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Hand Washing 101

3 Jun

Perhaps if learning how to wash ones hands became an admissions requirement, NYU could feel confident in the sanitary nature of its students.

NYU is a highly selective school, which makes me think that only relatively smart students make it through the door.  Well, smart students and legacies.  Regardless of how a particular student made it into the “yes” pile, I’m sure the university feels pretty confident that he or she can succeed in the classroom and later in the workforce.  Students prove that they can survive philosophical theories, theatrical critiques, and hundred page theses, but the one thing that seemingly holds them up is washing their hands.

Yes, according to the recent hanging of “Hand Washing 101” posters throughout the NYU library, the nation’s eighteen to twenty-one year olds can run the world by computer but cannot master the same mundane task that five year olds accomplish on a daily basis.

If that doesn’t keep you up at night, I don’t know what will.

How is it that any human being can actually make it to eighteen without knowing how to wash his or her hands?  Is that even possible?  And, on what planet is washing one’s hands a six-step process?

I must say, though, that the first step is what really got me.  Only the brightest in the nation would make step one on a how to wash your hands poster, “wash hands.”  Bravo.  At least if you’re going to make a how to poster for the one of the easiest tasks a person could possible accomplish, make it legitimate.

Tell me what you think.  Here are the steps.

Step 1: Wash hands (see, I wasn’t kidding)

Step 2: Soap up

Step 3: Scrub hands for 20-30 seconds thoroughly

Step 4: Rinse well under running water

Step 5: Dry hands

Step 6: Use your towel to turn off faucet

If a student is “misguided” enough to not know how to wash his or her hands, this process can’t possibly help.  Think of the task from the mind of such misguided students – all the questions that could run though their minds!  How much soap should I use?  The entire bottle?  Scrub hands with what?  Wait, water?  You need water to wash your hands?  What?  Dry hands with what?  My shirt?  What if I used my shirt to dry my hands, should I leave the faucet running because I don’t have a towel?  Washing hands is too confusing – I must get back to reading Darwin.

Seriously NYU?  I’m sure you could have found something better to do with the space on the back of the stall doors.  Like teach students how to pee in the bowl – now that would be an accomplishment.

The Yogalester

22 Apr

Beware of the new position, Copafeel, that’s hitting yoga studios throughout New York City.

Sometimes a girl just needs a little namaste.  I live in New York City, and there are days (usually ones where I almost get killed by a cab) that I need to re-center myself with self-reflection and, apparently, flexibility.  Those are the days I whip out my pink yoga mat and head downtown to the mental center of the village – Yoga to the People.

Like you’d probably assume, the studio is interesting and minimalistic.  The classes are phenomenal, but the lack of space makes me cringe during a busy class.  I’m just not a fan of getting squashed like the dreams of a Jets fan, hoping to win a Super Bowl.  Shoot me.

I’m sorry, but what happened to a first come, first served mentality?  Just because one straggler comes in five minutes before class doesn’t mean the rest of us must suffer with two inches of space between our mats and the random strangers’ beside us.  Is tough love not part of yoga?  Clearly, I’m missing something because I have a genuine concern of neighbors falling, smelling, or even worse, wearing shorts the size of a toddler’s.  (Maybe that’s because last week a man in front of me wore little girl shorts that exposed his mini-me during, oh, every pose.)

Although I’m skeptical, it’s during this one-hour class that we, the people of United States and yoga, are not supposed to judge others (cough, total crap).  We’re told to bow our heads in silence, breaking only for the occasional moan, and not worry about appearances, troubles, or anything other than the sweatbox we’re inside.  I ask you this, though.  How am I supposed to become one with the floor, give myself to an inner chi, and reach nirvana when the man beside me smacks my ass during Child’s Pose?

I always knew my fear of neighboring Yogees would be validated, but when the man who reeked of body odor and city grime elongated his three and a half foot, sweaty arm and touched my left cheek, I was stunned.  He didn’t acknowledge the grope – not that an apology would have made the gesture acceptable, appreciated, or forgotten – and I, being in the spirit of yoga couldn’t do a thing.  I wanted to kick him in the nut-sack and say, “Om this, asshole” but could I?  No, because there’s no talking in yoga.

Damn rules.

With no retaliation in sight, an inner spirit forced me to continue onward – that or the fact that I was packed in so tightly that I physically couldn’t escape.  Within minutes, I was back to thinking about how lucky the bendy, front row women’s boyfriends are and completely forgot about Geepers Creepers next to me.  How short lived that was.

