t it? 1000 times yes, hot yoga.

You had me at Child’s Pose, and you held me in your warm embrace through Warrior II and Cobra and my body and my mind are eternally grateful for the second chance. When I’m wrong, I’m usually off the reservation wrong, and this will not be an exception. The judgemental snob in me, honors the light and strength and balance in you.

Namaste,

Jenn Boston

I’m not gonna lie – it’s been a horrible couple of weeks. I’m not sure what I did to tick off the Gods/Goddesses of holiday cheer but the joke is definitely on me.  It seems they have reduced me to an embarrassing cliché: I’m now the lady publicly weeping at Whole Foods because they are out of shallots. I’m the lady in the yoga pants who is totally not going to yoga but who couldn’t manage to complicate her life with actual clothes. I’m the lady who is this close to faking a highly contagious stomach flu so I can wrap myself up in my duvet and sleep off whatever it is that has turned me into a big, fat puddle of emotional freak-show.

It’s times like this when I really need to take a breath and grab a heaping helping of perspective (and mashed potatoes). When I’m not breaking down about root vegetables or tracking lost UPS packages all over the continental US, I am, without a doubt, the luckiest girl in the entire world.

I am, as always, amazed and humbled every day by the endless support and encouragement of my family and my friends. Every phone call, every email and every thumbs-up on Facebook makes me beam with gratitude that I am surrounded with such extraordinary people. A special shout-out to Jay who reminds me why it’s important to be kind and to lead by example. My hope is that I can teach you compassion, empathy and to always try to find the good in everyone. You are gift and a wonder and I hope I can make you as happy as you make me.

So this weekend I wish all of you nothing but joy – even if it comes disguised as delayed flights and traffic jams. I promise you it’s there somewhere and all you have to do is decide to look.

Sleigh-bells ring. Are you listening? I am. And right now the holiday rush is a weight on my shoulders not unlike what that Atlas guy had going on. So, dear reader, we need to take a blog break.  To tide you jackals over, I’m re-posting my guest blog from the magnificent http://kaepasa.blogspot.com/ about my reflections on turning twenty-five (which I wrote when I was 38…). I’ll catch you all on the flipper.

December 31, 1997 – Los Angeles, California

To my dearly confused 25-year-old self,

Before you charge flailing into the next quarter century, I implore you to put down your Rolling Rock, check your bravado and allow me to share a few things your future self knows to be true.

1) There will be mistakes. Sooo many mistakes. Don’t try to stop them from happening, try to stop them from happening more than once.

2) Lighten up, buttercup! Don’t offer a running commentary on your faults. Guys only like the self-deprecating, insecure girl to run errands with.

3) Stop worrying. The things that will justifiably keep you up at night are nowhere near your radar.

4) Moisturize and drink water. It will never be this easy to look this good again.

5) Be here now. Stop obsessing about what comes next. Today is what you were rushing to get to yesterday so stop and stay for a spell.

6) You never really leave high school.  From Co-workers to other moms at Gymboree, there will always be cliques of overachievers, band geeks, cheerleaders and douche bags.

7) Don’t get a tattoo. You’ll regret it almost immediately. And even more so when the term “tramp stamp” enters the vernacular.

It’s OK to try and fall in love with an old friend even though the circumstances are against you. The good news is you’ll still be friends in the morning. And 13 years after that.

9) Keep a journal. This will be so much easier to write when you’re 38.

10) The Sid to your Nancy is about to get engaged. No matter how fantastic you look at the wedding, he’ll still go through with it.

11) Don’t be afraid of the unknown. Quitting a job doesn’t make you a failure. Ending a relationship doesn’t make you weak. Terminating a friendship that is sucking the joy from your soul won’t make you lonely.

12) Keep everything in perspective. The “rock” that you will make you the happiest will be the one your son picks out for you from the parking lot gravel at Home Depot.

13) Lose the overalls and the Birkenstocks. “Carefree Bohemian” and “Unemployed House Painter” are not mutually exclusive.

14) Be less available. You’ll end up at way too many weddings as the safety date/designated driver.

15) Enjoy being unattached. Some days you will miss the freedom that comes with only having yourself to worry about or answer to.

16) Facebook and Silly Bandz: Invent them.

17) That guy in Las Vegas has a raging case of strep throat. Just sayin’…

18) Be humble and grateful for the one friend that you can call no matter what.

19) It’s OK to be wrong. Take responsibility, learn to apologize gracefully and move on.

