Destressing with Yoga

One of the things I look forward to most during the work week is yoga. Work is stressful - thinking about money is stressful. Life is stressful. But I can always breathe away the tensions of the day by walking into that sanctuary that is my favorite yoga studio.

I have my preferred teachers at the studio, one of which teaches a 5:30 class. I race out of work at 5:00 on the days she teaches so I can JUST make it to the studio in time. It's a level one. Easy. I just want to destress. I don't need anything fancy.

Imagine my disappointment this evening when I strolled into the classroom to see ... someone who wasn't (let's call her Becky) Becky. "Where the *!$*% is Becky?" I thought to myself, clearly in need of her class. As I headed over to my spot (because I'm a creature of habit) the substitute, (let's call her Bitchface) ordered, "Don't put your mat there! Put it over here or over there!" I suddenly became aware of the vibe in the room. The vibe screamed, "We already hate this woman." Bitchface wanted us to arrange our mats in a very particular way that was obviously not winning over the love and admiration of everybody.

Bitchface then took 10-12 minutes out of yoga time to have us all introduce ourselves; name, years of yoga experience and if we have any ailments ... "Cara. 10 years and I hate you." There was no way Bitchface was going to memorize all of the 20 names in the class and it was a frustrating waste of time. Nobody is impressed if you know our names. Can we get in downward dog now?

Bitchface also was very yelly. She yelled everything she said and everything sounded like a command or a criticism - and she seemed awfully defensive, too.

This was not relaxing.

In fact, my muscles became increasingly tense throughout the class. Nails on a chalkboard. Bitchface also admonished an elderly man in the class who couldn't hear. "YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO SIT IN THE FRONT OF THE ROOM IF YOU CAN'T HEAR." He didn't budge ... because he can't hear. "IF YOU CAN'T HEAR, I CAN'T TEACH YOU." That, he heard - and responded with, "Would you like me to leave?" She finally waved it off dismissively and continued to YELL in a condescending, scolding tone. "COME TO THE FRONT OF THE CLASS EVERYBODY AND WATCH ME PUT MY SHOULDERS ON MY BACK! COME HERE AND WATCH ME!!! ... IF YOU CAN'T SEE WHAT I'M DOING, I CAN'T TEACH YOU!!" (I expected, "YOU NASTY LITTLE CHILDREN!" to follow).

Boy, I was really missing Becky. Becky speaks to us in soft tones. She helps me to melt away my stress. Just as I was thinking about how much I wanted Becky back - Bitchface appeared over me and manhandled me to get my foot in the place she wanted it. I felt hate. And I'm pretty sure one is not supposed to feel hate in a yoga class.

I started to wonder if I was the only person feeling disgust and thought maybe I misread the vibe I picked up on earlier. But as that thought entered my mind, a woman rolled up her yoga mat, put away her props and left the room in a huff. In all of my 10 years taking yoga - this has never happened.

30 minutes of more abuse went by in what seemed like a mere 2 hours. At the end of the torturing, Bitchface yelled, "THANK YOU ALL FOR STAYING EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT BECKY. I KNOW I'M NOT BECKY. I'M ME AND I CAN'T BE BECKY." You're tellin' me, sister.

I can honestly say that Bitchface was the absolute worst yoga instructor I've ever had - and that includes the drunk dude who did a handstand and fell over on top of me.

Come back, Becky.

New Yorker in LaLa Land

When ordering at a Starbucks in New York City, one wouldn't dare saunter away from her seat, leaving her wallet, keys, purse, baby, etc. at her chair to pick up her beverage when her name is called. No. You drag everything with you. Why? Because it's New York. As fast as you can say, "Give me my f**kin' drink," someone can make off with your purse and manage to find time to leave a note that reads "I know where you live."

