Under these shelter in place orders, I've gotten a lot of satisfaction from rebelling against the patriarchy in small ways. I haven't worn a speck of makeup or hair product since March 12th. I haven't put on a bra, except for the sports variety when I'm getting ready to jog or ride a bike or do yogic inversions. Exactly three times, I've worn pants with proper fasteners. The rest has been an ecstasy of elastic waistbandedness.

At the moment, loosening the reins- or the belt, as it were- may feel a little more accessible, since many people are leaving the house so much less often. For me, though, I wasn't wearing fancy clothes or a lot makeup even before all of this. Living in San Francisco, working as a teacher (in a strong union), and being who I am, getting fancy rarely felt required or enjoyable. But even my jeans and skincare routine got to feeling like a drag sometimes.

If you've also been enjoying some freedom from primping lately, and want to turn your rebellion against conventional beauty standards up a few notches, might I suggest shaving your head? I did about a year ago, and it's one of the best decisions I've ever made.

First off, I want to acknowledge that there was a lot of my privilege involved in this act. I was (and still am) quite healthy, and I had a lot of hair. Plenty of people I know have suffered the trauma of hair loss for various reasons, and I feel incredibly grateful to be able to choose whether or not I have hair. Also, I knew beforehand that, as a white person, though I'd certainly face negative gender-based comments, I'd never be fired or kicked out of school for any hairstyle, even one that some people might consider radically inappropriate. Toggling with my gender expression even feels fairly fun and comfortable for me, most of the time, as a cishet woman. 
 
So. Why on earth did I make this decision in the pre-COVID era? And what have been the perks?

• I'd been wanting to escape the cycle of dyeing my grays. The salon can be a lovely experience, but spending hours and hundreds there every 4-5 weeks became too much for me.
• I'm happy to put fewer chemicals in my body and into the earth and ocean.
• I wanted to feel a bit more unmasked and natural- though I certainly balance this with the tension of embracing how we can transform ourselves again and again, in ways that can make us feel new and different and often more like ourselves. Certainly, there are people and occasions for which growing hair out or putting on makeup can be the most rebellious and freeing acts of all. And sometimes, putting something on can make us feel more natural than taking something off. As Rupaul said when paraphrasing Tede Matthews, "We're all born naked. And the rest is drag." For myself, as a small example of this, despite my current eschewing of bras, proper pants, and makeup, I started enjoying wearing earrings again about two weeks into sheltering in place and working from home. I wasn't born wearing earrings (though almost, since my mom took me to get my ears pierced when I was 13 months old). But I often feel more like myself with them than without.
• For a long time, I've wanted to experience shaving my head at least once.  For about 20 years, in fact. My high school friend Ali shaved her head after we graduated (and looked riot grrl amazing; she’s one of those folks who’d look like a model if she wore a burlap sack). Freshman year of college, I was honored when my friend Kelly (another effortless beauty), who lived down the hall from me, asked me to shave her head. The experience was full of vicarious feelings of rebellion and excitement. I suppose that’s why my friend and neighbor Lindsay agreed so quickly to do it for me last year. Still, we aren’t 19 now, so I think it takes an extra brave soul to come bounding down the stairs- well, elevator- with zero clippers experience, ready to perform a task that could end in bitter tears.
• I was ready to not focus on my appearance so much. The maintenance and head space (you shall never escape puns here) that my hair cost me was even more than the salon bills. My long curly hair felt like my best feature (I kept thinking of Kirsten Dunst’s Amy to Winona Ryder’s Jo in 90’s Little Women: “Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty!”). It felt like my only chance at being at least somewhat attractive according to conventional beauty standards. And that is the mandatory goal, right? My hair seemed to be the thing everyone loved most about my appearance, which made it the thing I had to love most about my appearance. I forgot to ever even think about what I loved most about my appearance. Let alone, what I loved most about myself apart from my appearance. On the other hand, I even felt at times that embracing my naturally curly hair was already a rebellion, since I’d finally learned to stop wishing it was sleek and straight and “well kept” looking. (As you can see, like many people, especially women, my feelings about my appearance are tumultuous, ever-changing, and take up a lot of time and energy.) So, before shaving my head, I said goodbye to any tenuous positive feelings about how I looked. In fact, I expected to hate how it looked afterward, but love how it felt. I ended up loving how it felt and looked, so back to the vanity cycle, I guess. But it did help me focus a LOT less time and energy into my appearance, in addition to the aforementioned money.  
• But back to how it felt- the best part. I experienced a post-head-shave sparkly tactile ASMR wonder I didn't even know I'd been missing. The satisfaction of being on the giving and receiving end of running my fingers over a fuzzy freshly-buzzed head, and the warming sensation on my hands and scalp when my hair follicles snapped back rapidly in prickly-soft succession. When I'd do that after getting out of the shower, a super fine mist would fall over my face in such a way that I could close my eyes and pretend I was on a hike near a waterfall. When I jogged, no sweaty mass on my neck or bobbing ponytail falling out at every step. Nothing to get stuck in my bike helmet- and no high bun to make me not want to eschew a helmet or have to redo my hair when I got to work. No marathon disentangling fests at the end of a windy SF day. Just, freedom. Breezy freedom.

On March 25th of last year, the first day of spring break and the morning after I'd shaved my head, I sprung out of bed at 6AM like a kid on Christmas. When I’d gone to bed after the big chop, I'd been worried that my excitement would dissipate all too soon. I was convinced that when I woke up, in that groggy space where it's hard to know if you're remembering reality or a dream, I'd reach up to touch my head and be flooded with shock, then tears of regret. Instead, I found that I felt even more free than when I'd laid my bald head down the night before. My skittish giddy nerves were now replaced by that purer joy that comes with the calm of knowing you've made the right decision. I nearly floated from my bed to the bathroom mirror to admire my whole self, the most naked I've been since the day I was born, which was precisely 39 years and 2 months prior. I couldn’t stop grinning.

