Foul Tips

I admit it. I am a card carrying potty mouth. I have even surprised myself with the number of "f-bombs" that have dropped from my lips lately. Makes me sound so fucking bitter.

There seem to be no limits to my foul -- albeit clever and grammatically correct -- mouth. When I taught my small but loyal band of yogis last night, my instructions seemed to be peppered with all sorts of vile words and phrases.  "The other fucking left arm," I admonished one of them. "What's with all the fucking kvetching," I asked the group after they begged, for the fourth time, to focus on lying down poses. "Fuck," I yelled as I showed off my rusty handstand and slammed my right heel a bit too emphatically on the wall that I had intended to use only for psychological support.

Some -- well, actually, most -- yoga teachers offer up spiritual readings and profound thoughts while their students struggle through particularly challenging poses. I am no different. When one of my ladies' ankles began to click quite loudly as she attempted to stretch out a cramp, I launched into my version of an inspirational story. I am a loud and fitful sleeper, so loud and fitful I often wake myself up. I grind my teeth, I have lengthy conversations, I crack my ankles (in case you were wondering what stream of unconsciousness brought this story to mind), and my legs flail and twitch in all directions, particularly if I forget to take my "restless leg" pills. Which got me to thinking I could use a "restless entire person" pill, which then got me to wondering out loud -- while my ladies grimaced and appeared to be in actual pain -- how big such a pill would be and whether I would be able to swallow it.

Oddly enough, and to my credit, this did not lead me into a raunchy discussion about putting large objects in ones mouth and the whole "to swallow or not to swallow" dilemma (I speak here as if I know something about the subject, which, naturally, as a Jewish girl, I do not). In fact, right then and there I got kind of bored with the whole restlessness topic, and doubled back to the teeth grinding issue, admitting that I never wear my ridiculously expensive mouth guard and expect, very soon, to have only tiny stubs left for teeth. Oddly enough, and much to my discredit, this led me back to the blow job issue I had so commendably avoided just moments earlier when the whole idea had, literally, been on the tip of my tongue. I started wondering out loud (those damn voices in my head, they can't be trusted even when I am awake) whether I'd be more popular on my next foray into JDate if I mentioned that my teeth are removable, upon request.

On the off chance you remember that I referred to the above as an inspirational story, you may be wondering what the inspirational piece is. Heck, by golly (I'm trying to clean up my act), you may even be wondering what the story piece is. Doesn't really go anywhere, does it?

If there is a point to any of this, I think it's that even a card carrying potty mouth can have something valuable to contribute. Granted, only a select few are willing to receive what I offer, but sometimes the best way to reach people is to cuss like a drunken sailor. I am reading a book (news in and of itself) written by an Ivy League educated fifty something Jewish woman from New York who abandoned her high powered and high paying career to immerse herself in yoga in an effort to change her life. Except for the high powered and high paying career, we could be the same person. Oh, and except for the fact that she appears to be clever, and has written a funny and engaging book* which I suppose I could have written if I were clever and funny and engaging.

Anyway, there are lots of wonderful little gems in this book, and last night I discovered my new favorite: do not give a shit about the things you shouldn't give a shit about. With my penchant for f-bombs, I probably would have said "flying fuck" instead of "shit," but, no matter how you phrase it, the advice is about as wise as it gets. Words to, um, friggin live by.

*A recommended read: Finding More on the Mat: How I Grew Better, Wiser and Stronger through Yoga, by Michelle Berman Marchildon