The Adventures of
David
Elizabeth
and Leif

Elizabeth here. With my recent shows and general mommyness, I’ve been a very bad blogster. Dear reader, please forgive me. I know you’ve been perched on the edge of your seat since last I wrote in…let me see…November. So sit back and allow me to make up some time by blurbing a few blogs I’ve been brewing. Or should that be blogging a few brews I’ve been blurbing? Anyway, here goes…

CHOICE WORDS
Ahh, Brooklyn. Where comments, advice and expletives flow freely from the tongue. The other day (now a couple of months ago) I was driving to the local pet supply store for a large bottle of, er, stain and odor remover (the need for which is fodder for another blog altogether, but I will probably spare you). In the roundabout, a big white para transit-looking van with the word “Courtesy” emblazoned on its three sides shouldered in front of me and into the left lane. But I, in a sunny mood, merely braked gently and made a mental note of the irony. At the light, I turned right and noticed that Mr. Courtesy had meant to stay in my lane and was now behind me. I approached the pet store, on my left, saw a prime spot directly in front of it and made a quick U-turn to grab it. I think I barely braked.

At this point I heard a screech followed by a shocking string of judgments calling into question my character, my anatomy, even my species. But instead of unloading his dirty outburst, shaking his head and moving on like any normal road-rager, the driver put his white van in park, rolled down his window and continued his commentary for (I’m not kidding) two or three minutes. [As an experiment, try cursing fluently for two minutes straight, it's not easy...]

Some comebacks that occurred to me upon reflection (all, I am pleased and a little surprised to add, devoid of four letterers):
1. “So, I can’t make a U-turn in front of you, but you can sit there and rain curses upon me and my 1-year old for two minutes straight?” Not bad.

2. “Oh my, did I cause you to apply your brakes? I’m so sorry.”

3. “Oh, I see…you’re mad because you were actually trying to pass me across the yellow gore to make your left turn 100 yards ahead when I made my perfectly legal U-turn in front of you.” That one would have felt pretty good. (Though I’m not exactly sure that my turn was, in fact, what one would consider, strictly speaking, ahem, legal…but let’s not mince words here, people.)

4. “It’s a shame that ours is such a reality in which one must SHARE THE ROAD!”

Those are all well and good–amazing how a little hindsight can do wonders for an atrophied Whyioughta muscle–but here’s what I did say:
Me: “What is wrong with you?”
Him: Bleep bleepbleep bleeeeeeeep…YOU CANNOT TURN LIKE THAT!!…bleepitty bleep!, etc., ETC.!!!!
Me: (Nodding, waiting for him to take a breath, and then…) “You know, your sign says ‘Courtesy’.”

Simple. Pithy. Not a big wallop to be sure, but on the whole fairly respectable. It actually felt just right. And at least it got him to–finally–shake his head and just move on.

MILITARY YOGA

So the other day (it really was the other day this time) I tried out a yoga studio in a fairly schwank part of Brooklyn. On my way I passed a lovely young hipster displaying her toned body in a pair of bubble gum pink leggings and a periwinkle spaghetti-strap tank top. Her hair was knotted in two pert little knobs and she was smacking a piece of gum. I smirked, internally, and rolled the insides of my eyes before realizing that I was probably just jealous of her I’ve-never-had-a-baby-so-I-can-keep-this-figure figure. I proceeded to yoga, paying an extra $1 to rent my “mat”, which was a crumbling styrofoamy rag of a thing, and picked my way through the crowded studio to a spot from which I thought it the least likely to slap or poke my fellow yogis. Breathing, breathing, slow stretching, trying to get “centered” and shed the judgment quotient that yoga so wonderfully eschews.

In walks Miss Pink Pants. She’s the teacher. Really friends, there should have been a drumroll, because after a few requisite om’s, she launched us into the most whip-cracking yoga class my hamstrings have ever had the privilege of recovering from. Now, I’m all for a serious workout. If you know me at all it won’t be hard to believe that it’s easier for me to force myself into any number of painful contortions than to sit calmly with a cup of tea. But this lady…wow. Between wandering through the class pulling shoulder blades resolutely together and cranking a leg higher here and there, she sat at the rear of the room barking stern instructions to her exertively obedient class. I half expected her to yell, “DROP AND GIVE ME 20 RELAXING BREATHS–DO IT NOW!!!!!!!”

I shouldn’t be too hard on her. She did give me a couple of helpful adjustments, and the rest of the room seemed to be eating it up, albeit in a sort of predatory, rip-the-tendons-apart-so-the-rest-of-the-pack-will-know-you’re-the-alpha sort of way. But I must say I was relieved when it finally came time for the ending relaxation known as Corpse Pose, in this case appropriately named. But as I focused on sinking into the floor, trying to release all of my now tightly wound muscle groups, Pink Lady came around to me with some final guidance, shoving my shoulders down to the ground and plastering my sweaty eyebrows apart with her forceful thumbs. (Even her thumbs were forcefull??!)

Alas, the attendant at the front desk looked pityingly at me as I declined the offer of saving 20% by buying a 10-class card right then and there. “No thank you, I’m not ready to do that today,” I said. And as I made my way toward the door (with a somewhat frantic desire to leave the joint), I noticed a chalkboard on which was written the inspirational phrase for the day: “Determination is freedom.”