“Awkward.”

I hear and use that single word on such a regular basis, it almost seems to define most of the interactions of my life - which seems weird when I really think about it. But, I recently watched this YouTube video in which two guys acted out various “awkward” ways we accidentally touch each other on a semi-regular basis. And let me tell you, I thought this was hil-aarrrr-ious. My friends and I probably laughed for longer than the video’s level of hilarity even deserved. It was just so TRUE, and that was the only thing I really thought about it until this morning.

My mind wanders immensely in the mornings. I probably write down 3 or 4 different ideas that I want to write about between the hours of 9 and 11 in the morning. It’s glorious - a never ending cycle of ideas and thought, each seemingly more magical and earth-shattering than the one before it. Now, of course I’m well aware that my ideas are not all as brilliant as they seem to my morning-hazed and decaffeinated brain, but I do take note of each one with the hope of finding a few gems amongst the chaos. However, this particular thought/memory that crossed my mind this morning has stuck with me all day. Why was that video so damn funny? Why are those accidental touches so “awkward”?

It became somewhat clear to me, from the shared experience of myself and my friends, that we, as a society, find physical contact a somewhat aggravating and aversive experience. I know that I can’t categorize all physical contact and touch as a negative experience. I really shouldn’t be categorizing experiences at all, because I only know how I feel and how I interpret things. But for the sake of what I’m trying to say and this idea that I’m trying to explain, and the fact that this video of “awkward touches” exists on the Internet with thousands of hits (the YouTube equivalent of “we agree”) I ask that you indulge my use of the general “we” for the remainder of this post. Thanks loves.

Now back to it. I’m not trying to argue that our society resists every kind of touch. There are millions of different instances where this is not the case - holding hands with someone you love, bear hugs from an old friend, celebratory high-fives, dancing, cuddling, massages, kisses - I could go on forever, but in each of these situations there exists a familiarity, a mutual agreement between two or more people that they want to be touched by the other. And without this agreement, without this trust, we feel innately uncomfortable with the idea of physically touching another person.

Think about it. Public transportation - we search desperately for that last empty pair of seats, and when we find them, we pray even more pleadingly that the one next to us stays empty. We put bags, coats, anything on that open seat, speaking our silent language that all Americans seem to instinctively understand, “this seat is not available.” And then how do we feel, if god forbid, all of the seats on the bus/plane/train/whatever are taken and some stranger must take the place of our bag? “Awkward.” We try to squeeze ourselves into the smallest possible cocoon of a human being, avoiding all accidental knee grazes, shoulder bumps, or - oh my god - collisions over the armrest. (the horror)

And when we think about why this makes us so uncomfortable, just a casual touch. It’s because we realize that no touch is casual. Sure, physical contact between best friends or lovers is never thought twice about, but how long did it take you to get to that point? When did you stop worrying about your personal space, and think of it as shared space? When did you let this person in? That’s the real question. We always talk metaphorically about how we let people “into our hearts” and all that crap, but do we ever think about the moment when we let down our physical boundaries? Because sometimes hugging is uncomfortable too. And dancing, and kissing, and cuddling, and massages, and everything I listed before that seems to be universally wonderful. It all depends on the person and the relationship.

But why? Now, I’m not saying we should all go run out and hug the first person we meet on the street, because we’d probably get arrested. But, I do find it incredibly strange that one of the most difficult things for me during my yoga teacher training was learning how to touch people. How is that something that I had to learn? We did exercise after exercise, learning to trust, to develop intention and courage, to shed the fear of touching a stranger. I remember the very first night at Kripalu, within seconds - and I mean seconds - of meeting everyone in our training class, we were asked to turn to the person next to us and give them a shoulder massage. How innocent and kind is that? NOT. I was thoroughly uncomfortable from beginning to end, but from that point on, touching was all we did. And I know it was why we were so close. Because there’s something about physical touch. I think it’s the same something that saves premature babies. Because, when you stop analyzing and thinking and worrying about what every touch means, you realize what it feels like. It feels good. It’s the most basic level on which we as humans can connect to one another. When words can’t translate, and symbols don’t have meaning, it’s the only way we can relate.