So imagine my surprise when I noticed that here in L.A., people leave EVERYTHING at their tables when the coffee person calls their names to pick up their drinks. It actually makes my palms sweat to watch this. My mind races, "Don't they CARE if someone makes off with their credit cards? Don't they KNOW what a pain it is to cancel cards and get a new driver's license and what if their car keys are in that purse? How will they get home!? DON'T THEY KNOW THE DANGER THEY'RE IN!??!" After this dialogue in my mind, I clutch my purse tighter. I've often had the urge to hide someone's keys so when they return, they go into a panic. "THAT'LL teach them a lesson," I think.

These people are also dressed in flowing, floral patterns and flip-flops. They walk in a relaxed manner as if they have all the time in the world. I, on the other hand, have not lived in NYC for almost two years but still wear black -- and I'm always too cold to wear dresses. And I'm still hurried ... not nearly as much as I was two years ago, but enough where people comment that I need to calm down.

This week I had a realization. The 747 ... (You know, Air Force One) that was stupidly flown over NYC on Monday brought back memories of running for my life on 9/11. It was kind of an emotional week for me, even though I'm clear across the country now. During a break at work, I walked to the nearest Starbucks (one of them, anyway). As I clung to my purse, waiting for the caffeine I should probably stay away from, I felt the welling of tears in my eyes. I had my sunglasses on, so, you know, what does it matter? This was one of the great things about being in NYC. You could bawl your head off and nobody would bug you. Crying in the subway was always a great release. I'm not sure why it would happen. I could have just waited to get into my apartment, but for some reason the subway seemed to be the place to just let it go. Sunglasses on, tears streaming and nobody noticing.

But, damn it. Wouldn't you know someone in the Starbucks this Wednesday noticed and got all concerned and I could see them inching closer to ask, "What's wrong?" I put up my invisible NYC subway shield that reads, "Get the **** away" and they aborted the approach.

The realization I had is this -- I'm not in NYC anymore. It's different here!! People are more trusting.

After a full week of turmoil, a co-worker took me to lunch on Friday. It was a buffet. We ordered our drinks and got up to head over to the table of food. I stood, paused and left my purse on the seat as I walked away.

"Are you sure you want to leave your purse right there?" asked my lifelong Los Angeles resident co-worker.

"It's a test." I thought. "Yup. It'll be OK." And wouldn't you know, it was.

Super Inner Freak

Well, it’s true. If you’re a single gal in New York City, the best way to find a husband is to move. Far away. After moving to California in August – I immediately started dating a great guy who, not-so-coincidentally, has been friends with my brother for over 15 years.

As of March 1, I am Mrs. Cara Downs.

When I told my parents I would be changing my name, they were very, very, very, very thrilled. Worth is not my maiden name. For some reason, I’d been hanging onto my ex-husband’s name for 10 years. It’s just easier than Gizzarelli. People have a hard enough time with Cara without me having to spell out Gizzarelli on top of it.

At a certain coffee chain that shall remain nameless, (Hint: it rhymes with CarChucks), where they try to make you feel like you’re at home by taking your name and calling it out when your drink is ready … the barristers yell out, “Carol!? Skinny latte!” Or, “Laura!!! Skinny mocha!! …. Laura? LAURA!!!?” And my favorite, “Paris! Chai latte!” How one gets ‘Paris’ out of ‘Cara’ I’ll never know.

Aside from the name change (which still isn’t completely official … there are many hoops to jump through), the biggest adjustment to marriage is that someone is watching and getting to know my Inner Freak.

I’d been living on my own, in the concrete jungle of New York City, for 10 years. I’m used to putting things down and finding them where I left them. I’m used to eating a whole pint of ice cream without someone staring at me in fear. I’m also used to having full conversations with my cat, something I’m not entirely proud of because at a certain age it starts to be really sad. At 25 it’s kind of cute. At 35 you may consider therapy. Nearing 40 … you’re starting to be that lady that children are afraid to visit on Halloween. Don’t get me wrong, I still talk to the cat. She just doesn’t answer me much anymore.