That kind of calm is pretty rare for me. If you know me-or have read some of my other posts- you know that I often continue to doubt decisions I've made, both big and small, sometimes even years after making them. As I discuss in that linked piece, however, so much of the difficulty of decision making is that it involves a permanent loss of some sort. If you choose to do one thing, you give up the chance to do the other. Not so with hair. Chemical treatments mean you can experience having both straight and curly hair in your lifetime. Pink now, green later. If you have no hair, you can join in on the fun for the price of a few wigs. You can try it all. (Well, not all. Note to my fellow white folks: locs are one of the exceptions for us. Just. No.) And even though my certainty is undoubtedly buoyed by the low-stakes impermanence of hairstyle decisions, I want to think that also, just maybe, I'm getting better at this. This process of sitting back into the choices I've made and stretching my legs a bit. 

It's been just under a year since I've published a blog post, though I've of course been hoarding a dozen drafts I hate. I started this one over two years ago. I still feel fearful about publishing something about yoga. There's so much fluff out there about something that's the opposite of fluffy. Also, I don't want to seem like I'm trying to assume an identity of yogi that involves egregious affectations or appropriations. To want to wear yoga like it's an adornment to my person is also the antithesis of yoga. I am simply a person who practices yoga, who respects the myriad versions of its teachings and tries to deepen my sitting meditation and asana (movement practice) each day. And unless you know me well, you don't know that about me. So it’s starting to feel even more disingenuous to NOT write about it. To blog about my health, and to not have a word on my blog about my yoga practice. Because yoga has transformed me, and will continue to transform me. And now more than ever, it feels nearly impossible to imagine my life without it.

The two most important choices I've made for my health are to quit drinking and to practice yoga. I can say that without question.

It's hard to pinpoint each and every factor that has helped me to get where I am now: in the best health of my life. (And by best health, I really mean, most ready and able to be present). There were no controls or isolated variables in my experiments on living better. More of a flow (sometimes a frenzy) of trial and error. I've finally arrived at a combination of habits that work for me. For now, that is. I fully expect to have to reformulate this combo in the future. Because our bodies and minds and environment are ever-changing, honest reflection and reevaluation are essential life practices.

So how do I know these two were the most impactful? Because both the immediate and long-term effects have been so tangibly and powerfully felt, they are undeniable.

So anyway I was all like, "Hello yoga! Sorry I'm hella late. And hungover." You see, I moved to California in 2002, and I made a serious commitment to yoga just four years ago. So I'm about 15 years late. Or a few thousand, depending on how you look at it. Which, should be convincing enough, right? The fact that folks discovered, developed, and fine tuned this way to take care of your body, mind, and spirit- as well as to take care of others- over such a long ass time. Why would that not be reason enough to try it, you may ask? Well, I did try it. I was a dabbler, ok? Who among us doesn't have some commitment issues? I was (am) stubborn. I mean, it just doesn't HURT in the precise ways that exercising should, right? I mistakenly thought I heard Midwestern working class ancestral voices inside me grumbling that it was froo froo and self-indulgent. In fact it was just my own self-shaming.

If you feel like I felt, you might want to just drop that baggage at the door. Or don't. Suit yourself. You can keep carrying it around for awhile, if that's your jam. Because it's your journey. If and when the time is right, you'll arrive at the answer that YOGA IS THE ANSWER SO JUST DO IT NOW. Truly, though, there are lots of grunty and sometimes even hurty things that are great for you that you can still do. But can I submit that you may want to do them in addition to, and not instead of, yoga? And if you only have time for one thing or money for one class, pick yoga. Or don't. Yet. Truly. I'm honestly learning not to regret the years I spent not doing yoga. They brought me here at just the right time. (New age-y as shit, I know. But I'm AWARE of it. So it's fine?)

There is not a single aspect of my life that yoga hasn't improved. My sleep, my relationships, my strength, my self esteem, my eating. These are of course longish-term effects. The immediate effects that I noticed at each and every class were also undeniable. There's simply nothing else that addresses your strength, flexibility, agility, balance, breathing, and stamina, all while including meditation and mindful embodiment and soul alignment and contemplations on life. All happening on the mat and extending beyond it.

Speaking of the mat, I love it. I love its singularity. It is autonomy, immersed in a community. I love that I just have to show up on the mat. That's a thing that I've heard one of my teachers say. To just show up on the mat. And stay on the mat. I like that I don't have to figure out a workout and push myself through it alone. It's about being in a community of others- in the room, and in the world. It's about finding your edges, while still reserving some energy. I show up, I'm encouraged to drop in. I'm guided through. Even while it is an internal journey, it is about being present and aware in the physical space. That sounds like how all of life is, you say. Yeah. You'll find that yoga is like that, again and again. In that a lot of the things you might say to try to sum it up, mirror things you might say to try to sum up the whole experience of life. I'm getting too philosophical again and losing your attention. Anyway, mats are cool. Good cushioning for your joints. You don't really even need a mat, though. You can be old school and use a rug.

For over ten years, I lifted weights and got on a treadmill at a pricey shiny gym down the street. Now I practice at a pricier unshiny yoga studio down the street. The difference is, at that fancy gym, I was paying to tune out and climb in a hamster wheel machine all alone in a room full of people who never saw each other. High tech hookups connected that machine to the handheld machine I brought with me. We listened to music or podcasts, watched TV or even played video games, while our bodies went through motions that were so thoughtlessly repetitive that we could focus on our distractions- focus on not focusing- without falling out of step even once.

