The way things have been going, it looks like I’m slated to have one workshop per month. I suppose they’re the antidote to my series of unhealthy reactions to culminating events over which I have no control. So everyone, in the interest of timeliness, please plan future mind-fucks accordingly.
Anyway, here’s #2: Kinda the same, a little rearranged. Let’s do this.
Health
I woke up early and did cardio for about 90 minutes. I’ve been spending about an hour in the gym at least five times a week and I’m already feeling the difference. I recently rebuilt my iPod playlist, which has been the source of many impromptu extended workouts. After the long run, I lifted weights. It’s hard to directly notice how much it helps with my running and overall body composition, but I know it does.
Cleanliness
I took a bath and shaved all my body hair for the first time in I-don’t-know-when. I decided that I need to keep a stricter self-maintenance schedule despite the fact that I’m not going out every night, and most people can’t tell the difference. To my credit, I’ve been taking more care in getting ready for work lately, mostly as a result of frequent morning workouts and not wanting my hair to freeze in the cold morning air. But also, it’s a nice way to remind myself that I’m awesome, even though the only other people around to appreciate it are the people I work with, some of whom haven’t purchased clothes since before I was born.
I gave myself a manicure and went through the gamut of hair and makeup. I wore a red floral sundress with long tube socks and sneakers. (This will matter later.) Coupled with someone’s old homemade laptop bag and some added layers of warmth, I looked and felt like a hipster who thought she might be going to Hawaii later, but wasn’t sure and didn’t care.
Mental Development
I wandered around the block, cell-yakkin’ with an old Texas friend who’s been around the block, and seeking a cafe with free wireless and outdoor seating. I ended up at the Bauhaus, staring at a line of occupied tables lining the sunny side of the building.
I was kindly invited to share a primo table (near the corner, against the wall, in the sun) by a man with a British accent. Another long-haired, goateed hipster promptly sat down on the other side of my new companion, noticed some of his books, and instigated a serious, complex conversation about turn-of-the-century German philosophers.
I pulled out my spiral notebook and selected a writing utensil from my Mickey Mouse pencil case. “I FELL HAPPY 2DAY,” I scrawled across the page in orange crayon. Then I drooled on myself a little.
I did some writing and rested back in my chair, enjoying my perfect view of the distant Space Needle shooting skyward against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. I couldn’t believe how clear the day was, or that I was wearing a sundress in Seattle in February. The wind blew just enough to remind me that my long hair is pretty, and the sun shined just bright enough to keep me warm without burning. I listened to passing conversations with mild interest, pleased with my choice of venue.
The philosophy conversation sounded insanely pretentious, but I was in Capitol Hill, so its presence was almost necessary to establish the uniqueness of my overly self-referencing environment. (Oh crap, it’s rubbing off!) For the non-Seattlites, it’s just like hanging out on South Congress in Austin, or in the East Village in New York, or at Eric’s house in Houston.
Being in good health with a more relaxed spirit, I decided to do some inward-looking. I wrote about rules. Lately, I’ve been breaking rules almost faster than I can make them. Before I blame myself, I think I should re-evaluate my policy-making. I should recognize that I set those rules based on what I thought I knew at the time. Then I had some new experiences and realized that certain rules can’t apply to every case, and I gave myself license to break them. This isn’t out of character for me at all, since I already give myself license to break some societal rules too. There are just too many of them, and they shouldn’t, they can’t apply to everyone.
I haven’t vowed not to set any more rules, but I think I’m going to be more careful about how I go about deciding what I should and shouldn’t do. Tone down the extremes, everything in moderation, and all that.
I decided to fill up my notebook with everything that was bothering me so I wouldn’t write it here, which should be a home for happy/interesting/funny stories. What began as a fun exercise in g00bing ended up being a giant explosion of internet-bile that no one needs to see. Several weeks ago, I wrote the Grand Finale G00b Post, a super-diatribe about how the dating pool in Seattle is entirely fucked. While it may be the truth, it’s not absolute. And in its current state, not sharable.