I have to keep reminding myself. This is only a temporary state of mind. The burning sensation in my gut will pass, and the screaming picture reel on loop in my mind has to cut out eventually. Things change, and this mind state, this emotional hindrance is only temporary. I have to keep reminding myself or else I will explode. I will do something I regret, something that will make it impossible to return to that peaceful place of ignorant contentment I’ve made my home for so long.

It was easier when we didn’t talk about it, easier for this state of anger to feel as transient as my better half knows it is, just a piece of lint on the tweed jacket of my brain that can be picked off at will. Except, we messed it up. Words were exchanged – no, f*ck that. We didn’t “exchange” anything. We chucked our words across our world built of glass and watched them shatter months of hard work creating this illusion of companionship. They were partial words, at best, but words all the same. We forced them out of our hearts’ warm and protective crevasses and spewed them into the harsh coldness of the world before they were ready. These words were our downfall. But, how can we place this amount of fault and blame on such premature words? They hadn’t grown the necessary layers of placating calmness or hope for reconciliation. They still boasted their proudly accusatory tones and a sharpness we could taste as they rolled so slippery off our drunken, eager-to-hurt tongues.

So, now I can only sit here and remind myself that my anger is not forever. It feels like forever, it feels like I can never forgive you – no, it feels like I never want to forgive you. And it feels like you never want to forgive me, like those partial and premature words will destroy us. Right here, lost in this deep seething hole of anger, I want to build a new home out of the blackness. I want to dig myself deeper and deeper into this pit of suffocating shadow until you have to follow me in if you want to get to me.

But then, I have to keep reminding myself. This anger is only temporary. I know this because there’s always another part of me, the previously mentioned better half, who never feels what I feel. She’s my silent observer, watching me closely, just waiting for me to notice her back. She’s always there, pushing me with her taciturn presence to let go and realize just how fleeting it all really is. So I always know that I know, but I have to keep reminding myself anyway, because I’m still so struck by why the darkness always seems so alive. 

A part of me feels the need to describe all of the different things I learned about yoga at Kripalu before I begin to explain what Ahimsa means, and why it’s so important to me, but that would take about an hour’s worth of writing and reading, and honestly, I don’t think either of us is ready for that. So, I’m gonna skip the intro, and get straight to the meat of it all.

But firsttttt, I guess you gotta know the basics. Yoga translates literally into “to yoke,” “to join,” or “to unite.” On one level (the only level I’m going to get into right now) the purpose of yoga is to create harmony between the body, mind, and spirit - to take these three separate entities and “yoke” them into one. And, an important part of all this yoking stuff is Patanjali’s 8 limbed path. For now, just trust me that there are 8 limbs, and trust me that they are all important, because I really just want to talk about the first two - the Yamas and Niyamas, the guidelines for a “good” life. I like to think of the Yamas as the rules by which we should live our external lives by - the ways we interact with the outside world, and the Niyamas as the rules by which we should live our internal lives - how we treat our bodies and ourselves. But of course, the line separating them is often blurred. Especially in terms of Ahimsa, the first Yama, and my personal favorite. Especially today, Valentine’s Day.

Ahimsa literally means non-violence, a.k.a don’t hurt things/people. Which, at first just seems like one of those “ok duh, I know that’s important” kind of rules. We all learn at an incredibly early age that kicking and biting and all those super fun things are bad because they hurt people. And then, we learn the importance of non-violence again when we get a little older, when we figure out that we can also hurt people with our words. We quickly figure out that this is an even worse kind of hurt, because it hurts our feelings - those incredibly fragile and temperamental parts of us that rule almost all of our actions and desires between the ages of 11 and 14, 19, ok FOREVER.

But, Ahimsa embodies so much more than just non-violence. It’s about compassion, kindness, and a thoughtful consideration for every person and living thing we encounter. Which, again, probably doesn’t seem like real earth-shattering stuff. I can picture all of my readers family pausing here in utter astonishment as if to say, ”Ok. You went away for a whole month for yoga school only to return and claim that the most important thing you learned was to be nice??” 

