Tag Archives: meditation

Warning: Grumpy Buddhists May Bite

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It felt like 7th grade.  What was I going to wear?  I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, but I also didn’t want to look like a frumpy mom, which I hated to admit, I had totally become.  Actually, it didn’t really bother me to admit that at all (to people in my age bracket).  I sleep in the same thing I wear all day, unless it’s jeans.  I shower at the gym, which means I typically forget my brush, my razor, sometimes my underwear.  I embraced the frump.  “Yoga pants” had become my mainstay; when I brushed my hair and put on non-yoga-pants, my husband would ask me why I was so dressed up.  My frump was fine by me.  Until I went back to school.  All of the sudden I was going to be a 38-year-old graduate student.  I would finish school at age 41, if I finished at all.  Was grad school ready for the frump?

The night before my first class I looked online at the maps of the campus.  The school chose names like “Paramita” and “Nalanda” for their buildings and the classrooms were worse.  My mouth was confused.  How the hell do I say these words and not sound like an asshole?  So, I decided I would not say them until year two.  One step at a time.  I packed a lunch (like a mom would do), I drank some coffee.  My first class was meditation, so I opted to wear yoga pants, just this once.  A class on meditation, how hard could that be?  I’ll sit there and space out.  Groovy man.  I hadn’t had time to do that since I since I’d had a baby six years before.

I entered the foreign named class room.  The floor was covered with back jacks, which are chairs made for young people and the chronically flexible.  I had done this before.  I had been in this same building, this very same room, fifteen years ago.  At that time it was a massage school.  I remembered these chairs.  What I didn’t remember was how hard it was to get out of them, off the floor.  Hello age.  When I’m on the floor, I want to be either licking chocolate off of it or laying down.

My classmates were pretty much what I expected: mid 20’s for the most part, Caucasian for the most part, women for the most part, beautiful for the most part, unwrinkled bodies dressed in stylish clothes, with nice hair.  If there were any slobs, the slob look appeared intentional.  Uh oh.  So, I sat down in my evil back jack (which I keep calling a “flap jack”), feeling like an obvious impostor while trying my best to look relaxed and confident, smiling easily, hoping my butt wasn’t sweating through the yoga pants, questioning my decision to stop wearing deodorant a couple of years ago.  Sure, I am white and female, so that part was easy to blend in with.  But the wrinkles were not going anywhere.

After learning how to mindfully drink from my water bottle and to sit without complaining about my back hurting, I headed to my next class.  I had this all figured out.  It was on another campus, and I would be 5 minutes late because of the drive.  Oh well, I guess that was just the way it works at this school.  In college no one cared if I was late, let alone if I ever showed up.  I raced into the classroom, kind of winded, kind of sweaty, bright-eyed and ready for class.  Everyone was there.  In a circle.  All eyes on the frumpy, wrinkled mama person who does not seem to fit this grad student mold.  The teacher looked at me tragically.  I kid you not.  It was like I had interrupted a funeral.  I started speaking far too fast (especially considering just minutes before I was slowing down, mindfully drinking from my reusable water bottle), explaining my weird schedule, how it wasn’t possible for me to get there on time, etc.  She looked at me with such disappointment in her expression and said, “Well, I just don’t know what you’re going to do.  This isn’t going to work.  You can’t be an hour late for class every week.  This IS graduate school.”  AN HOUR?  What the fuck?  The people in the circle were looking at me, pity on their faces, which I read to say, “Aw.  Look at the poor older student.  She is trying to be a mom and a student.  She can’t even handle her schedule.”  The teacher said we could discuss it later and continued whatever sacred activity had been taking place before my rude arrival.  I left.  I went to the bathroom and cried.  My first day of grad school was only half way over.

I returned to class a bit red-faced and cranky, already hating the teacher for something completely not her fault.  I didn’t like anyone.  I had no one to relate to.  Why was I doing this at all?  I had a job.  I had a life.  Things were going along quite copacetically.  I wanted to be back in my comfort zone.  After class I went to talk to the person in charge of scheduling.

She was all business, which struck me as odd at this Buddhist school of love and peace and mediation and raw diets.  I told her my predicament.  She said, “Well, you can’t take that meditation class, it doesn’t work with your schedule.”  (Duh)  “You’ll have to take this other one.”  I told her that would mean I would have to drive to campus five days a week and get child care and I don’t live in town.  She looked at me sternly and said, “You know, this IS graduate school.”  Really?  I had no idea?  Is that what the first year of $30,000 in student loans is for?  I thought it was day camp.  I thought it was a mindfulness retreat.  I thought it was a wine tasting.  Jesus.  Instead of saying any of those brilliant comebacks, I went to my car, called my sister and cried again.  I sobbed.  It had been 5 hours.  Day one.  I never wanted to come back to this.  I told my sister all of my insecurities, I told her how mean the Buddhists seemed to be, and she calmly talked me down from the fence, convincing me to give it a week at least.  It’s been two years.  Hopefully this is because things have improved and I’m mindfully drinking my water, but maybe it’s just because I’m a glutton for punishment.

