wordless wednesday.....before and after

Take it all, everything but my yoga studio

The strangest thing just happened. And full disclosure, I'm not even sure that it really happened. But whether it did or did not really happen does not change the intense feelings that I felt about it. Feelings that took me so by surprise, feelings that so smacked me down, and so humbled me, that either way, I guess I needed it.

Today was my first day back in the office after 9 days off. So, suffice is to say, it was busy. After work I spent some time with a friend, which left me totally preoccupied as I headed to my local and favorite yoga studio for the 7 pm class.

I walked in behind a woman about my age.  A woman with olive skin, dark hair, and a gray streak right in the front. I continued mired in my thoughts, but there was something vaguely familiar about her.

I looked again. On this second glance, my breath caught. Oh my fucking god, could it be? Is that seriously Denise?! You do remember Denise, right? It's been a while, as in it's been many years since she's worked her way into my blog posts, but here I am again, in 2013, totally flipping bent on Denise!

Jesus, didn't I let this go years ago? Aren't I fine with everything? I have let it ALL go. Haven't I? I have forgiven Michael for breaking my heart. I really have. I would not be sane today if I hadn't. (And I never laid the marriage's failure at Denise's feet. She was not the one who made a commitment to me.) I'm doing my damnedest to make the post-divorce relationship a smooth one with Tommy, my second ex-husband. I work hard on not getting worked up about what I feel he could be taking more responsibility for. I cannot afford to keep it all, so I let it go.

It's what I do. It's  my MO, I move on. I let things GO. 

It's not an automatic; it's always a work in progress -- something that I know is good for me. And one of the places that I work on this the most is in the yoga studio. In my local yoga studio. In OB. I can't hold on to it all or it will drag me down to murky depths beneath the nearby pier. (Which in OB are sure to be littered with syringes, peeled-off crunchy OB seagull stickers, beer bottles, and used condoms.)

But here she is, in my fucking yoga studio! In OB. I am no longer detached. I am angry. I am a territorial shrew. In my studio?! Take my husband, but please, oh please do NOT tread on my sacred space. The space where I am most myself.

Indie is not a big studio. Nor is it in an easy to access location. It's one block from the ocean, there is no parking. Why would you be here? Did you move to OB? (You were near a bike when I first saw you.) Are you gonna be in some, or half, or all of my future classes? Are you going to co-opt my whole life?

I know, how egocentric, how self centered, how territorial, but the woman did not do any yoga when she started seeing my husband behind my back. I heard from friends that she started doing hot yoga at CorePower a few years ago, and now, pow,  you're in my class?! Here? In my studio? This is not a yoga-mill studio. There is a sense of community here. A sense of belonging. You, Denise, do not belong.

She was near me in class, a little behind and to the right. I could see her entire practice, and she mine. Mine was strong tonight, and although I should be ashamed to admit it, I was glad for this. I stood tall, I reached high, I kept my front leg bent to 90 degrees, my breath moving, my heart open, my core engaged, my quads tight, my twist twisted -- you name it. I did it.

(SO not what the yoga studio is for.)

I don't know if it was real or imagined, but she skipped postures, she shrank back. Could she feel my rage? My bitchy sense of ownership, my totally undeserved feelings of belonging more than her?

My shame came full circle at the end of class, when the teacher said, as she usually does, to acknowledge the divine light that resides in each of us (in each and every one of us) in the yoga studio tonight. To not only acknowledge it, but actually bow down to this truth.

Yes, I bowed, to you, Denise. To you.

You and me, we're the same. Equal in our radiance and shadow.

Welcome to Indie.

Wedidit!

When Jacquie's girl was a wee tiny tot, she used to climb waaay up onto the couch in the playloom -- as Jacquie's boy used to call it -- using her head as ballast, and about halfway up she'd look at us and exclaim, "Ididit!" Um, not quite yet, honey.

Well Mistah and I? This past weekend? Undeniably, wedidit.

Remember the Stuff and Junk?

This stuff and junk? In Mumsie's living room?

Here was Mumsie's living room yesterday:

I know, right?!

Shall we do some more compare-and-contrast?

Mumsie's den a few weeks ago:

(We tried to bury Mumsie, but it didn't take.)*

*kidding!

Mumsie's den yesterday:

The dining room then:

The dining room now:

But what I'm most proud of, and what we worked hardest on, are those two scary-in-the-corners, I-don't-want-to-know-what-may-have-wandered-in spots . . . you guessed it, the garage and the basement.

