March 16, 2021

A lot on my plate

Fear sells, but why does the food industry use anxiety to sell products? I mean, if there’s one thing the seven billion people on this planet agree on, it’s that we need food. (And Baby Yoda is adorable. That’s universally accepted.)

Weeds or food?

When COVID hit last spring, I heard we’d run out of beef by autumn. My husband lost his mind. Someone told me canned vegetables would be as valuable as gold, which is good because I’d rather wear a can of peas on a chain around my neck than have to eat them.

Experts tell us food is plentiful and cheaper than ever before. Just the food leftover from Las Vegas buffets could feed several third-world countries for generations. They’d all develop diabetes and heart disease, but they’d have plenty of food.

And that’s the other fear; the idea that the food we eat, even broccoli and kale, has no nutritional value because the soil’s been depleted of nutrients and we’re consuming the dietary equivalent of Rice Krispies for each meal.

So, we hear companies proclaiming to have discovered new, perfect foods. Not just foods – Super Foods (with a heartbreaking origin story). They ask questions like, Do you poop every day at noon? Are you often irritable? Well, you’re eating the wrong food!

Social media is awash in these types of ads. “Buy our product made of 300 superfoods found only in caves along the Ganges River!” “Learn the secret of Cleopatra’s radiant skin, Helen of Troy’s weight loss supplement and Queen Elizabeth’s longevity.” (Spoiler alert: it’s never having to clean your own toilet.)

Companies tell us fans are “raving” about their green juice. False news. No one raves about green juice. The recipes have unknown ingredients like chlorella (a dried sea vegetable) and rhodiola, a cold-climate plant used by Vikings. Mmmmm. Yummy. (Sidenote: Vikings are dead. Did rhodiola kill them?)

Mushrooms are the new meat. The reishi mushroom is called the Queen of the Mushrooms because . . . um . . . it has a crown? I guess psilocybin mushrooms would be King of the Mushrooms, or at least the laid-back, hippie brother-in-law of the mushrooms.

Pretend meat is also the new meat. Impossible Meat might be better for the planet, but with its soy, wheat, and vegetable ingredients shaped and colored to look like chicken nuggets, it’s definitely not health food.

And don’t think it’s safe to drink water. No, sir! You can’t drink tap water, bottled water, well water, river water, toilet water or any other water unless it’s gone through an expensive, artesian reverse osmosis process. I used to drink water out of the hose in my front yard. I’m sure I’ll die full of mercury, lead, and chlorine.

Spinach and romaine lettuce routinely try to kill us, and don’t get me started on GMO conspiracy theories. I don’t have that kind of time. Are apples still good for us? Can we eat corn without worrying about growing a third arm? Does everything have to be organic, farm-fresh and certified because according to Facebook, we’re all doomed!

 I know Americans don’t have the best diets but throw me a grass-fed bone. We’re assaulted on all sides and just trying not to dive headfirst into a bucket of chicken for a morning snack.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

February 16, 2021

Making the grade

When my kids were little, I did a bit of substitute teaching. After I accidentally threw an encyclopedia and flipped a desk over, I realized teaching elementary school probably wasn’t for me.

Teachers are comprised of strong stuff. The molten lava that flows through their veins gives them courage and an unbreakable gaze. A skeleton made of graphene (200 times stronger than steel) keeps them steady and protects their hearts. And those hearts beat a consistent tempo that opens doors to new worlds and encourages students to find their own rhythm.

But teachers are exhausted.

I attended Viewmont Elementary during the 1900s, where teachers were the top of the food chain. I worshiped the good ones, feared the difficult ones, and loathed the mean ones.

I remember the “trip” our kindergarten class took to Hawaii where we ate coconut and learned the hula. And the teacher who caught us eating snowballs, so she melted snow to show us the dirt and grime. (I haven’t eaten a snowball in more than 45 years.) Or the teacher who shamed me for not knowing the word “chandelier.”

School was where I learned social skills. Okay, I learned them poorly, but I did learn some. I interacted with people my age where we talked about our favorite TV shows, what we had for dinner and whether my crush winked at me or had a tic.

Today, students feel lost.

My 8-year-old grandson started the school year online, changed to in-person learning, then went back online. He might enjoy hanging out with his mom, grandma, and little demon of a sister, but he misses his friends.