BUTTTTT, I interject to my overly skeptical fans/fam, the real trick, the big challenge, the thing you don’t already know, is that one of the most important and difficult parts of Ahimsa is directing all those efforts and feelings of compassion and non-violence inwards. This is why Ahimsa is my favorite Yama. It used to be what I assumed would be the easiest one to figure out. When trying out all of the different Yamas and Niyamas like one tries on clothes in the morning, seeing which fits best and which is a little too snug or loose to parade in public yet, I knew (or thought I knew) that I would have no problems with Ahimsa. I’m a good person; I don’t like hurting people; I already try my hardest not to ever hurt anyone. Case closed. 

But, I had never noticed how I treated myself before. What I saw wasn’t exactly self-hatred, but it was an extremely heavy dose of self-criticism sprinkled with little bits of frustration and malice. I always knew it was important to “treat others how I want to be treated,” and all that other girlscout hand-holding crap, but HOLD THE FREAKING PHONE…somewhere along the way I forgot to treat myself how I wanted to be treated. And, for me, this is the best part of practicing Ahimsa. It taught me to love myself the way I love everyone else in my life.

So today, on Valentine’s Day, of course I’m thinking of everyone in my life that I love, but more importantly, I’m using today as another reminder to love myself. SO I’m eating more than one of my favorite chocolates without worrying about what it will do to my hips; I’m wearing red and pink all day without assuming that onlookers are judging me; and I’m giving out hand-made cards while telling myself that this doesn’t make me cheap. Today, I’m in a relationship with myself. I’m telling myself that I’m beautiful, and I’m drawing hearts on my notebook with just my name in it. Boyfriend, if you’re reading this…don’t worry, I love you too. But today, I’m being compassionate to the one person I know from first-hand experience needs more than a little compassion - myself.

OK, yes. I understand that this may be a little egocentric/hypocritical/selfish, but I’m becoming increasingly bitter to this new population of so-called bloggers popping up on my facebook news feed. Someone needs to explain this new phenomenon to me. Because I am literally dying to know when you became someone who knew the difference between how to use a semi-colon and a comma? Did you spend your entire college career learning how to placate different professors with different writing styles? Do you even have different writing styles? Have you graduated from the middle school philosophy that every essay MUST have an introduction, 3 body paragraphs, and a conclusion? Basically, why do you think you can write? Yes, I’m being harsh. Am I even sure that I can write? Absolutely not. Which is why I don’t claim “executive editing rights” on anything (quoting a so-called ‘blogger’ I’ve recently read). 

Honestly, all it comes down to is some basic self-respect. I’m not asking for perfect punctuation or flawless grammar - god knows I don’t always practice that crap. But, please. Make it something worth reading. Make me laugh. Make me ponder your choice of adjectives. Make me think, damnit. Don’t make me regret clicking your link and the wasted time I spent reading your blog when I could have been doing something better - like facebook stalking or staring at my ceiling or contemplating that errant dust bunny as it floats by.

And on top of the fact that your college degree in Business or Political Science does not make you a worthy, or more importantly, interesting writer, what made you believe that your knowledge of when to wear a blazer or how to know if a boy is interested in you is anything worth reading? Did you also get a degree in Male Psychology with a minor in Fashion? Because otherwise, I frankly don’t care what you have to say. A blog, in my opinion, should be nothing more than just that, an opinion. We all have our hobbies and our interests, and if you want to write about yours, then do it. Just please don’t write as if you are the decided expert and yours is the absolute final word on the topic. So, if you have an undying obsession for everything Ryan Gosling, then sing it sister. But, if you think for a second that this is enough to qualify your verbal vomit as fact, you can stick your pontificating blog up your over-gracious ass, and hang out for a bit.

It’s funny how a word’s connotations can change as we get older (as only a true Nerd would notice). I remember when being categorized as a nerd was the equivalent to being called a pimply skullduggerous freak. Anytime I even hinted at the remote possibility that I might have actually enjoyed that last chapter of the homework assignment to one of my peers, I would be confronted with the seething and confounded whisper, “you mean…(terrified pause)…you like to read??” Which, I would have to quickly and fervently dispute, “OF COURSE NOT…I was just saying that it wasn’t as bad as usual. Ya know, it was shorter, is what I really meant. Not better. No. Just shorter.” 

One Thing You Must Know In Order To Survive 5th Grade: A shorter book = A better book. Otherwise there is no such thing as a “better” or “good” book.

