The Case Of The Missing Water Filter

I haven't taught Pilates in a couple of days and I feel like I've forgotten everything that I've ever learned. Quite frankly, I feel like a fraud. I've got a private session and a Mat class later this afternoon and I'm so unmotivated. I should be coming up with kick ass routines, or review my anatomy, so that when a client tells me about their torn meniscus, I can offer up exercises that would be good for such an injury, and NOT just tilt my head with a, "Aw, that must hurt." No, I choose to obsess (read:blog) about a missing water filter.

It goes without saying that I am in charge of changing the filter in the Brita water pitcher every two months. I'm very diligent about this because I am anal about germs, following rules, instructions and manuals. I would make a really good HR person... says my friend Muffy.

The Britta guide said to change the filter every two months. They even include a little calendar that adheres on the pitcher as a reminder. I also put it on the calendar that hangs on the refrigerator... just as a safety precaution.

Well, it was time for a filter change the other day and lo and behold, no filter, just an empty box. I was livid, I tell ya, livid! First of all, I would never put an empty box back in the basket of cleaning supplies that lives under the sink. And second, where the hell was the filter?! I bought a package of three and I know there was at least one left, or else it would've made it onto the "we need the following" list. Anal... your table is ready.

It couldn't have been my boyfriend. He doesn't even know that we have water filters, let alone, take one out, swap it out with the old one and put the empty box back under the sink. Although he has been known to put the orange juice carton back in the refrigerator with a spit of juice left. Then again so have I.

There was only one other person that could've taken it. The CLEANING LADY. But why? And wouldn't she think that I would notice, especially since it was the last one? If she had thrown the box out, then maybe, just maybe, I might've thought that I forgot to put it on the "we need the following" list.

In any case, I decided not to confront her because I didn't have any forensic evidence. But she better watch her back because I'm onto her. She doesn't exactly have a clean record. For one thing, when she cleans, she puts things 'away'... in drawers, cabinets and closets. The first time she cleaned, I couldn't find anything. It's terribly annoying and she should NOT be opening my drawers... nightstand or kitchen.

So, when she came to clean yesterday, I laid it on the line. It might've come out a bit harsh because I was thinking about my missing water filter. I told her that on no uncertain terms should she put anything away. Lift, clean, and put back down.

And Here's To You Lululemon

I have to thank Lululemon for their Wunder Groove Crop pants, with inner stash pocket, flat seamed stitching (to prevent chafing) and extra padding in the crotch area, because sitting at Starbucks's, I sneezed and peed my pants.

I know I shouldn't be embarrassed, after all Whoopi Goldberg brought LBL (light bladder leakage) into the mainstream. Stream. Get it. http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2010/03/see_whoopi_goldbergs_bladder_l.html But let's face it, it's not cool to lose control of your bodily functions in public.

I was sitting on a wood chair, working on my laptop, because, what else is there to do at Starbuck's? The coffee tastes burnt and smells burnt, so I’m not there for the Joe. But they do have free WiFi and it's a great place to people watch.

So, I sneezed and it felt like I fully made my pants, as if I was sitting on the toilet. It did not feel like a trickle or 'light leakage'. I was convinced that I was sitting in a pool of my own urine. Charming AND sexy.

This was bothersome and frustrating for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I MADE IN MY PANTS IN PUBLIC! The last time I made in my pants I was at a roller rink (old school, four wheels) in 7th grade, skating to Donna Summer's, "Last Dance", when my friend Debby said something so funny, that I, well, peed in my my pants. I was able to Kegel just in time to prevent the 'stream' from dribbling down my leg. Luckily I had a sweatshirt with me and tied it around my waist.

I didn't have an extra sweatshirt with me at Starbuck’s. I could have made a beeline to the bathroom, because there were only a few stragglers milling around but there was a man sitting right behind me, who I was sure could see my leakage on the chair and in my pants.

I busied myself for awhile and then had to get to the bathroom. I grabbed my bag and awkwardly held it behind me, in a feeble attempt to cover my ass. My other hand covered my front.

When I got into the bathroom and spot checked, I was out of my head with amazement. There was no sign of leakage outside of my wonderful Wunder Groove Crop pants. Oh, I did pee, don't get me wrong, but that extra cushioning in the crotch acted much like, oh, I don't know, a very sassy, and comfortable diaper!