The worst thing about g00bing isn’t that I’m bashing a bunch of random dudes who aren’t here to defend themselves. It’s destructive because I’m reminding myself how awful things are when they don’t have to be. My heart is quite capable of radiating endless happiness and love, but at the moment my mouth and fingers can only translate it as, “Fuck you.”
I can do better than that. 
Neighborhood Patronage
I went to Bimbos and ate a burrito. Filled in part with green onions and garlic potatoes, it was a far cry from anything I’d find in Texas. Different, but better than most of the Tex-Mex abominations I’ve experienced since I left my heavenly home. As I burped my way up Broadway, I deemed my late lunch “the gift that keeps on giving.”
I went to the Massage Sanctuary and got kneaded for an hour. There are definitely worse ways to spend 70 bucks.
During my appointment, it had gotten super-speedy-Seattle-dark, so I was prepared for my bare legs to freeze when I stepped outside. I imagined myself tearing through Capitol Hill, running to keep warm, screaming, “I’m having an adventure! I’m having an adventure!” But it actually wasn’t so bad. And I’m not actually that crazy. Yet.
Spirituality
I’ve returned to the Betsuin Temple since my first Life Improvement Sunday Workshop, and I may go back again. But I need something different right now. So in my continued search for peace of mind, I went to the Dai Bai Zan Cho Bo Zen Ji, aka, “The Listening to the Dharma Zen Temple on Great Plum Mountain,” where “Great Plum Mountain” equals “That Huge Fucking Hill Between Broadway and 20th.”
Not wanting to interrupt with tardiness, I hauled ass up that hill, arriving at 6:29. Just in time for… zazen. I was there for the Dharma Talk, which was slated to begin an hour later. Never missing a good chance to shut up for an hour (as if I have so few!), I figured sitting meditation would be a good idea.
I began removing my shoes and socks when a monk appeared.
“Go on up,” he smiled.
I creeped up the stairs and stepped onto the landing, staring into a familiarly arranged room with several people already meditating cross-legged on mats.
Goddammit, I thought, looking down at my nearly knee-length skirt. (No friends, the irony of a retired Catholic taking the Lord’s name in vain while standing in a zendo is not lost on me.)
My shoes were off. The monk had seen me. I’d been running around like a maniac all day. It was getting cold outside. I needed to sit! I needed to sit there! So I went in.
I chose a mat, then shifted and contorted, attempting to modify the lotus posi
tion so as not to turn this peaceful hour into a would-be gynecologist exam.
“Sit in a kneeling position,” ordered a sitting female monk with succinct precision.
Ah, yes, I fail at Buddhism. For most people, long periods of sitting still and saying nothing is a difficult prospect, but now the hour would go by faster because I’d be spending it crafting the perfect apology for my inappropriate entrance.
The hour did pass quickly, and we had tea before the Dharma Talk. As expected, there’s a whole procedure that I had never experienced, and despite a minor misstep, I received tea and cookie. There’s also a procedure for consuming these items, and since I’m a slow eater, the procedure was punctuated with my rapid chewing and shooting my cup of almost-scalding tea while everyone waited. I try not to beat myself up over this stuff—I’ve been to a bunch of temples now, and no two have done anything the same.
The Dharma Talk was a standard discussion of the emptiness of all that comprises the formless universe. There was some light talk of physics, but the main message was that everything is nothing, we’re nothing, and the universe is already taking care of itself, regardless of what we do. This is the kind of stuff I know and need to hear more often because it applies to all the junk I often overanalyze to no positive end.
After the talk, I had a chance to talk to the monks in passing. Having just finished a profoundly deep meditation on cleverly woven apologies, I gestured toward my skirt and sheepishly said, “Sorry.” One should always consider his audience when advertising his shortcomings. Since the chief M.O. for these guys is quiet serenity, “simple” seemed the way to go.
One of the male monks laughed and said, “Don’t mention it! We’re glad to have you here,” which gave me the chance to say I was glad to be there, because I was. And even though I decided I’m not making anymore rules, I planned to consciously avoid teasing the celibate with any more incidental crotch shots during future visits.