Yoga has taught me to do the opposite. I'm learning to pay attention to how my body is feeling while I am practicing. So that the benefits- and difficulties- that I reap are experienced during practice, not just afterwards. So that my mind becomes accustomed to turning toward the sensation and challenge of something, not away from it. So that in my life outside of the yoga studio, or "off the mat", I am not reaching for distraction so often. Not checking out. As much. I'm learning to turn more toward life than escape from it. To experience all of the pleasure and the pain and the in between that it has to offer. The practice of yoga, in that way, has addressed my skin picking struggles, and drinking struggles, and all my human struggles, by guiding me to be present with feelings of discomfort. To accept them, and all thoughts and feelings, as normal and temporary waves of the human experience. Sensations to be aware of, to be present for, and to ride through, just like happiness and comfort.

All of these effects of yoga that I just listed, though? Now forget them. Not because self improvement is not a worthy goal. But because overall, to experience improvements is not the main reason to practice yoga. The main reason, I think, is to experience the practicing. And, on challenging days, we may be just crushed by life, and we can't capitalize on any improvements we believe we'd made anyway. Especially physical ones. And we'll maybe get injured. And we'll for sure get older. And still then- especially then- we'll practice.

Yoga really is, quite simply, the process of learning how to focus, and how to smile at ourselves when we get distracted, and then refocus. That skill of paying attention is something that grows and builds each day. Except for some days, we when we are at day one again, because we have circled back, AS WE SHOULD. Like we do with all of the most important life skills. We learn them and forget and remember and soar and fall and observe it all with greater forgiveness towards ourselves and others. There aren't clear start and finish lines.

I guess what I'm saying is, if you were categorizing life skills by what the process of learning them resembles, you'd maybe groupYoga (aka Learning to Focus) with Grieving Compassionately, or Embracing Vulnerability or Not Worrying So Much About How You Look. Not with with Riding a Bike or Cutting An Onion or Building A Rocketship. It's more of a spiral than a linear progression.

So if you are thinking of hopping on this spiral with me, now seems like as good a time as any. The place where you begin is every place. It's precisely where you are at- especially now.

Making decisions is pretty tough for me at times. I joke with my friends that I'm so anxious about making any decision, that I'm the person who orders something at a restaurant, then sees a plate go by, or even imagines food envy in my future, and chases the server down to change my order. But it's not really a joke. It's true. I've done it. More than once.

I think of myself as a person who is generally very happy with my life. Certainly extremely grateful. I don’t take things for granted. I stop and smell the flowers, quite literally.

And yet, I am often haunted by all the wonderful lifestyles that I inadvertently rejected by choosing mine. It is a truly privileged position. I’m aware of the amount of entitlement required to feel this way. How nauseating is the sound of the lament of “I can’t live in Amsterdam because I live in San Francisco” or “I can’t live in a house in the country because I live in a condo in the city”. It's not lost on me that I’m incredibly fortunate to have crafted my life on my own in the city of my choosing, thousands of miles from where I grew up- something my ancestors and many of my living family members even now aren't able to do (and something I myself wouldn’t even be able to afford to do if I’d moved here today instead of 2002). Not to mention all the folks who suffer unspeakable things simply due to the area and situation in which they were born.

​Still, when I was visiting my parents during Christmastime, I was jogging past some beautiful old homes blocks away from my parents’ newer townhouse in the area where I grew up, and a pang of longing hit me. I briefly envisioned a life wherein I owned a small beautiful old home and walked to my parents' house in the mornings to have tea with my mom. Not ten minutes before, I'm sure I was thinking about how grateful I am that it's generally 30 degrees warmer when I'm running in San Francisco. Thoughts like these pop up in my mind at least monthly. And when I'm traveling, hourly. It's rare that I meet a town in this world that I don't fall in love with- even while not a day goes by when I don't marvel at the beauty of the San Francisco Bay Area. Well, ok, maybe three days a year go by.

To be clear, I’m not saying to never move around. Or to choose based on weather, or the size of the housing. If you are fortunate enough to have a non-toxic family and health that can withstand most types of weather and most types of housing, then it’s probably a great idea to live some of your adult life near your family and some of it more on your own, and some of it in an urban area and some of it not. If you can. But maybe you can’t. Either way, I’m saying this to you: You’ll probably drain all the joy out of wherever you live, if you spend a lot of your time with your body in one place and your heart and mind in another. Holding the tension of being a nester who also has wanderlust can be a real challenge, I know. Sometimes after a trip, I have to remind myself to step away from the Trulia site- or at least limit it to two hours.

When I'm feeling gentle and caring toward myself, I can see that, at least in part, my feelings of uncertainty about where I “should” be, stem from my empathic nature. I feel strongly connected to lots of other people and lots of other places, like I could slip into anyone's home or life and find so much to marvel at, to relish. But when I'm feeling judgmental of my restlessness and indecision, and interpreting it as ungratefulness, I want to... well, run. Out of SF, and even out of my own skin. But you can't run from yourself. So I try to evaluate what it is in my life that needs to change. And what doesn't. I try to stay. In the moment. In gratitude. On my mat. In my chair at the restaurant, happily eating what I already ordered. And, sometimes, enjoying feasting my eyes on the myriad other plates as they pass by-or taking a quick vacation over to the ones that land at my table, in front of my endlessly patient friends.

My husband is my rock. I mean all the nice sappy things that come with that. Stable. Dependable. I also call him that for all the other reasons that so many married women married to men say it. The other side of the coin. Stoic. Distant. All of the things that society celebrates- and demands- of masculinity.