But that was the problem. I’ve always loved books, even when it was the most uncool thing one could possibly enjoy. I was the little girl who invited 20 girls to her 8th birthday party and got 20 new books as a result. And as ashamed as I was that all of my friends had somehow discovered my private pastime, I was also thrilled to have so much new reading material. Though, this of course was something I would never admit out loud. And so began my denial phase - the period of my young life when I actually tried to pretend that I didn’t think inhaling the aroma of a well-loved old library book was the most awesome thing since I stopped playing with Barbies (openly) and that I hadn’t cried when my little sister lost my signed copy of the 3rd Harry Potter book (which I got signed IN PERSON). I tried desperately to convince myself that the Power Rangers were more interesting than Shel Silverstein’s poems and that The Beauty and the Beast should only be enjoyed in its film version. Because, what was better than all the books in the world? Friends. Duh. And nerdy kids just didn’t have a lot of friends. Granted, I know being a little book-wormish was probably the least of my problems as a child (I was flat out weird) but it definitely didn’t help my situation. So, after years of practice, I eventually learned to think of school work as an actual chore. Which leads me to the next phase: high school.

One Thing You Must Know In Order To Survive High School: Nerds can be mean too. You must choose your side.

Now, I understand high school is a rough time for a lot of people, especially this category of youngsters of which I’m professing to be a part. But, my situation in high school was a little different from most of my nerdy peers. Because of my extremely adept and chameleon-like assimilation techniques prior to high school, I had managed to wiggle my way into an extremely non-nerdy social group. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my friends from high school, I’m still friends with most of them, but our differing levels of academic interest left me consistently alone in all my classes. For, even though I was able to shut off my nerd-like delight in everything school, I was not able to shut off my brain, and thus I skated seamlessly through my high school education into the land of Honors and APs. Alone. Cue Attack of the Nerds. I was instantly a creature of aberration in my new classes, despised for the very trait I had been trying desperately to cultivate for my entire young adult life (anti-nerdiness). They made it clear within days that in their eyes: a) I did not belong, b) I would not last, and c) I did not possess even a fraction of the intelligence of which they were endowed. Sometime during my frenzied quest to be “normal,” I had missed this entire group of kids who just decided to say, “f*ck it” and embrace what I had so readily shunned from my own personality. And damn. They were awesome.

I eventually cracked their steely posterior and shimmied my way into their good graces, and that was when I finally realized it. Nerds are COOL. I developed some of my most meaningful relationships from those kids, and if they ever happen to read this…thanks. You rock. And you also bring me to my next phase of life (also my current phase): embracing the Nerd. It was like all of a sudden, high school ended and so did all of the Nerd stigmas that went with it. Granted, I know that Vanderbilt is a university where it’s generally accepted that if you attend, you’re pretty smart, but it was mind-boggling for me to hear my fellow classmates speak openly and even PROUDLY of their nerdiness. The phrase, “OMG, I’m suchhhhh a nerd,” (spoken in that mock-embarrassed voice in which you might also hear someone profess that they are likewise “suchhhhh a slut”) was such a common occurrence in my day-to-day life that I quickly realized being a nerd had somehow become strangely acceptable and even admirable. 

I think the transformation probably had something to do with the increased level of competition inserted in our lives as we got older. Either way, I don’t think it’s simply my own self-acceptance that has left me able to confess, without shame or hesitiation, that I am a full-fledged and willing Nerd. Somewhere along the way, it became less scary to be me. And now, at age 23, I can finally say with some much needed assertiveness what and who I am. NERD LIFE REPRESENTTTT.

Where is the line between understandable and inacceptable? What is the breaking point? When do you know that you’ve gone too far? How do you know if it’s the last straw? What’s expecting too much? What’s normal?

I know I’m not entirely happy. But I’m not entirely unhappy either. I guess some might say that I just want to have my cake and eat it too, but I dont think that’s a fair summation of my life. Why does there have to be such a violent give and take. Sometimes when I consider my current state and the different aspects that make up my days, I know it could be a lot worse and that in the grand scheme of things I am lucky. But other times, I wonder if I’m giving other people too much credit, and not enough to myself. What it really comes down to, is “how much is too much?” How much abuse should I have to put up with to enjoy a regular paycheck? How much daily agony should I endure in order to stay among the people I love? The problem is that I don’t even know where to begin to answer these questions. I’m constantly torn between a fear that I’m being greedily overzealous in my pursuit of happiness and a fear that I’m allowing my daily grievances to go too far.