My Inner Freak also doesn’t understand why my husband won’t allow me to hang up my framed Cheap Trick albums. What? Stop looking at me like that! THEY’RE REALLY COOL LOOKING! They remain neatly rested against a bare wall in our apartment. They’re waiting for him to weaken and acquiesce. Besides, if his Inner Freak can have a huge framed photo of Hank Aaron in our bedroom, why can’t the product of my Inner Freakdom be prominently and proudly displayed? Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Accepting each other’s Freakishness?

My Inner Freak also has me up and awake at 6AM on Saturdays. The naked wall is calling to me. The husband’s Inner Freak has him sleeping far into Saturday mornings (although, that’s actually quite normal from what I’m told). The hammering of the nails won’t even wake him. {Insert evil Freakish giggle here.} Ah, marriage.

Baby, You Can Drive My Wreck.

What is one to do when one has moved to California with no job lined up, no apartment and no means of transportation?

The answer: Cry.

But since I’ve lost the ability to cry a couple of years ago (what’s that about?), one does the next best thing … nap.

I’m lucky enough to be staying in my brother’s gorgeous house in Redondo Beach, but I hate feeling like a slug. So after a week of letting myself adjust to the time change, I went out and rented a car from a company who shall remain nameless (they’ll pick you up, you know). They’ll also ROB YOU BLIND. I won’t even tell you how much money it cost to rent a car for a week. I’ll just say that I feel like a frickin’ idiot.

Within the week, I panicked about how to purchase a car. I got all kinds of advice … “Just bite the bullet and buy a new car and resign to the fact that you’ll be in debt for the rest of your life,” “Buy a piece of crap from a private owner until you get a job and can afford a real car,” “Buy a pre-owned car from a dealer and be in debt for the rest of your life,” and “Move back to New York City, lunk-head, you don’t belong in California.”

My new honey has been a complete angel and within the past few days has driven me from car-dealer to car-dealer through-out all of Los Angeles. He listened to the flashy car salesman blather on about financing, mileage and automatic whatythings and I pretended I didn’t speak English. Then we’d get back into his car and I’d take a nap.

Today I turned in my pretty 2007 expensive rental and went to a place where you can rent a wreck (their words). Let me tell you, they ain’t lying. It’s a wreck. My honey had to go back to work, leaving me all by my lonesome way out … somewhere … “All you have to do is take this road. It’s a straight line until you get to Manhattan Beach Blvd.” You would think that would be easy enough but somehow I managed to get lost and nearly drove right into the ocean.

I did end up finding my way back here, though. And now with my wicked cheap rental, I can turn the focus on finding a job.

Arrested in NYC

One week to go. The movers will be here on Sunday and my flight is on Monday. This, of course, means that on Sunday night I’ll be sleeping in an empty apartment. No bed. No chairs. No air-conditioner. But I will have my 15-year-old cat who will probably freak out and have one of her bowel issues (don’t ask).

Speaking of freaking out … This week, New York decided to give me one more belly laugh before I go (and I'm not speaking of the Con Ed explosion that shut down my office for 3 days). I was summoned for jury duty for August 24. I will, God willing, be in California at that point. Since I’ve been hopped up on caffeine for the past week, I thought it was probably a good idea to panic. I called my brother, Dave. Dave is the guy you want to call when things seem a little out of control. He’s calm. He’s rational. He’s soft-spoken. Naturally, he put it all into perspective for me, saying, “Just tell them you moved. It’s no big deal. The worst thing they can do is issue a warrant for your arrest.” Thanks, bro.

I’ve reached the point where I have to pack all my kitchen stuff. I hate this part because you have to pack the coffeemaker (although, this is probably for the best. My nerves will thank me). I also have to pack all my pots, pans, etc. So for the next week, I’m eating nothing but take-out. Yay. Grease is the word! Which reminds me, I’m looking forward to trying one of those In and Out Burgers when I get to California. I’ve heard so much about them and they don’t have those here on the East Coast. The name, though, leaves a little to be desired but they must be popular for a reason.

It’s time for me, however, to get back to sitting here in a packed-up, uncomfortable room. I got rid of my sofa a week ago and I got nothin' but two hard kitchen chairs. So it's either a hard chair or a hard floor. I'm sure, though, when I'm in prison for not serving jury duty I'll wish I had this hard kitchen chair so I must appreciate it while I can.