Besides being embarrassed, I was upset because I'm a friggin' Pilates instructor! My pelvic floor muscles should be in tip top shape. On my last gynecological visit, my doctor said, ‘Wow’ upon examination. I'll spare you as to how he came to this conclusion.

I can't rely solely on Lululemon to catch my pee. I've got to get back to the Pilates studio and squeeze, for when I sneeze.

Now It's About Feet

The other day, while Pilates training, I thought I was going to seriously throw up. Each foot that walked into the studio was more disgusting than the last. One client draped her grimy hoofs on the foot bar of the reformer, as tiny pieces of skin literally dropped onto the bar. It was like foot dandruff or she was molting like an f’in reptile.

Here I am again talking about what grosses me out about Pilates. Now I think it’s becoming a work hazard. In the last couple of weeks I have had my share of, bunions (nothing says old Jew like a bunion) claw toes, hammer toes, ingrown toenails, toenail fungus, corns, warts, calluses, cracked skin, and chipped toenail polish. At what point am I allowed to refuse service? Food establishments have their, “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” policy. Maybe I should have business cards saying, “Foot Fungus? Funky toes? Flaking Heels? FORGET IT!” I refuse to believe that I’m the only one feeling this way. I can’t be that alone in the world.

I’m truly at a loss. Am I missing something? Did I not read the small print in the job description? Perhaps I glossed over the part where it said that unwashed and unkempt feet were a part of the job. So now I have to suck it up? Terrif. This Pilates culture makes me feel like Lisa Ling uncovering a lost city on National Geographic Explorer. Who knew?

If I wanted to be this close to feet and their disorders, I would’ve become a podiatrist. Don’t get me wrong, I love well manicured feet with perfectly aligned phalanges. Maybe I have this aversion to horrid feet because I grew up around aesthetically pleasing ones. Not only are my feet near perfect specimens, if I do say so myself, but my father has some of the nicest tootsies this side of the Mississippi. I naively assumed that most people had feet like ours. Oh, how wrong I was.

The last time this foot obsession reared it’s ugly heel, was a few years ago when I moved to Prague to teach English as a foreign language (because that’s what a 38 year old woman does, after almost 20 years in the entertainment business). I was truly in the midst of a different culture, and that culture too had bad feet. I remember reading an article in the Prague Post that said that the Czech Republic was trying to change their image. I thought this was a smart idea since many of the people I met acted as if no one told them that the curtain had come down, and it was okay to smile. The article went on to say that the Czech Republic wanted to be more “modern, developed and sophisticated.” They wanted to change the image that the world had of them as people with “weather beaten faces.” And if I may, I'd like to add weathered beaten feet to that image.

I had never seen uglier, dirtier, and more mangled feet, as I had in Praha. Why? Why so ugly, dirty and mangled? I could understand if it was bad genes. Maybe it was the decades of toiling in the fields and the mines. That would only explain part of the picture. What's with the dirt? Even if I didn't shower for two or seven days, I don’t think that my toes would look like I just trampled through a mud pile, laced with petrol. I saw more Band-aids on ankles in Prague than runners post marathon.

Then one day, out of nowhere, I saw the most exquisite manicured feet of a woman on the Metro. Her toenails were filed down to equal lengths, not like a jagged pocket knife. The nail polish was a fresh and sassy ballet slipper hue, and there wasn’t a dry cuticle in sight. I knelt down and kissed every polished toe. At that moment my faith in humanity was restored. Now I have to hope for same in the Pilates studio.

To Shave Or Not To Shave

I know I talked about unshaven legs and armpits in a past entry (see: On the road again... geographically & professionally) but apparently I’m not finished.

I was shooting the shit with a fellow instructor at the Pilates studio today. “I just think the women should shave their legs before coming to see me. It’s irresponsible. I have to touch them. Would it be so horrible if at the very least they wore long work out pants?”

Her eyes bugged out. “Are you serious?” She said this with great disbelief. I thought she was kidding, so I reiterated.

“Yeah, I’m serious. Are you serious? I’ve got to feel that shit.” I think she was genuinely appalled at my seemingly intolerant attitude.

“I don’t think it’s such a big deal.” At which point I glanced down at her feet, only to see several hairs, the length of yard sticks, coming out of each of her big toes. Of course she didn’t think it was a big deal. I curled my lip.