I know that every single person on this planet has obstacles, challenges and other enormous difficulties throughout their lives. One of my favorite quotes is “Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” (Plato said this, which only furthers my awe of the intelligence of that time) And I’d like to think that I live by those guidelines, but I know that I also have my moments of unnecessary negativity. Yet, I also know this is one of those universal truths everyone’s always trying to find. It’s a part of the human condition. We all have our battles - whether they are comparably larger or smaller than others doesn’t ever make a difference when we’re living through them. All it comes down to is the fact that if I was to ask a stranger in a suit on the street if his life was easy, we all know what he would say - No. Life isn’t supposed to be easy. We all have our happy moments (hopefully) and our “other” moments - those times when all we see is darkness and it feels like there’s no escape anywhere. But, the most important thing that I try to hold on to (that my time at Kripalu allowed me to realize) is that none of these emotions or mind states are permanent. That’s all they are - states of the mind. And by their very nature, they are always transient - set off and subdued by the constantly changing environment around us. 

So, I guess the bigger question I’m grappling with isn’t whether my situation is “too much,” or whether I “should have to” put up with it - but whether I can. I need to figure out how deeply I’m able to withdraw from my own debilitating mind states - whether I can take a step back when things are at their worst and realize that it will end. Nothing is permanent, including the hard times. Which of course is one of the most impossible things to notice when we’re caught up in that moment of despair and everything seems to be falling apart. But, that’s when it’s most important to remember. No one wants to think of the temporality of emotions when we’re happy. We want to believe that those feelings last forever. But, they don’t either. 

People aren’t joking when they say that life is an emotional rollercoaster. That’s exactly what it is. It’s just extremely hard to see the plunges when we’re at the peaks, and even harder to see the peaks when we’re at the very bottom. In the end, the most important thing I can do is apply Plato’s wonderful and brilliant words to myself. I have to be kinder to myself. Because, I of all people know the hard battles I’m fighting, and if no one else is going to do it, I have to be the one to pat myself on the back and say, “you did good.”

I wasn’t planning on writing anything tonight, actually. But, I find that when you’re on a roll, it’s best to just go with it. And tonight happens to be one of those rolling nights. Plus, I’m in a mood, and I feel the need to let out some steam, so here it goes…

Pet Peeves. My biggest pet peeve- the pet peeve numero uno - is when adults (I refuse to categorize myself as one of them) respond to any observation I’ve made about my own life with the unnervingly aggravating statement, “Welcome to the real world, kid.” Now, I’ve come to terms with this whole “real world” idea before, but this phrase that so many inhabitants of the older generations have picked up is plain and simply infuriating. 

Firstly, it implies that I am too naive or have been previously too naive to understand the way this so-called “real world” works. That is in no way the case, and it just makes you seem like an arrogant and self-centered ass. I’m allowed to complain about my day, just like you’re allowed to complain about your day. Just because you’ve suffered shitty bosses and bad days for twenty or thirty years longer than I have does not mean that your days are any worse or better than mine. That one simple phrase makes me want to punch you in the face. I won’t do it, but just know, I’m thinking about it intensely.

Secondly, it’s irritating for me that you would classify my world and your world as anything remotely similar to each other. There is no “the real world.” We each have our own realities, and if yours sucks so badly that when anyone complains about anything, you have to announce that they’ve finally become a part of your glorified “real world,” I can honestly say that I’m offended you would define my life as part of such a horrible existence.

Thirdly, I’m not sure why you’re trying to make yourself sound so damn old? I’m twenty-three years old, and though you may think this is synonymous with being a child, it’s not. It’s actually just a reflection of how incredibly bitter and decrepit you’ve become. Chew on that one.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel a WHOLE lot better. You can tell “the real world,” I’ll pass on that bandwagon. 