Imagine trying to learn long division on a Zoom call. I couldn’t even learn it in person. Or imagine hosting a virtual call for a class of first graders who have the attention span of a meatball. My mom thought education was vital, but if she had to supervise online learning for me and my four siblings, she would have sold us to the circus.

Teachers are struggling. Kids are struggling. Parents are struggling.

If we’ve learned one thing this crappy year, it’s that superheroes walk among us. Healthcare workers and winemakers are tied for the top spot on my list, with teachers, students, and parents finishing a close second by demonstrating unprecedented resilience.

Many kids are failing this year, but are they really? Can you fail when a global pandemic changes the rules? When teachers adapt daily to shifting conditions? Can you fail when parents work full-time jobs at home while staying on top of online assignments and hybrid schedules?

Teachers are a mighty mix of educator/guidance counselor/cheerleader/cruise director, and this year their creativity and patience has been tested. It brings to mind my husband’s favorite quote, “Looks like I picked the wrong [year] to stop sniffing glue.”

This is a thank you to the teachers who work with my grandchildren. The teachers who are innovative and kind. The teachers who show up like a boss and get to work. This is also a thank you to the students who have proven to be flexible and strong. They’re all doing the best they can as they watch adults try to figure everything out.

Maybe we write this school year off; maybe it’s not the year to learn geometry or teach Latin. Perhaps it’s the year we value kindness, connection, and self-care for everyone involved. I promise, there’ll be much less encyclopedia throwing and desk flipping.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

January 15, 2021

A Dropped Call

Like a mother in a Disney movie, my cell phone died inexplicably. Well, not inexplicably. I dropped it in the toilet.

I was wearing jeans for the first time in seven months and had the phone in my back pocket when it promptly fell into the commode. My phone, not my back pocket.

There’s a universal response when you drop your phone in liquid; you reach in and grab the damn thing. It could be submerged in molten lava or boiling oil; you will instinctively reach for the phone at the expense of never using your hand again.

Snatching it up, I screamed several unprintable words and resorted to 15 minutes of “No, no, no, no, no!” I shook my phone, blew in it, prayed over it and dashed home to dump it in a bowl of rice. (A robot on Mars can send information to NASA but I have to submerge my phone in rice because it got wet.)

 I thought, this would make a great Instagram post and frantically looked for my phone so I could take a picture of my phone sitting in a bowl of rice.

But I was phoneless. I reached for my phone nonstop. I absently grabbed the TV remote, trying to scroll through Tik Tok. I picked up my computer mouse to check the time. I kept patting my leggings where my cell phone used to be, frisking myself like some weird felon.

I realized I’m obsessed with how many steps I walk. I’m preoccupied with social media. I’m dependent on my phone to give me instant info. If I wanted to order from Amazon, I had to go into ANOTHER ROOM and use my computer.

After 24 hours, I turned on my phone.

Nothing.

Minutes later, I was kicking in the door at my cell phone company, begging them to fix my phone. They know me well because, having been bitten by a radioactive clutz, I break my phone often. But this time, they just shook their head and called the time of death.

Then someone suggested I contact Simple Fix in West Jordan, saying they work miracles. Miracles sounded pretty good, but they couldn’t look at my phone for several days.

Several days without a phone? Impossible!

What would I listen to while walking my dog? Who was Scam Likely going to call? What if Samantha Bee texts me about a job? How would I waste hours of my time doing something unnecessary?

The typical cell phone weighs four or five ounces but after a day without my phone, I felt weightless. After two days I could talk to my husband without furtive glances at my phone. After three days, I didn’t miss playing Words with Friends.

Is this what life is supposed to feel like? I swore when I got my phone back, it wouldn’t control me anymore.

Then I got my phone back.

I listened to all the podcasts, played all the games, bought everything on Amazon and beat my family at Words with Friends. I ignored my husband, tuned out the world in general and scrolled endlessly through social media platforms.

The lesson here should be turn off your phone and interact with the real world. But what I learned was I need to buy cargo pants with dozens of secure pockets so my phone will never fall into the toilet again.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

December 20, 2020

Five Things Trump Did Very Goodly

At this very moment, Donald Trump’s attorneys are filing lawsuits and spreading COVID as they ask judges for an election re-do. The entire world is witnessing a meltdown of Pompeii-ish proportions. Trump is parading through the streets, wearing invisible clothes, as his sycophants praise him for his fashion choices.

But if the election stands (fingers and toes crossed), we’ll have a new president in January. 