Warning: The ME Santa may smell of hops.

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We look forward to winter break for so long, and yet winter break can do a person in. At least this person.   I know, poor me: time off of school, fewer work hours.  WAH!  But seriously, when you have a kid and one day you are consumed with running from important location number one to important location number two while drinking too much coffee and trying to remember to meditate (but not while you’re driving because you want to keep your child alive) because it is actually required in grad school (an obvious attempting to avert any “postal” grad-freak-outs) and trying to make it to a third even more important location before you run out of time to do any Christmas shopping.  It’s too fast.  And the sudden stop, followed by a whole lot of nothing to do can be more than a little disconcerting.  My daughter’s backpack was kicked into her closet not to be opened until January (too bad there was a snack left in it).  My school binders were tossed on the basement floor, only to be kicked into a corner to create space for the Christmas ornaments and other acceptable holiday clutter.  I stopped eating lentils for lunch and began to subsist on Christmas cookies (with the occasional beer to keep things regular).  My daughter followed my healthy example (other than the beer).  If you are curious about evidence of poor eating habits correlating with behavior issues, well let me just say, ask Santa.  The nice list is typically quite short. It fits on a post-it.  Parental types sit around, weaving tales of how a chubby old man can deliver millions of presents on one magical evening so that our children will believe that we are not the providers of the loot beneath the tree.  

Santa is real.

But he doesn’t bring our kids presents.

At least, not the families in my neighborhood.  Unfortunately, most children are on a month-long sugar binge when Christmas arrives, so Santa only needs only to maneuver his plus size booty and his reindeer driven sleigh to about 8 homes.  Those homes are all sugar-free.  Meanwhile, the rest of us heathens overcompensate while simultaneously fearing the mass devastation that might arrive if this day of potential lotto winnings were to miss our own children.  We go to Target.  We support China (who probably hosts the eight homes that are getting Santa’s cool hand-made toys). It’s a vicious cycle, and I must admit I totally and completely love it.  We are encouraged to lie to our children.  What fun!  Strange lesson, but what fun!

Once my own week of whiplash ended, of course, I got sick.  My daughter got sick.  This is one of our longest Christmas traditions.  So, now besides the outrageous amount of sugar and butter we were consuming (I mean outrageous!  I bought butter at Costco) we were adding countless hours of cartoon watching and internet surfing.  My daughter began speaking like that girl in the Exorcist. Well, she didn’t drop the F-bomb, but still, I was becoming ever more convinced that somehow she was possessed by a demon.  And yet, of course Santa still came. Not the real Santa.  He was still busy with his 8 homes in China.  The ME Santa.

The ME Santa is a serious sucker.

Christmas morning inevitably arrived.  My husband and I both heard the seven-year old demon child wake and go to the bathroom.  Partially out of fear for our lives and partially out of excitement that the ME Santa had arrived, we snuck into the living room to witness our daughter’s face when she saw the presents under the tree.  It was 5:15 a.m.  We heard her stumble back into her room.

An odd and mysterious silence overtook our home.

My husband and I looked at each other.  “Seriously?  She went back to sleep?  No.  No way.”

My husband opened her bedroom door and softly called her name.

Nothing.

Christmas morning, 5:15 a.m. and the parents are awake. And the child is asleep.  He looked at me and rolled his eyes, trying to quietly close her door.  As the latch clicked, she screamed.  Hello Christmas, welcome to our home.  It was not a scream of joy.  It was a scream of sheer terror. Linda Blair would have been proud.

Once we calmed her down and assured her that it was just her dumb ass parents waking her up, she got excited.   Presents, breakfast, coffee, more presents, more sugar, and the whole event was finished by 7:30 a.m.

ME Santa was in need of a nap, but instead went sledding.  I bet the real Santa was busy getting a pedicure by this point, instead of faking Christmas energy.  Like I said:  ME Santa = SUCKER.  

Even if it was exhausting, it was a day filled with magic.  I know my daughter learned about the true meaning of Christmas because when we tucked her in last night (mid argument) she said, “You guys think I’m crappy.  You tell me in the morning I’m crappy.  You told me on Christmas I was crappy.”  My husband and I looked at each other quizzically, wondering if the demons had finally departed, leaving our child’s soul in a confused state of crappiness.

“Um.  Honey.  You may have heard us use that word recently (after all, it had been Christmas break.  That was the least toxic of the bad words she probably learned), but it is not a word for seven-year olds.  You can’t say ‘crappy.'”

She looked at me like I had just shot her dog.  Her face wrinkled up like she’d consumed a large glass of rancid milk and she emitted a cry that I thought was only possible from two-year old children lit on fire by their siblings.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  I meant CRABBY.  I make mistakes sometimes, you know?  AAAAAAAWWWWAAAAAHHHH!

That was a look away and try not to laugh moment.  And a good representation of our Christmas break.

I could already predict the conversation on her first day back to school.  “Hey kiddo?  What’d you do over break?”

“I learned that crappy and crabby are sometimes interchangeable and when done so create surprising comic results.  Oh.  And that Santa will always bring you stuff.  Even if you’re crappy.