Flashback: It’s 2003, I’m 14 years old and a freshman in highschool. I’ve just gotten into one of numerous fights with my parents, which causes me to run up the stairs in a fit of hysterics. Just as I make it to my room, I scream out in uncontrolled agony, “NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME,” and with a dramatic slam of my bedroom door, I proceed to bury my face in my pillow and sob loudly until I tire myself out and resign myself to thinking about all the ways I’m alone in this world.

The life of a teenager.

Though, my years of acne and school dances are long behind me, sometimes I still feel like that overly dramatic 14 year old girl had a point. Sometimes I really just don’t feel understood (cue sad music). But in all seriousness, I would give a lot of things to be able to feel like I was a part of the kind of community, the sangha, that I experienced at Kripalu. At first, it was a lot. I walked into that first class the first night wide-eyed, terrified, and with one thought: what the hell have I gotten myself into. But, either I was brainwashed or there was something in the water, because after just a few short weeks, I felt like I was finally around like-minded souls. People that loved and lived the same way I wanted to, people that came from the same mold. There were still a few things I couldn’t necessarily absorb into my overly-analytic brain, but most of it felt cool and refreshing sloshing around in there, as if I had been thirsting for it for a long time.

But now, back in Chicago, I can’t find that kind of reprieve from anything or anyone. I get exhausted just explaining myself through all the strange looks I get. If I had a nickel for every time an old friend told me, “OK, just promise me you won’t get weird,” when I told them that I was going to a month-long yoga teacher training, I would have a lot of nickels right now. And now, that I’ve successfully gone and come back certifiably not-too-weird, I find that I’m constantly returning to that sort of qualifier in regards to my yoga life - always ending any assertion about my beliefs or my practices with some phrase like “but I’m not like crazy about it or anything.” It’s nauseating, really.

Because, why do I have to explain myself? Why does everyone around me look at the Om tattooed to my wrist and immediately give me a look of either confusion like “who does that jew girl think she is?” or fascination like I’m a different kind of human being. 

It all boils down to the fact that I want to fit in. I want to make new friends and keep some of the good ones I’ve dragged with me through the years, but I’m starting to question whether I’ve chosen the right priorities. It’s really starting to get to me that I have to constantly provide explanations for what I enjoy and believe. I think I’m going to have to make a change soon.

Maybe coming back to Chicago was just a bad idea. Too close to home, too familiar to the life that I had before Kripalu. And, to my old friends’ dismay, I may have gotten a little “weird” at Kripalu, and there’s just no going back anymore. As much as I want it, I don’t think I fit in here.

Tomorrow, I go back to school. YIPPEEEEE. 

Really, I’m ecstatic. Could not be more excited, actually. Even though this weekend is going to be a very poor rating on the niyama scale. Sorry, Patanjali, but I’m going to indulge, and I’m going to enjoy it.

But, then I HAVE to ask - is that really so bad? One of my favorite teachers at Kripalu, Danny, taught our nutrition class and told us how there are two different ways that we must nourish our bodies. Obviously, there’s the way that first comes to mind - eating healthy, living healthy, steering clear of all those yucky toxins that we seem to gravitate towards so readily. But, then he said something that really resonated with me. And this could be because I feel like it excuses some of my weaker-health moments, but I’d like to think higher of myself than that. What Danny explained was, sometimes it’s just as important (if not more) to nourish our emotional bodies. In a nutshell, you can eat all the carrots in the world, but you’re still not going to be healthy if you don’t allow yourself a little comfort and happiness.

Now, I may be taking this a little too far with my “get drunk to self nourish” theory, but it works in principle. Vandy was a place where I was truly happy. I loved my friends; I loved the environment; I loved everything about it. And so what if I go wild for a weekend? I NEED THIS. I need to be with these people again, acting like a drunken idiot, and just plain not giving a shit. I miss not giving a shit. I miss being able to use the one-word response, “college” as an answer to any criticism. So perhaps drinking until I can’t remember and dancing into the wee hours of the night isn’t as innocent as Danny’s example of emotional nourishment (he told us how he likes to eat candy from his childhood… oh Danny), it’s the emotional nourishment I need.

So Vandy, HERE I COME. My japa will be waiting for me on Monday. And that’s ok.