I shouldn't be surprised with his affect. I've studied the patriarchy. I've studied the patriarch: His father is a man marked by calm and understatement. His highest praise of a meal he's thoroughly enjoying is "Está bien", coupled with a shrug.

The guardedness of my father-in-law has served him well in his life, no doubt. Sheltered him from the full sting of the racism and xenophobia and unfair treatment and just pure exhaustion he's faced in the fields, in the factories, in the meeting rooms. He can gather up any sentimentality and lock it away until he's alone watching telenovelas or singing rancheras romanticas. My husband, however, doesn't sing. And he doesn't watch telenovelas. And he doesn't need to labor long hours. Neither of us do, thanks in part to the privileges our parents’ toiling has afforded us.

No, my own parents and grandparents didn't have time for sentimentality either. They didn't even have time for mistakes. Nor being vulnerable to uncertainty, nor the rejection or elation caused by romantic love. What a luxury my emotional pain must be to them. My ancestors’ eyes must be rolling over in their graves when they hear me crying. ("Are you even related to them, Cheryl?", you might be thinking. Yep. I ordered the kit. I mailed my spit. I got the results. I'm just as surprised as you are, sometimes).

Neither my husband nor his father, nor my own parents nor brother, have ever once begun a sentence with "I feel..." My husband and the other men in his family never even say "Wow!" or "That's amazing." It's always "Uh huh", "Of course", and "I knew that". Wonder equals weakness, I guess.

But I don't think of myself as a weak woman. I am often grateful for the many ways in which we don't have a stereotypical hetero partnership, in fact. I proposed to my partner, a fact that I'm usually proud to tell people. It's an incredibly romantic story, how it all happened. The whole story, though, involves a truth that's been hard to admit to myself: The romantic gesture was all on my part. He knew he wanted to marry me long before I felt ready to marry him. But, of course, he could get rejected. And so he couldn't take the emotional risk of asking me. Or even of telling me how he felt, until one time when he shouted it to me in a fight. That moment was both confusingly jarring, and- sadly-the most passionate romantic gesture he's shown me to this day.

I know that the romance of movies is a lie that has embedded false hope in my psyche. That doesn't mean I don't sometimes ache for it. Or at least for something halfway there, every once in awhile.

I know that I'm a highly sensitive person, an empath, and a partner that takes up a lot of emotional space, someone whose level of feeling things and expressing them is hard to match. I also know that if I were married to someone like me, we'd probably be divorced or dead by now. We'd have exploded into a thousand pieces. Or melted into a big syrupy puddle.

And yet.

I don't think I can survive without sharing wonder with my person.

Without moments were decorum is forgotten and he grabs me in an embrace.

Without emotional vulnerability.

Without ever once hearing my person say how he feels.

THE. ABSOLUTE. SEXIEST. THING. ,to me, is this: the ability to express wonder and vulnerability, to try new things and take risks, to be overcome with emotion- any emotion- and to allow that emotion to be witnessed by others.

Even as I write this, I know that no one person can have everything. I know how fortunate I am to have a kind and loyal and smart and clean and employed feminist husband. I want all that to be enough. I want to stop wanting more. To stop badgering him about something that may be a part of his personality that he cannot change, no matter how many therapy sessions or how many times he enters "Be Romantic" into his calendar- with a reminder.

I wish my heart didn't feel so lonely and unnoticed when I'm with him. I wish his heart didn't feel so far away.

Or maybe I wish for my heart to be just like his. Blissfully complacent, ensconced in sound-proof foam so that no one hears its yearnings- including him. The silence means he sleeps like a baby at night.

If you’re a nice old lady who brings your heirloom recipe rum cake to the office every month or so, sit down and strap in. This one might hurt.

You know how when someone is in need of some extra care-they just had surgery, gave birth, or someone in their family died- folks don't usually bring them a cake or brownies? I mean, sometimes. But most of the time, they bring a lasagna, dal, some chicken soup or pho, a casserole, or a big ass salad, right? It's because, across cultures and generations, we've known that filling our stomachs with food that is hearty and nutrient dense and, well, real, helps heal our bodies and minds. And when we are hurting or busy or both, chopping vegetables and soaking beans and making broth and roasting chicken and even just boiling eggs can seem just too damn hard. We need help. When we’re stressed and hungry, it's easy to grab a donut or a candy bar at the corner store. We don't need any help with that. Help with nourishing ourselves is much more useful.

Well, we're all in need of a little care way more often then those deaths, births, and surgeries come up.

If you're the kind who brings a cake because someone left it at your daughter's birthday party this weekend and you can't deal with the temptation living in your home, so you are shuffling it on to your coworkers, you suck. Or maybe you "don't eat that stuff" and instead provide it for the plebs at the office who'll eat it because they can't pay for your personal trainer or Crossfit class or organic market or self help gurus about how to treat your body like a temple. If you're that kind of person, then your intentions are purely evil. ("But throwing out food is evil!" you say. No, it's actually not. YOU ARE).

But maybe you're one of the good folks. Your intentions are mostly pure. Bringing that bread pudding you made highlights your skills and wins over your coworkers. It gives them a rush of giddy happiness. The problem is, effect is more important than intentions. Eventually, they'll feel worse mentally and physically. (And then they may even secretly feel spiteful toward you. I mean, not me. But some people. Just sayin). You know those students or first year workers and interns can't afford to turn down free food. Give them something that’s food as medicine, not something that will skew their palate toward more sweetness-and more diabetes.

