Constant breathing

My car recently died. One day it was fine. The next, I tried starting it as usual and it made a noise I could only compare to satan stubbing his toe or finding out that his Netflix had too many users on at the same time. Either way, it was kind of upsetting.

To deal with my car-lessness, I pulled out the old bike that I used while I was in Cedar city. By used, I mean decorated my living room with since I was too afraid to ride around in cedar city traffic*. Now I had to delve into the realm of traffic that had a speed limit above 25 mph. 

The first couple days weren't actually terrible. I would ride to work, around town, the gym, and then home. I was proud that my legs were surprising me with the ability to keep going, but that pride shriveled when I would occasionally stop to walk up the really steep parts of a hill. One hill in particular would be Bitch Hill. 

What is Bitch Hill? The bottom of my street. Since moving, I relocated closer to the mountain which makes my commute anywhere in town a breeze, but coming home is...less breezy. That being said, I named the bottom of my street bitch hill since it starts with a steep incline only comparable to the steepest part of whatever mountain you think is the steepest. 

             What it probably looks like (look at all the happy people!)

                What I see (there are definitely some dead people on that hill. Dead, SAD people)

The first couple of days, I did before-mentioned** strategy of hopping off my bike and walking it along like I was returning it to its lost family. I had no shame as I hadn't seriously rode my bike in...uh, how long has it been? Since I first learned how to ride it? Yeah, probably that. My little walk would help me to rejuvenate so that I could pedal on home on the slightly less steep slope and then pass out of the floor, cursing bitch hill. I decided the other day, though, that I would not be made a bitch that day. I would be bitch free. 

So, I began to pedal up that bitch with the determination of a drag queen at a dress sale. There was no going back (or at least not in my mind because I wouldn't be a quitter for a stupid bitch hill). 

The theme from Chariot of Fire started to play along simultaneously with the Rocky theme song in my head and I realized how much I didn't find either of those songs very inspirational, but I still decided they were appropriate. I can only assume that any passerby within earshot would have to assume a horse was trotting by by the gusts of wind that were escaping from my mouth. Each one louder than the next, I huffed and puffed on with my little bike on the gear that allowed me to pedal forward. 

"Breathe in...breathe out...." I heard in my head. 

"Breathe in...breath out...PSHHHHHHHHHH."

Suddenly, I was back in the yoga class in China taught by an older southern woman named: Constance. 

Constance was the epitome of southern. A drawl that rivaled honey spilling out of that jar you can't quite figure out with the same sweetness in her attitude. A white woman in her 50's, always dressed in yoga pants and a loose t-shirt that swallowed her 5'3 frame (and hid her small paunch), along with a colored bandana (due to her bald scalp that I vaguely remember being cancer related) that changed with the weather. 

Respect was her forefront, and yoga was her bitch. She never enjoyed late-comers, and yelled out commands like a staff sargeant. 

"Breathe in...breathe out...PSHHHHHHH." Her breathes were as calm as a lady in a store screaming about how she should be able to return that sweater even though there was a hole in it. Yes, she may have snagged it on a fence running from some cops and her dog might have used it as a chew toy, but this is obviously bad construction! 

"WARRIOR POSE."

I could still hear my friend Tamara breathing out expletives under her breathe as she assumed warrior one. 

"Hey, I don't want to hear that language in my class!" Nothing got past Constance. 

Along with being a yoga instructor, Constance would also grace us with her knowledge that I will dubb, "Constance medicine." 

"You know, if you rub your big toe, that will help you along with your bowels since everything is connected by the nerves."

"Each breathe is releasing the toxins that are in your liver."

One jem of Constance medicine I was blessed with upon arriving slightly early to class. Constance approached me as I was doing a couple warm up stretches and bent down to talk to me. 

"Since you can't do kegals, you need to flex the small part between your legs to strengthen it up." She said, her drawl inflecting each word with tar. "If you do that," as she went down to a whisper, "it will make sex a whole lot better."

"Oh...thanks." Was all I managed to say. 

Along with her well of wisdom, Constance usually dealt out treats before Namaste. The rules of receiving a treat always included closing your eyes and picturing a serene picture in your mind. Then Constance would walk by, tap your head, wait for you to open your mouth, and pop in some kind of food; usually a grape or small piece of chocolate. 