Some people inexplicably believe everything Trump did was amazing. They’re willing to overlook his lies, cheating, mocking, bombastic ego, and temper tantrums. Even Utah’s Attorney General is riding off into the sunset, looking for dead voters.

I can be tolerant of other people’s choices, but I shouldn’t be tolerant of bigotry or mass sterilizations. I don’t agree that wealth and position make you immune from the responsibilities of living in this country (paying taxes, acting like an adult, conceding, etc.)

It wouldn’t matter if the person in charge was a democrat, a republican or three raccoons in a trench coat; if they behave abominably, they shouldn’t be in charge.

Despite that, there are five things Trump did well during his reign of irrationality. 

  1. He exposed our nation’s racist underbelly. By refusing to denounce white supremacy, Trump cast a harsh light on systemic racism and the oppression experienced by millions of people in this country. It’s made white folks extremely uncomfortable, which is good. Trump didn’t create racism, but he gave those groups a voice; he gave them permission.
  2. He encouraged people to vote. Never in the history of our country have so many voters showed up at the polls. Millennials and minorities showed up for change. Old, rich, white people showed up to keep things the same. An estimated two-thirds of the voting population cast a ballot during the election. Whether you voted him out or tried to keep him in, Trump can take credit for getting people off their couches and into voting booths.
  3. He made us constitutional scholars. Can Trump pardon himself? What is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act? What happens during an impeachment hearing? Any of Trump’s Twitter followers can answer those questions because we all took to Google to study up on the U.S. Constitution. Where’s Schoolhouse Rock when you need it?
  4. He taught us vocabulary. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary Twitter feed threw more shade than an eclipse as it called out Trump’s behavior. It customized its Word of the Day to fit any presidential topic. Some of my favorites: equity, cronyism, mythomania, braggadocio and nepotism. You’ve gotta love a woke dictionary. 
  5. He showed us what we don’t want in a leader. More than 81 million voters stood up to say they don’t want children in cages, they don’t want a president who uses his position for profit, they don’t want a president who can’t show empathy, kindness, understanding or love, and they don’t want a president who continues to ignore climate change and a pandemic that’s killed nearly 400,000 Americans on his watch. I hope President Biden is responsible, caring and boring as hell. 

If nothing else, we’ve learned our country is not infallible. Our democracy is precious and fragile, and it takes all of us to stand up for what we believe America represents. We want our country to work toward healing – and that might take many generations, but we need to start. 

So, thank you, soon-to-be-former President Trump. You taught us some hard lessons. Hopefully, we won’t forget.

November 18, 2020

Falling Apart

Well, 2020 finally broke me. I’m overwhelmed, worried about COVID, stressed about the election, climate change, immigration and poverty, and disillusioned to learn Ellen DeGeneres is an actress. It feels like someone shook Pandora’s Box 2.0 like a maraca, releasing sadness, greed and hubris.

I started this column dozens of times, but it feels like my funny is numb. I’d begin writing but devolve into an angry rant where I’m pounding the keyboard like a furious Elton John. I’ve gone feral.

During yoga, I asked my students for advice on how to find my funny. They suggested sharing recipes for Doomsday Survival beverages like Meltdown Mimosas and Disaster Daquiris. I’m afraid if I start researching drinks, I’d sober up around Groundhog Day. (If there is a Groundhog Day in 2021.)

I’m run through a gamut of feelings, enough emotions to create a second or third generation of Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs. I start each day with Hangry then work my way through Weepy, Lonely, Screamy, Worry, Panic and Gloomy. My husband never knows which Peri he’ll bump into when we pass in the hall. It makes everyday discussions a bit wobbly.

Hubbie: What sounds good for dinner?

Me: We’re on a spinning planet, slowly moving toward the sun where we’ll be consumed like a fly in a bug zapper.

Hubbie: So . . . enchiladas?

Americans are resilient, right? We’ve been through tough times, right? We’ll come together and make the best decisions for our country . . . oh, who am I kidding?

I started screaming at the moon every night like some kind of demon weredog. I’m sure my neighbors are terrified. (Sidenote: I hope someone who’s been living in a bunker since Y2K finally emerged this year to see if it’s safe to come out. Joke’s on them.)

My meditation practice has become a slow descent into madness.

But then.

I zoom in close and watch my grandkids teach a disinterested dog to roll over. I see myriad kindnesses in my life like chocolate, warm blankets and Disaster Daquiris. I zoom out and witness this beautiful world with its billions of people just doing the best they can. Compassion is abundant.