"But it's for a special occasion!" goes another excuse. Except that when you have an office of 60 people, everyone's birthdays plus holidays plus promotions plus sales spikes plus "it's Friday after a really hard week!" equals a lot of occasions. Not so special anymore.

Consider this. If your friend just quit smoking, you probably wouldn't invite them to a dinner party and then put a huge bowl of single cigarettes and fancy lighters on the table in front of them, would you? They'd hardly be able to think straight or converse with other guests or enjoy the food, their mind would be struggling so much to practice restraint. Well, this relationship that some of us have to nicotine is a relationship that a ton of us have to sugar. (And for some of us, cheese. I can't keep cheese in my house. If I ever bring a wheel of cheese to work to give to everyone, kick me in the teeth, because that would be me being evil). Yes, yes, personal responsibility is important- we love to harp on that in the US, land of individuality and isolation. Sure, if the ex-smoker lit up, it's ultimately on them. But entrapment is real. And community support is a big important thing too. And- remember?-that's why you wanted to bring food to share in the first place, instead of just bringing a stash of cookies for your own desk drawer. Because community. You wanted to help others, right? So help them, don't hurt them. And don't go all moralistic douchebag on me by telling me that well then you are helping them by giving them opportunities to practice restraint, just because you are desperate for a counter argument. In today's world, we have plenty of experience having to push through temptations everyday just while walking down the street or surfing the web.

In 2004, Dan Buettner joined National Geographic and the world's best longevity researchers to study Blue Zones, defined as geographic areas of the world where residents have greater longevity. Their research revealed, among many things, that one of the important common factors in these healthiest of places in the world is a healthy community. An environment that makes it easier for folks to make healthy choices. Think walkability, bike lanes and rental bikes. Think more produce markets than corner stores. Think more parks than bars.

When you bring a box of cupcakes to work and put it under my nose, it makes it infinitely harder for me to make healthy choices. You are creating the opposite of a healthy and calm environment at work. What's opposite of blue on the color wheel? Orange? You are creating an Orange Zone. We don't need any more orange zones or orange assholes in this world right now, know what I mean? If you love orange so much, bring in a bowl of citrus fruits.

Often on the first Friday of the month, I trek out to an open art studio event in the East Bay (which is pig Latin for "beast", a fellow San Franciscan always like to point out). My friend and I jokingly call the event Suburban Mom Craft Night. One night we ended up having a discussion with some of the other ladies about my minimalish lifestyle, during which I'm pretty sure everyone concluded that I'm insane. To be fair, even in SF, where many folks live in small spaces, and where you can come out as a swinging pansexual vegan aerialist burner without anyone batting an eye, minimalism is treated a bit like a disease. Anyway, Suburban Mom Craft Night is a bit of a misnomer, because it's technically coed-last time there was one dude there-and maybe there are even some other kidless folks present. There certainly aren't any other urbanites, though, and thus I am a bit of an odd one out.

The two women who own and run the studio are lovely, and it's a chance for a date with a dear friend of mine from high school, who is the only one from my hometown who has moved out here to the Bay Area to stay. She's often the only woman of color at the studio, unfortunately, so she is actually the odd one out in a much more visible way. But it's a great opportunity for creativity (we've done stuff we haven't for decades or ever- watercolors, screen printing, embroidery, glass etching) that would cost a gazillion dollars in the city and allows us to make messes in someone else's place- a bonus for two neat freaks. So even though it can involve a two-hour drive for me (a route that would  be 40 minutes if it weren't a Friday evening), and the cost of a toddler-sitter for her, it's worth it.  On the way, I usually catch up on a podcast or some 90's hip hop on 102.1, and feel very American in my Ford Escape cruising over the Bay Bridge with the Friday commuters. As a daily bike commuter who lives and works in SF, this monthly ritual holds a novelty for me that I hope never wears off. I mean, a novelty that lasts forever is probably an oxymoron, but hush. Don't jinx it.

That particular Friday I arrived and left my car on the street, which is 100% vacant. She has a driveway (so luxurious!), but I never know if her husband has pulled in yet from work, plus I gotta show off my parallel parking skills to these suburbanites. I generally run past her to the bathroom when she opens the door, then sit down to whatever amazing Indian dish she's made me that month. Or if it's not ready yet,  her toddler and I have band practice (me on the ukulele, her on the xylophone) or a dance party.

Though it's true that a large home and suburban life are not things I'd choose for myself, I'd be lying if I said that I don't enjoy the contrast when I visit my friends and family members who are pursuing the American Dream in a more traditional way than I am.  Sure, it often reminds me of what I don't want (more rooms) and why (more isolation, more costs, more cleaning), but also gives me a chance to stretch out and indulge in things like using more kitchen gadgets and watching TV in one room while someone is playing video games in another and attending cookouts with a long list of guests who provide a huge variety of tasty treats. 
​
​A few months ago, I hosted the coworkers who are in my weekly ladies ukulele lunch circle (I swear I also hang with non-ladies sometimes too). They came over for an evening jam sesh. Though I am really happy with how our home looks since we recently redecorated, I always feel a little embarrassed about how small it is (a 490-square-foot studio). Also, one of my many stereotypically feminine habits is that I apologize profusely for shit that I need not. So I kept thanking folks for coming and cramming in, saying sorry if it wasn't comfortable. But my guests kept oozing compliments, a few of them saying that they would love to have a smaller space, less stuff, etc. How relaxing it is. So much so that I decided to believe them. I mean, another stereotypical woman thing is that we love to affirm each other no matter what, but they seemed pretty genuine. And I ate it up. Because the truth is, I could sing the praises of tiny home living, minimalism, and capsule wardrobes till your ears fall off.
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Simplifying my life is something, like many folks, I've always said I wanted to do, but it wasn't until it was sort of forced upon me that I committed to it. It is simply way out of reach financially for anyone other than the very rich to own a single-family-multi-bed-and-bath house in San Francisco. And for now (and maybe forever), my feeling is that I did not move across the country to live two hours outside the city. I moved to live in SF.  So ten years ago when my partner and I were incredibly fortunate to able to get a couple of grants (one for teachers, and one for having relatively low income) and purchase a condo, we should have known that it would not be a "starter home" for a just few years. Because in San Francisco right now, there is no moving up to something bigger. Only moving out.