Got a Sedative?

Three weeks and counting … The move to Los Angeles nears. I’m getting more jittery and I can’t sleep. The list of things I have to take care of grows. As soon as I cross something off of my list – something else occurs to me and I add it to the list.

The plan was to have one of my brothers fly here, pack up my stuff and we’d drive across the country. After doing some research, I discovered that having movers do the whole thing would be cheaper and less stressful on my 15-year-old cat. I went to the vet to get a mild sedative for the cat to take an hour before we are to fly. He told me to give her half a pill, but then he gave me four whole pills. I’m assuming that the extra three and a half pills are for me.

I’m throwing out as much crap as I can and selling some stuff, too. Last week, I created a box full of stuff containing, mostly, wedding gifts from my marriage that ended ten years ago. I never use the stuff and it just reminds me of a bad time in my life so BE GONE! You gotta love New York. New Yorkers love free crap. I set the box out on the curb with a sign that read “Free Stuff” and it disappeared within fifteen minutes. I set out a little bookcase that was probably worth about $5 with a sign that read “Take Me, I’m Yours!” (which is also the title of a Cheap Trick song) – It was gone within ten minutes. I’m thinking of doing the same with my vet bill accumulating cat, but I won’t.

It’s Saturday and I’m facing another day of packing and throwing stuff out (so, naturally, I’m procrastinating). During the week, I’m working my butt off making as much money as I can in case I end up car-less and stranded in my brother’s house for months. Every weekend, I look around and see that my stuff has miraculously multiplied. I always considered myself a minimalist until now. WHERE IS ALL THIS STUFF COMING FROM!?!? I'm never purchasing anything ever again.

Nobody is buying my kitchen cart off of craigslist, damn it. I don’t want to take it with me and it’s too heavy for me to lug down the four flights of stairs to set it on the curb. Anybody out there need a kitchen cart?

Some day I’ll look back on this and laauuuuuugh. But until then, I’m eyeing those kitty sedatives.

The Move

So I'm planning The Move from New York to California. People ask me how it's going and my response is "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

I received my lease renewal in the mail the other week. Anyone who lives in NYC knows that finding a rent stabilized apartment that you pay less than $900 for is a miracle. So have I checked off that "Not renewing" box yet and sent the thing back to the landlady? No. Every time I try to I break into a cold sweat. Could I get someone in here and sublet? Absolutely. However, that's a pain and I'd have to trust the person not to have wild parties or drill a hole into a wall thus crumbling the entire thing causing the ceiling to cave (hey, it could happen).

I'm going to make a clean break. {{shudder}} {{sweat}} {{faint}}

One of my brothers has so kindly offered to fly here from California and drive across the country with me. Drive. Oh, yeah. People in California drive. A lot of people (like me) in NYC don't. I haven't driven in 11 years and I was stupid enough to let my Massachusetts driver's license expire. So guess what that means? I got to take my learner's permit test surrounded by a bunch of teenagers the other week. Thankfully, I passed. (Wheew, that would have been embarrassing). I signed up with a driving school so when I take the road test, I'll have a car. Before I take the test, I decided I should take a brush-up driving lesson. My instructor was a 70 year-old good-natured guy, but when he found out I let my Massachusetts driver's license expire, he lit into me for a good 20 minutes. He was clearly used to teaching teens because he showered so much praise on me for driving a straight line and signaling when I turned -- which only made the experience all the more humbling.

It's like I'm 16 all over again. I have no money, I'm learning to drive and in a couple of weeks I'm going to see, like, my favorite, like, band with my, like, really cute boyfriend {snaps gum}.

My life is right on schedule.

I'd go on, but in order to ensure that I'll get my security deposit back I have to get started painting the bathroom to cover up the lavender color I painted it 7 years ago when I moved in (what was I thinking?). And maybe, just maybe, when I'm done I'll check off that "Not renewing" box on the lease. {{faint}}