“All I’m saying is, I think it’s socially unacceptable and in bad form.” I didn’t really feel this strongly and militant about it, but I had her hooked and wanted to see how far I could go.

She looked at me like I wanted kids who wore glasses to be rounded up and hauled off to some remote facility in Jersey. “I’m just a little shocked.”

I was confused. “You’re shocked that I’d be anti leg dreadlocks and armpit nests? Why? Because I believe in saving the planet, a woman’s right to choose and gay marriage, so you think I'd believe in letting it all hang out? You can't lump me in with the, my body hair is au natural and therefore beautiful, line of thinking people. I am not that girl. C’mon. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to think about your trainer and ask yourself whether they want to get their hands all tangled up in that mess.” And with that my fellow trainer smiled and walked away. Ah, agreeing to disagree.

I’m all for letting your freak flag fly but there’s a time and a place. And if I’m busting my ass helping you to obtain your optimum lengthened and most ideal posture (which I’m happy to do) then please, clean it up, because it’s not the time nor the place.

What kind of society would be if we thought it was acceptable for women to go to their gynecologists for their pap smears without showering beforehand just because it went against their daily hygienic beliefs and they wanted to save water? I’m not a huge fan of the shower. I’ve gone a day (or seven) without bathing, but I would never forego washing and shaving before a pap, especially since my doctor’s going to be up close and personal with my hoo hoo. Have some compassion. It’s the same thing with Pilates. I want my clients to think of me as their Pilatecologist.

I understand the whole, free to be you and me feminist angle. Wait, no, I take that back. I don’t understand it, nor have I ever really thought about it. I only recently read about the Second wave feminists and I still don’t understand what the big hullabaloo is about. Do what moves you, speaks to you and resonates with you, but I implore you to leave the leg and armpit vines at home. Yes, I’ve heard that for some it’s a cultural and social mores issue. Great, social more all you want, at home, not in the Pilates studio.

I get it. Shaving is a personal preference, not unlike foregoing red meat, or choosing a standard versus an automatic vehicle. However, when it affects another person, i.e. me, get that friggin razor out and start mowing. I never thought of shaving as a social or man conceived idea either.

And I know that certain Mediterranean cultures don’t consider it essential for a woman to shave her legs. My parents were hippies in the 60’s. I know that the whole unshaved legs became a natural thing to do during the “hippy” movement. Okay, fine, but if you’re going to train with me, and you’re unshaven, you better have been playing in the mud at Woodstock or recently moved here from Greece.

Fuck it. I’m liberated and I shave. What does that mean? Jesus Christ, must everything we do or don’t do, be analyzed, and given some deeper meaning, label, or attributed to some flaw in ourselves or society? Hairiness is unrestrained animal sexuality. Shaving keeps women in a state of innocence. Shaving denies a woman’s visceral self. Huh? Long hair and beards are for dirty hippies. Dirty foreigner v. Clean American. Someone has a lot of time on their hands, thinking about all of this. And now I’m beginning to think her name is Dani.

I just reread the above. “Wow, why the rage?” For one, because I do think that people need to have regard for others. My other truth goes deeper. Not too deep, perhaps just beneath the surface. When I look at my current situation and what I’m doing now; training to be a Pilates instructor after 20 years in the entertainment business (hanging with Jennifer Love Hewitt and Courtney Love-and others named Love) touching hirsute women, I wonder, with a mix of sadness and disappointment, “How the hell did I get here?”

When I was kicking it with studio executives and performing stand up comedy at the World Famous Improv, I never thought I’d move back to New York and become a Pilates instructor. The questions of how and why force me to retrace my steps (and missteps) and mull over every decision I made, every opportunity I lost, and every fear I let cripple me. I think I’m still mourning a life that would never be (that of a 19 year-old rock star/playing Streisand during the Main Event years in the movie of her life/Vegas Showgirl) and perhaps I still have more work to do accepting what is. I’m no genius but maybe this has something to do with my less than tolerant attitude.

I apologize hirsute women, but I’m coming from Hollywood; pioneers in anal bleaching and vaginal rejuvenation. You’ll have to be patient with me. A couple of hours after my confrontation with my fellow instructor, I looked over at her client laying on the mat, and saw the woman’s armpit. Oh, dear lord, I wish I hadn’t. That woman could’ve been a man. This acceptance thing may take a while.