So what do you do if you want more space and you can't move out? You move your stuff out. I really wanted to say "you throw shit out", because it sounds rebellious and punchy, but it doesn't accurately illustrate the situation. And it perpetuates a misconception about minimalism: that you only get rid of garbage. (Clothes that you've grown out of or grown to realize are hideous. Happy Meal toys you never wanted in the first place. Bike tires with holes in them that you thought you were going to use to make belts, like that eco-designer you know). The truth is, you also have to get rid of perfectly nice, useful, and sometimes very expensive stuff. We all accept that there is perfectly nice, useful, expensive stuff out in the world that is just NOT FOR US. What seems to be harder to admit, is that there is perfectly nice, useful, expensive stuff in our own homes that is also NOT FOR US. And thats ok. Maybe it used to be for us. Maybe it never was. But it's time to let it go. One of the helpful lines I've heard in the minimalism social media world is "Don't cling to a mistake just because you spent a lot of money making it" (a saying I've also heard with "time" instead of "money"- both work).  I've also found it useful, when I'm struggling to get rid of something, to think of a happy new owner of a particular object or article of clothing I have- a person for whom the item IS right for. Sadly, the real truth is that many clothes we donate do not find a new owner (it's best to talk to friends and try to find that new owner on our own, and then buy less in the future), but that doesn't mean it does us any good to keep things we don't need or truly love.

I'll write more periodically on this topic of minimalism, which can really be adapted to any lifestyle- suburban family life included!- and which has truly helped keep my space and mind clearer, and has been one of the pillars of keeping my mental and emotional health stable (clutter, and even overpacked Tetris-like organization, is a big trigger for stress and anxiety for me). Equally important is that I now get that "wearing my favorite clothes feeling" every single day, because I only keep my favorites. (Incidentally, "only keep your favorites" is good rule when minimalizing friendships as well, but that's a topic for another day.)  In the meantime, if you are interested in getting those "wearing my favorite clothes" and "on vacation with one bag simplicity" feelings every day, there are tons of great books and resources online that can help you. I recommend you start with what I consider to be the two holy books of minimalism, Marie Kondō's The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up and Courtney Carver's Soulful Simplicity: How Living with Less Can Lead to So Much More.

Every year I make the resolution to dance more. And every year I fail.

This year has been different, due to a few things, not the least of which are hangover-free weekends and the support of others. Still, since I stopped doing dance performances as a kid (shout out to my mom for sending me these sweet hilarious pics today, and for starting my dancing journey at age three), my dancing career has consisted of lots of solo work in my living room, two flash mobs, a handful of Zumba sessions at the gym, a smattering of one-time studio classes, and going out to a club a couple times a year with friends, for experiences ranging from wonderful to horrendously grabby, most landing on mediocre.

So when I was invited in February to attend rehearsals with a group to prepare to dance in San Francisco's Carnaval parade, I balked, despite the fact that I knew a weekly commitment would make this the first year that my resolution had a fighting chance. Is this something I could do, with my anxiety disorder? Is it something I should do, as a white person? Would I be pulling the group down, with my gaps in dance experience? Would I be taking up space that should be occupied 100% by people of color?

When I was finally successfully encouraged (coerced) to show up each Sunday, I soon found an addictive and radical and electric community in Latin Dance Grooves. A place of hard work, shouts of joy, tears of pain, and honest conversations about race and gender and injustice and ancestry and spirituality.

Still, I told next to no one about it, figuring that freaking out and dropping out was inevitable for me.

Fast forward to yesterday's parade, and one of the greatest days of my life thus far. I am so grateful to have danced alongside so many amazing humans. I'm grateful to my friend Christine Maog, who is inspirational in her own dedication to the art of dance, and who listened again and again to my doubts and gripes with tenderness and without judgement. I'm grateful to my encouraging neighbor Lindsay Penrose, who has lived above me for ten years without our ever knowing each other prior to this, who practiced with me in our home and the hallways of our building. And I'm grateful to Elizabeth Soberanes, who created this amazing community long ago- where women of color are at the helm and on the mic- who models unapologetic fierce love with power and emotion, and who refuses to do what so many others do: Separate art away from history and politics and social justice, just to make her dance classes palatable to folks who show up only to get a workout or feel sexy (her students get that too- trust me! But they also get so much more).

Just like when I was that cute (awkward) kiddo, dance brings me joy and new friends. But as a 38-year-old woman, dance also brings me all kinds of things that the kid in those photos didn't know she would one day need from it: a way of working through grief and anger, a way of working with new understandings of my own and others' cultures and histories, a way of working out the weariness of this world.

And, yes, a way of working off cheese and bread.

I smile so big when I think about how much more dancing and learning I have ahead of me in this life.
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Best resolution I ever made. (And made. And made. And made again.)

My curls look pretty good today. Maybe I'll take a confidence-boosting selfie.
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Ugh. My hair looks so dry and frizzy.

My mouth is just huge. And crooked.

My skin maybe looks a bit smoother after the treatments on my scars. They were worth the money.

