I’m happy – why aren’t you?
So the other day I get this e-mail from one of my girlfriends that went something like this:Miss-yoga-it-all: I realize I have a problem with alcohol at this time in my life. And a lot of other of things as a matter of fact, but maybe instead of talking about yoga all the time you could spend five minutes listening to me. On that note, have a very nice day.First of all, let me begin by saying I feel your pain, boys. Women are such a pain in the ass it’s unbelievable. Oy vey, the guilt! My response went something like,My dear friend: I never said you have a problem with alcohol – you did. I don’t think you have a problem. You’re just bored.My male friends on the other hand, lay it on the line. With them, it’s about satisfying basic needs and having a good time. It’s “this is what we’re doing, take it or leave it and we’re not waiting for you so be ready. We’ll pick you up in the parking lot in five because we’re not coming up to your door.”Maybe that’s why I found myself in the middle of Ruedi Reservoir last Sunday with three dudes on a rickety little boat with a tiny motor, the little-boat-that-could. With over 600 pounds of male flesh, a little Jack Russell Terrier and me, it’s a miracle we didn’t sink from go. We putted around, stopping to fish or maybe admire teenage girls in neighboring boats who managed to strike poses straight from the pages of Playboy magazine. Their Dad would glare at us, a mean stare that translated to, “stay the hell away from my little baby girl or I’ll shoot you right between the eyes with a flare gun.” I don’t blame the guys for gawking – the girl was literally on all fours with her butt so high in the air you could have attached a sail to it.But I’ll get back to the gangsta fishermen in a minute.My girlfriends, on the other hand, are freaking out. They think I talk about yoga too much. They think I’m being self-righteous when I suggest that maybe they come and check out my class because it’ll make them feel good. They don’t like it when I tell them stuff I learned about how this type of yoga can help them with various aches and pains. They certainly don’t want to hear another word about Hawaii or how much I now love the song “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole.Sometimes I think they liked me better when I was a total mess. They preferred me when I talked about trivial things like boys or where/when we should start drinking to make sure we get drunk and make bad decisions to keep the boy drama cycle going. That’s what’s been keeping us all going all these years, that’s what’s been keeping us all entertained when our careers/income/general level of fulfillment isn’t what it probably could be. (Okay, that might have sounded a little self righteous, I admit, but you get what I’m driving at).Honestly, though. I feel like a young woman in love with someone her parent’s don’t approve of. “I’m happy!” I want to scream, fists banging, arms flailing wildly about. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”Here’s the thing: D. and I argue all the time, so that’s nothing new. We spend half our days writing scathing e-mails back and forth, each angrier than the next. All that effort and time only to call each other for a brief apology and a conversation that goes something like, “Sorry. Wanna go get a drink and talk about boys?”Still, she seemed to hit me below the belt with this one. After bantering back and forth for a few e-mails, this one line really got me. What kills me is how brainwashed you are with this yoga thing, she wrote. I know yoga is great, but it still not a vaccine to HIV, believe me!Speaking of sexually transmitted diseases, let’s get back to my gangsta fisherman boys.So I’m sitting on this rickety old boat in this scene out of a bad joke. “A Jewish Princess and three guys are sitting on a tiny little boat in the middle of a lake. The three guys each hold a can of beer in one hand, their rods in the other … ” You get the idea.I knew it would only be a matter of time before I jumped back on the party train, and a lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon on the water with one of my best friends seemed the perfect opportunity to get on board, so to speak.So the next thing I know, I’m puffing on the one-hitter and have lost count of how many beers I’ve had. Worse, I’m pretending to be interested in learning how to clean a fish.”Can I do it?” I asked one of the boys as he reeled in another 6-incher.”No,” he said, without hesitation before he broke the fish’s little neck.The ironic part is D. and I were so busy arguing about yoga I had no time to tell her the story she really wanted to hear. Hopefully we’re beyond the little rough patch in our friendship. I can only hope it’ll all be smooth sailing from here. The Princess never said she was an angel. E-mail your deepest secrets to firstname.lastname@example.org
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