The garage in the midst of the insanity . . .

. . . and the garage yesterday after I swept and vacuumed:

I wore a mask to cover my mouth and nose, and I wore sunglasses so I didn't have to see *exactly* what I was sweeping up.

The basement, though. The basement was our albatross. Not only did Mumsie have 46 years of crap stored in the basement, but, well, Mistah and I had 12 years of our lovely, unique, valuable belongings stored there too. And not only did we have those lovely, unique, valuable belongings taking up room down there, Mistah had his second library in Mumsie's basement as well . . .

. . . sigh.

This photo is representational of a tiny corner of that gigantic massive monstrosity that was the Mumsie Basement Project.

(You see those cinder blocks holding up the plywood? I made 734 trips up the basement stairs carrying those cinder blocks and their friends. Actually, I think it was 735.)

Hippity Hop. From England. 50 years old. Will. Not. Go. Away.

We had been making progress in the basement all month . . .

 . . . but there was just so much *stuff*.

Oh look! We even found a ping pong table under there!

I polished it up, our friend Chris -- who played on that very table when he was a youngster -- came over to pick it up, and later that very night . . .

Cockles of the Heart? Warmed.

But in the meantime, you're wondering about the current state of the basement?

Voilà.

As of yesterday, basement, done.

Billy's old room, done.

Mumsie's room . . . ooh wait, I left curtains . . . .

. . . done.

Kelly's old room . . . done.

Screened-in porch . . . done.

Mistah suggested we take a final walk around the property and we did just that.

It is our friend's childhood home, after all.

We got back to the front . . .

. . .  and we said our see-ya-latahs . . .

. . . and Westy backed out for the last time.

perfect

My family has been on summer break for approximately 700 days. They are the leisure team, not so motivated to get up and at 'em during these long, lazy days. Every once in a while I get a wild burr up my ass and insist that we are GOING somewhere to do SOMETHING. Right now!

Last week we enticed our friends and cobloggers Beth and family to join us for a fun and creative activity at the ceramics shop

We arrived and set up shop, each selecting the piece we wanted to paint.

Some went the decorative route with random vaguely animal shaped figurines.

Others smugly chose more practical items like a bowl.

Then we each chose our color palatte

Then these two mugs joined us!

what did I ever do to inspire such a look?

no, seriously. what did I ever do to you people?

Everyone worked hard to paint their piece with great care. Some helped out others until the desired result was achieved.

perfect!

perfect!

PERFECT.

Some of us discovered hidden talents that we liked to talk about humbly.

and photograph from many angles.

what a masterpiece!

I love this photo to death. So much to see.

A few days later, our pieces were fired and ready for pick up. So a week after that, I went back to fetch them

Ta Daaaaaaa!

Beth, please tell M that her pooh bearish figure had a small mishap on the drying shelf, and is currently being reglazed and fired. We left your other pieces there as well so as not to incite riotous sibling rage.

Fear not, though. my bowl is ... perfect.

I did not step on a pop top, but still...

I know I have absolutely no right. I know that I they have worked hard for me, under sometimes adverse conditions, year after year after year, but I have to admit, when they blew out last week all I felt was betrayal.

Wtf? Really? That's it?

Yes, I picked you up for $1.99 at Old Navy, what, 7 years ago? And yes, your black and low profile and super comfy and so easy to wear, so I did it all the time. But right now? Like this?

This was no the-bottom-round-thingymabob-slips-through-the-hole-but-you-can-still-fix-it-with-some-ingenious-tip-from-Pinterest situation.

No.

It was a clean break from the top. A break from which you can never recover. A we're-completely-through-there-is-no-going-back break-up.

Sigh.

Just look at them though. Perfectly worn in. My feet forever etched into their silky rubber. Okay, so maybe they are so worn in that I have to take them off if walking on wet pavement or any other wet surface because there is absolutely no tread left and I fear for my life. But I was OK with this. I loved them. I worked around it.

I didn't even care about the missing bite and tiny teeth marks that my former baby dog made in them, years and years ago. These were just part of the deal. A quick way for me to recognize them among the crush of other black flip flops at various yoga studios.

But no more. The perfect relationship has come to an end.

I will miss you, and always think of you tenderly, Old Navy black flip flops. But there is only one thing to do....go buy another.