My hair is so greasy.

How does anyone ever look past this ginormous nose to make eye contact with me?

My skin actually looks pretty dewy and clear.

This is the longest I've ever gone without picking my skin. It shows. That feels good.

I look old.

I look sad.

I look tired.

My body feels and looks strong.

My skin is so bumpy.

This haircut really feels like me. I'm going to keep it forever.

Everyone must just stare at that scar all the time. I guess it's nice that they've never mentioned it.

I like my outfit today. I finally really like my wardrobe. Feels like me.

Should I get plastic surgery? How much would it cost? Could I bear the humiliation of the consultation appointment? There is no plastic surgery to make mouth or head smaller or my face less long and wide, so I might as well save my money. A smaller nose and mouth would just look stupid on this ginormous face anyway.

My teeth look straight and white.

​My teeth look huge. If I don't smile, it looks better. No huge teeth, and my nose isn't stretched as wide.

All of these 30 or so photos look completely hideous. Every. Single. One. I'm done.

I share these very personal thoughts I had recently (all in a matter of about 10 minutes) because, though they don't represent reality all that well, they are very real. At the time. And powerful. Wow are they powerful. So convincing. Day-ruining. In fact, week-ruining, if followed by a skin picking session, like they almost always were, in the past. And though thoughts like these are not constant, they are frequent. Maybe they ring true to some folks out there. And the shame I feel at the vanity and frivolity of them (the wasted time alone! UGH) when facing them in black and white like this, may be relatable as well. Relatable to my fellow folks suffering from Body Dysmorphic Disorder (an estimated 2% of the population). Relatable to my fellow folks suffering from the patriarchy (an estimated 100% of the population). But maybe they aren't relatable to you. Just believe me, then. That's all. And know that for SO many folks- folks who suffer much worse from our racist sexist ableist gendered thin-centric sociatal rules of how to look- it is SO much worse. Just trust. And don't feel bad if you laughed a little at me, at the roller coaster ride of positivity and insecurities in my brain. I can sometimes laugh a bit too, when Iooking back. If I'm looking back from a good place.

This morning at 10:30am I had a dance class. Which meant that my first brainwork of the day was listing all the things that could go wrong, all the ways in which my dance skills don't measure up, and all the solid excuses for skipping the class. (It's pretty amazing how swiftly I can compose three mental lists right after waking up. My brain is POWERFUL, y'all.)
And while I love all the pro-mental health memes about it being okay to cancel things to stay home and take care of yourself, the memes that tell you that believing every thought and worry you have is dangerous business: those are also true.  
I don't know that there is anything in my life (save cuddling my dog) that brings me pure joy as quickly and consistently as dancing.
I have been prioritizing creativity more and more lately, and for the first time ever, have kept my yearly resolution of dancing (outside my home) at least once a week. And the rewards my body and mind and spirit and relationships are reaping are ENORMOUS.
Sending you positive vibes, dear readers, that you can carve out more time for creative expression, and push past the voices of doubt and insecurity.  

Below, enjoy one of the undeniable wonders of capitalism. A commercial that makes my heart soar. (Full disclosure: I also love Levi's.  So yeah.)

You:
I was shocked when a number of friends reached out to me after I wrote about my skin picking disorder, saying that they suspect they have a skin picking disorder as well. Some folks who also pick at their faces, others who pick at their arms and legs, a few who tear up and bite the skin around their fingernails.

Maybe you yourself relate to the diagram above, maybe you are confused by it. Even if you are not someone with this or another disorder, if you are engaging in a behavior that you don't want to engage in at all, or at least it's more frequent than you'd like, and you are having trouble stopping, then that is a problem in your life (compulsive cell phone use, anyone??). Plain and inarguably simple. So I hope, as with all topics I write about, that my sharing can help a variety of folks, in some way.

And if your problem is more than just a little one, I recommend that you seek professional help. I've spent countless grueling hours and dollars gaining knowledge and tools from experts and from personal experience, and by all means, rake it in. But what I've received from working directly with doctors and therapists cannot be replaced by any blog. If you think you may truly have a skin picking disorder, or another BFRB (Body-Focused Repetitive Behavior)- which I introduced a bit at the end of a blog entry in the past- or any other habit which you are so caught up in that it is sabotaging parts of your life, please reach out to a medical professional. Truly. I know it can be a lengthy and daunting process to find the right person and maybe meds, and that access to care is not equitable. Perhaps it is some solace, though, that, nine times out of ten, some help is better than none. Also, as I've mentioned, skin picking was recently added to the DSM 5, the American Psychiatric Association's manual of mental disorders, so we know that the medical community is becoming more aware of it, and of related disorders. (It's even being featured in some celebrity-produced popular blogs!)

Important note for allies and supporters: sitting down to help research and call medical professionals is one of the most simple and concrete ways you can help a loved one who has a problem.

It's also important to note that skin picking, for me, is partially about my skin, but is also the output- the observable behavior and condition- that was cooked up with many other issues as the ingredients. These are specific to me (see my graphic above), but not unique (in fact, they are fairly common). You or other people, though, may have skin picking or another BFRB that results from autism, ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder), drug use, or hallucinations as a result of some serious mental illnesses. Point is, there's a wide range of folks who suffer from BFRBs, due to a myriad of reasons, and from various backgrounds.

If nothing else in my graphic applies to you, at least the human brain thing does. I'm sure you've experienced the feeling of a behavior providing you with some pleasure and satisfaction. The pleasure center of your brain has been lit up. Chemicals like dopamine and serotonin have rushed in. You've had an urge to repeat that behavior, to experience the pleasure again. Surely, we have to exert some level of control to stop doing almost anything that lights up our pleasure center. Eating potato chips is an example that resonates with a lot of people. And again, phone use. (The latter is an especially powerful one, as experts are specifically designing the hardware and software to manipulate your psyche and to activate that pleasure loop in your brain, and they're getting better at that every day.)