Somewhere between Warriors I, II, and III, while I was focused on breathing and not falling over, a hand came flying toward me and landed on my chest as if it were saying, “Miss, I’m tired and need a place to rest for a few seconds.”  I don’t know what kind of yoga this guy’s been doing, but where I come from, Touchaboob isn’t an executed position.  What was he feeling around for?  No touch!

Seeing as how my boob didn’t develop a mind of its own, jump the twenty-three inches between our mats, and interfere with his Downward Facing Dog, there was no reason for skin to body contact.  I mean, excuse me, but did my left chesticle accidentally get in the way of his practice?  Did it!?  Because, if not, he was a Grade A Yogalester.

As if the incident wasn’t bad enough, the plot thickened when I noticed his girlfriend was yogacizing to his left.  What was he doing, stroking her boob with one hand and mine with the other?  My gluts during Child’s Pose and hers during Half Pigeon?

When the class ended, he ran out faster than a ten year old toward a Justin Bieber sighting.  I sat there, shocked, violated, speechless, and wondering why it’s always the unattractive guys who always hit on me – not that I consider any of this getting hit on.  Namaste my ass.

Stranded On The Stair Climber

4 Apr

The foolproof way men are now picking up women at the gym.

I don’t go to the gym to prance around in black spandex and a lime green sports bra, trying to get the attention of every bandana wearing man at my gym.  I go to the gym to work out and sweat so hard that even I wouldn’t want to sleep with me.  It’s not a time for awkwardness or self-consciousness, and although I’ve been known to have some conversations with men I find completely unattractive (they’re safe), it’s not a time for dialogue.  To me, it’s a time where I think about how I plan to look in a bikini four months from now, glance a bit too long at specific male representatives using the cable weights, and mind my own business.

Apparently, not everyone chooses to follow my master plan.

While listening (and maybe lip singing) to “More Than A Feeling” on the stair climber the other day, I was accosted.  I mean it – accosted by a man old enough to dine with my parents – sorry, mom.  He swaggered up to my machine as I tried to face front, but after ten seconds, I couldn’t ignore the staring man to my left.  Removing my headphones was the first mistake, which was immediately followed by the second: engaging in conversation.  I was naïve to think he wanted to talk about anything other than my plan for the evening.  It took him nine flights of stairs to ask me out, which roughly equated to three songs I could have enjoyed instead of being forced into conversation.

Although I’m fully aware that men pick up women at the gym, I’ve never been approached in the midst of a workout.  I was flattered by the gesture, amused by the man’s confidence, and completely taken back because I couldn’t use any of the defense mechanisms I typically use when approached by an unsolicited suitor.  Think about it.  When a woman is approached at a bar or on the street, she automatically has three excuses to use when blowing off a man.

  1. She can pretend to get text or phone call, stare at the phone, and pretend something incredibly important is happening.
  2. She can pull a White Rabbit and be late for a very important date.
  3. She can ignore the man altogether, act like she didn’t hear him speak to her, and keep walking.

I’m not proud of women for using these excuses, but we do – all the time.  I thought we could use at least one of the three in any situation, but this little gym incident has proved otherwise.  When a woman is working out, she is completely stripped of her typical diversion strategies.

  1. She doesn’t keep her phone with her, so she can’t pretend to get a phone call or be reading/drafting something.
  2. She can’t pretend to be late for anything because she obviously set aside time to be at the gym.
  3. She can’t get off the machine and walk away, pretending not to notice the man is standing next to her.

This got me thinking – for men, picking up women while they’re working out is the perfect plan.  We’re stranded, and they’re guaranteed to have our attention.  It’s genius!

Most first meeting scenarios give men a limited time to sell themselves to any woman.  A man can barely say “hi” as he passes a woman on a crowded street corner let alone engage in any kind of conversation.  Yet, when he approaches a woman working out, it’s an entirely different story.  She’s not getting off the machine until she’s reached her allotted calorie burn.  That can give him up to an hour to win her over.  An hour!  I may not be a fan of getting trapped on the treadmill or bombarded on the bike, but even I can’t deny the brilliance of this strategy.

In this instance, however, the mastermind behind this tactical approach couldn’t get me to accept his “late night” invitation.  He finally got the hint that I wasn’t interested when I claimed to be free spirited and have no idea where I’d be in the next fifteen minutes, let alone in five hours.  What can I say?  A girl has to have standards.