I began looking forward to rubbing my toe twice a week and bending my body into poses unbeknownst to me, while a southern drill sargeant reminded me to get that breath out. Each lesson I was becoming a regular subscriber of the Constance journal of yoga medicine. Then one week, yoga was cancelled. It stayed cancelled week after week with no word from Constance. 

I later learned from my friend Tamara that Constance had gone back to visit America, but was never allowed back into the country of China. That, or she didn't want to come back; I never actually figured out which in the end. 

------------------------------------------------

I huffed out another breathe and took a slow pedal up bitch hill and heard those familiar words in my ear:

"Breathe...PSHHHHHHH."

Just keep breathing. Then you can get home and rub all the toxins out of your foot. Or was it stretch the good air into your butt? Either way, I deserved a fucking grape. 

*While not heavy, traffic in the Cedes was what we call, "I'm not used to seeing a biker so I'll probably hit you." And cedar is basically one giant hill both ways in the snow with your grandma on your back telling you now in her day it was two hills with fire raining from the sky.
**Post edit: I realized that I never before mentioned this strategy. Probably because in my mind I just decided that hopping off my bike had to be the only thing that I could do and thus explaining it at all had no real merit. 

Moving Out

I recently moved out of my old childhood house. Yes, I'm aware all the jokes that can be thrown around for a 20-something who lives in their mom's basement; the recluse who only plays Dungeons and Dragons, the loner who fears sunlight, the post grad who was just too lazy to look around his new city for an apartment.

...Oh wait.

While I won't pretend to be as cool as the first two of these people, I will pretend vouch that moving is hard. When did I ever accumulate so much stuff?! While packing up, the amount of times I said, "I'm definitely going to use this at my new house." could have paid my rent if excuses were nickels. Can they be dollars? Because then I could just buy a house. Or a dog. Or a car that doesn't shake on the freeway.

The bags began to pile up and eventually I realized that this was going to be a two car trip. Maybe more. MORE. As having graduated, I had also graduated into this weird phase of adulthood that meant your life could no longer fit into a station wagon. Gone were the days when I had a suitcase, a couple garbage bags, and a laundry hamper strewn about the insides of my car while my cat frantically ran about the car while simultaneously clawing my face.

In hindsight, I should have put him in a carrier.

That was another dilemma of moving around because what about the children!? 

I had an agreement with my mother that my cat wouldn't live at her house indefinitely and I finally lived up to that promise (Because part of me wasn't so sure because she just loves him sooooooooooooooo much.
"Ryan, when are you taking your cat."
"Uh, I have to go organize socks at a different place now."

 "Ryan, your cat has been here for a couple years now, can you take him away? Because he's annoying."
"Don't lie, you li--,"
 "Nope, nope. No, Absolutely not."

"Now that you're moving out, can you take that dang cat out of this house?"
"But he's going to miss chewing on your couch!").

After the bulk of my essentials were put into my new place, I finally decided to pack up the one living thing that I own and introduce him to his new roommate (Since Beth has a cat as well. We are basically fusing into one old cat lady.) The moment that I pulled out the crate, Kitten knew that something was up. A small chase ensued between me trying to get the cat, the dog trying to get the cat, and the cat trying to crawl into any small space available.

She's not as innocent as she appears. Underneath the fluff is a small psychopath.

Eventually we were able to come to a compromise where I had to fanagle* his limbs into the crate  while I forced the dog outside. We were all a little upset.

Having moved before, I figured that Kitten was going to have an easy adjustment to his new living quarters. He had his poop box, his scratching post, and food bowl. Who knew that suddenly getting laminate floors would cause a meltdown. I imagine, though, that if I woke up and someone had redone my entire house while also adding a new person to the living situation, I would be a little frightened.

"Ryan, get out from under the bed!"

"No! It's safe in here, they can't get us!"

"But there's food and a bathroom out here."

"I can hold it! And there's a random person out there! Who is that!?"

"We've been friends for awhile, why can't you just accept that he's going to be living with us now?"

"MY LIFE IS OVER."

That was basically his reaction.

I've since coaxed him out of his living situation while sporadically adding a couple more things to my pile of, "I'll definitely use this." while never accepting that I can let any article of clothing go (because what if bleach stains and zombie apocalypse and thieves?). As the old house grows emptier, the other one starts to feel less like a mess and more like a home. 

Let's see where we can go from there.

*Fanagle: The act of twisting different limbs or objects in order to fit them into an enclosed space. Also works with trying to fix iPhones, bookshelves, and making cookies. I.e.: insert it into any meaning you find appropriate.