But back to skin picking. Just a few days ago, I heard my coworkers discussing the popularity of the YouTube videos of a dermatologist nicknamed Dr. Pimple Popper. It's just what you think. She records the work she does slicing, squeezing, and bursting all kinds of pussy skin bumps on her patients, and loads it on the Internet for the ogling satisfaction of hundreds of thousands. (Perhaps ironically, I have no interest in watching these). I think the fairly large universality of the appeal of skin picking means that many folks who don't have BFRB can relate to me and my condition a little more than they might relate to hair pulling (Trichotillomania) or even compulsive nail biting. This should make it easier for me to share about this, I guess...?? Anyway, so if satisfaction from skin picking is so normal, how do you know when your enjoyment of squeezing out your blackheads and whiteheads is no longer simply grooming? That's a hard question for me to answer for you, but I'm inclined to say, you'll know. Especially now that you are aware of the existence of these disorders. (When everything began in my teen years, I was not. I was convinced I was a disgusting freak with no self control, unlike anything the world had ever seen. It would have been nice if the Internet was around then, and I'd found blogs like this one).

Body Focused Repetitive Behavior disorders certainly involve a short-lived element of satisfaction and even sometimes enjoyment, (this is what separates them from behaviors associated with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which often involve no satisfaction- for instance, a person not being able to leave for work because they have to circle back to their street two dozen times to see if they've left a dead body in the road, because they are certain they heard a thunk when pulling out of their driveway). However, the satisfaction of picking or pulling a hair out is followed by an immediate "I need more", that is overwhelmingly powerful. We'll pick at anything- not just whiteheads and blackheads that are mature and "ready". And once a BRRB sufferer engages in more picking or pulling for a time, a trance-like state develops, during which we lose hours. After coming out of the trance-like state and surveying the blood, the wounds and the scabbing, the shame storm ensues. This stage is marked by horrendous feelings of guilt, panic, and self hatred. This stage can last for days, and is often especially powerful in the morning, when you wake and see a mirror or touch your face, and remember what you've done. This in itself can be a trigger for another picking episode. After awhile, often one can calm down and start making plans to achieve the goal of NEVER picking again. "That time was for sure the last time. I can never and will never do that to my body again." Maybe we'll even exact a punishment on ourselves to solidify the plan, and to feel like we are taking concrete forward steps. My punishments, as I've mentioned, were often "grounding" myself from a social event (which, if I really admitted, I wanted to skip anyway because I didn't want anyone to see my face).

​In short, the stages are not subtle. The triggers can be a stressful day, a put-down from someone, the existence of a pimple, some alone time to process some thoughts about a long day, even a good day that causes excitement or nervous energy, and thus the need to perfect everything to make the day even better. But the other parts of the cycle usually aren't subtle. My pattern, which is a common one, looks like this:

 If this pattern is not recognizable to you, though, and you still are worried that you or someone you know may have a BFRB, other red flags can include:

• Notable absences or tardiness. Skin picking and the aftermath eats up a TON of time. (I had near-perfect attendance in school all my life until the onset of this disorder, in 9th grade. I loved school and loved being social, but Dermatillomania caused me to miss a lot of both. It still does.)
• Of course, visible signs, like lesions or scabs on the skin, torn skin around the fingernails, bald spots on the head or missing eyebrows or even eyelashes. I myself tend to pick at my face, but some folks can hide their evidence much better, because their target area is their arms or legs. For hair-pullers, they may wear a hat they refuse to take off.
• Evidence of other mental health issues. Folks often have related disorders. For me, some friends and family members recognized my depression or anxiety or even BDD (Body Dysmorphic Disorder) before they ever knew about my Dermatillomania. They noticed I was in bed during the day a lot, for instance, and didn't know I'd been up all night picking. Or that I spoke less, looked downward a lot, etc. So they'd see depression. If they walked in on a panic attack (which was almost never, other than for my parents or partner), they might see me hyperventilating in a ball on the bathroom floor, but didn't know about the picking session prior. So they'd see the anxiety, but not the Dermatillomania. As far as the BDD, a few folks picked up on a comment I'd made "I look so awful" or "Don't look at me!" or "My skin is disgusting today". I'll never forget the time, years ago, eating lunch after a presentation at work, I talked with a coworker friend and tried to make a joke about how grateful I was that folks were willing to look past how large my head is and how masculine my features are and still listen to my presentation (yeah, I know, NOT healthy nor fun). My coworker looked at me, surprised. She said flat out, "You have Body Dysmorphic Disorder." I almost choked. I assumed no one else even knew what that was, let alone my secret. I mean, self hateful speech about one's appearance is so common among women, that it's become normalized. So most folks hardly even blinked when I said something like that. (See: "Society and the Patriarchy" in Diagram 1.) But, sexism and body image are topics for another post. And I still have part 3 to do of this one. Sigh. Ok. I'm pretty scared to post this now. I'm not going to lie. I have to keep reminding myself of my reasons: this can help someone else, this can help my own healing, vulnerability and authenticity are necessary to live fully.

​Also, this damn thing has been living in the draft folder for awhile, and needs to be set free. Monsters only live in the dark, right? Time to shed some more light on this sucker. (Note: Yeah, I've noticed that red line under "Dermatillomania" in the second diagram, that I forgot to get rid of. I'm going to leave it. An exercise in embracing imperfection seems appropriate here.)