20) Most everyone is so much more screwed up than you would ever guess. So stop trying to impress them.

21) Your first-born won’t be named Dylan or Brandon.

22) Your gut is never wrong. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. If you can’t button your pants, you’ve had too much Taco Bell.

23) The hairdresser who thinks you can totally rock a pixie cut is lying. And more than likely, drunk.

24) Perfection is unattainable. Your relationships will be flawed, your hairstyles will be complicated, your writing will be, like, not poetic and stuff. Embrace the cracks and the rust – they’re the best part.

25) The mistakes you will make in spite of this list are all worth it. The stress, the drama, the hard work, the morning after, the depression, the hangovers, the tears, the calories … they all get you to right now. See #5.

I know you are all very aware of the Snuggie but have you heard of the Slanket? The first time I heard tell of the Slanket was on 30 Rock and so help me, I thought it was something that had sprung from the brilliant mind of Tina Fey because they couldn’t get the rights to use the word Snuggie. And then I thought it was going to be going to be a hybrid of a blanket and slacks – instead of arm holes, there would be leg holes? It makes sense, right?

Upon further investigation, I can find no discernible difference between a Snuggie and a Slanket. They are both fleecy. They are both roomy and they are both guaranteed to never get you laid. Unless you invest in the Snuggie for two – For real. I can’t make this shit up but I’d love to see the infomercial for this one:

“Are you tired of struggling to find your partner inside a regular Snuggie?”

But wait there’s more! Inevitably coming to the self-help section of a Barnes & Noble near you is the Snuggie Sutra! Again, my brain is exploding a little bit knowing that this actually got published…I can’t even get most of my clients to approve my copy so you can understand my bitterness. This is called The Charlie Sheen:

Winning, indeed.

I’m waiting with baited breath for the next incarnation of this blanket. Maybe a blanket big enough to zip around the entire chair that you’re sitting in – with a giant front pocket to hold the remote and your bag of pork rinds. Or maybe a something that zips around your desk at work so you can be warm and cozy and still have your hands free to fill out your time-sheets or report that creepy intern to HR. At this rate, It won’t be long before we’re all living in big, fleece nests where all the rooms will be connected by secret, fuzzy tunnels. The Snouse? The Snabode? The Snwelling!! Get on board, active people of America. There is no shortage of contraptions that advertisers want to wrap around you to keep you sedentary and in  your Snwelling, no one can hear you scream.

When I was a kiddo, we used to spend summers with my grandparents in Auburn Massachusetts. That’s just South of Worcester for those of you unfamiliar with tiny New England towns.

6 Idlewood Drive was where my mom and uncles had grown up and to me, it was better than Disneyland. There was a huge, faux-wood panelled basement with cosmic wall-to-wall carpeting that I’m sure was from the Elvis for Service Merchandise collection, an upright piano to play Heart and Soul ad nauseum and a yellow telephone chair in the kitchen that moonlighted as a step-stool or fort joist. If I had a dollar for every hour spent playing Love Boat and Charlie’s Angels with my cousins, I would be a few years into my retirement on my yacht in the Maldives.

My favorite room was the den. Their television (also from Service Merchandise, no doubt) was probably about five feet across – not the screen, mind you, and for years there was no remote control. If you wanted Channel 56, (Testify, children of New England!) you had to get up from the very itchy plaid, wool couch and turn the knob. Then, when it was time for your grandmother to watch her “stories”, it would be her turn. When there was multiple sporting events on, all bets were off as to how many of us were jumping up and down to change the channel.

Not only was there no remote control, there was a crazy contraption called a router (or Ro-tah if you’re from Boston) which looked like a giant sun dial. Every time you changed the channel you also had to crank the router to the right or the left to turn the antenna on the top of the house for optimum reception. There always seemed to be a grandchild elected to sit inches away from the screen to tend to this.

Eventually, the behemoth television was replaced with a relatively sleeker model (with a remote) and the router was replaced by a cable box. The plaid, wool couch also went the way of the dodo and all nine of us grandchildren actually got to have a seat on something other than the vinyl hassock. And there were other summers in other places spent doing other things that, at the time, seemed monumentally more exciting than watching Fantasy Island in your grandparents den with a bowl of vanilla ice cream on a TV tray – but I can’t remember what they are.

Before first dates and first jobs and first failed attempts, there was a television without a remote in a house in New England where you felt the most good. And sometimes what seems like doing nothing much will be what you end up remembering the most fondly.