I talk to the trees (literally). I smell pumpkin spice (everywhere). I hike through gorgeous canyons, watching leaves release their grip on branches and freefall to the ground. The stillness settles my thoughts.

I don’t know if you’ll read this before or after the election. I don’t know if we’re facing martial law, a presidential coup or (finally) an alien invasion. But I know optimism feels better than despair.

We can continue to Catastrophe Scroll though vile social media posts, created by friendless trolls with no sense of humor and a serious case of ringworm, or we can turn off our phones and relearn what “community” means.

One day soon, we’ll have to acknowledge the friendships we’ve lost, the unnecessary arguments we waged and the times we refused to back down. It will be a political hangover of epic proportions, especially if you’ve been drinking Calamity Cosmopolitans.

Those who follow my social media platforms know where I stand politically, and it’s easy to look at the rage in the world and point fingers at The Other Side.

I can stop the blame game, but I won’t stop calling for equality, justice and inclusion in places it doesn’t exist. We must remember that Hope remained in Pandora’s Box. It’s our job to nurture it.

This column was originally published in The Davis Clipper

October 10, 2020

Just Here For The Boos

It’s been a decade since COVID-19 reached our shores, ushering in 45 years of hand sanitizer, remote learning and face mask protesters sporting apostrophe-addled signs like “Your an idiot” and “Parent’s against masks”.

But now it’s October. Halloween is at risk. S*** just got real.

Nothing could be scarier than 2020, with its earthquakes and hurricane-force winds and rising COVID infection rates and elections, but Halloween isn’t just about fear. Halloween is the one day conservative moms can buy push-up bras and dress like lusty dog catchers, guilt free. It’s the day Snickers for breakfast and Reese’s for lunch are appropriate meals. It’s the day politically inappropriate celebrities get tagged on social media.

But COVID changed everything. Los Angeles prohibited trick-or-treating along with haunted house venues, Halloween carnivals and other spooky activities. After a swift and furious backlash from parents who need to give their kids ONE thing to look forward to this year, the city backed down and “recommended” common sense. Like that’s a thing.

Even then, it’s gonna take a lot to scare our children anymore in 2020. They spent months locked in the house, learning fractions online and wearing face masks to the grocery store. Their stress levels are sky-high and adrenal fatigue has caused weepy breakdowns and heartbreaking acceptance.

On the bright side, COVID-19 ushered in a whole new series of costumes for the holiday, including coronavirus outfits, teachers in hazmat suits and the very funny Elsa in a plastic bubble.

I think I’ll dress up as a mail-in ballot since that seems to be the most terrifying thing in the country today. (Sidenote: Vote on Nov. 3. Vote by mail, vote in person, drop your vote off in a ballot box. I don’t care how you vote. Crawl through a lake of spiders, a graveyard of zombies – just vote!)

The CDC issued COVID-19 risk categories, pertaining to Halloween activities. The lowest risk is a virtual festival where celebrations are held on Zoom because we just can’t get enough of Zoom, can we? (Sidenote: Has anyone investigated the connection between the coronavirus and Zoom? Hmm??)

Moderate risk includes small gatherings where individuals stay apart from each other and wear those Halloween masks from the ‘70s because there is no way germs (or breath) will get through that thick plastic.

Higher risk activities will be your social distanced haunted houses where vampires and witches stand six feet away and snarl the horrible things they’d do if they could just get a little closer. That horrifying thing breathing down your back is the local Karen, screeching into her cellphone and looking for a manager.

Posing the highest risk are large, in-person, no-mask gatherings made popular in places like Utah and Washington Counties. (Sidenote: Idiots.)

People have tried to ruin Halloween for centuries. The latest attempt was the introduction of Trunk-or-Treat, which should be banned in all 50 states for its mediocre contribution to the holiday, so I don’t think COVID will stop Halloween enthusiasts. Some people find Halloween offensive, with its glittery bats and baby werewolves. But everything is offensive this year. If something didn’t offend someone in 2020, did it really happen?

I guess we’ll see if people party safely this Halloween when COVID results start rolling in two weeks later. I’ll stand outside your hospital room with signs like, “I wish youd listened” and “Your an imbecile”.

Originally published in the Davis Clipper

September 25, 2020 Image

Social Distancing Activities for Fall

September 10, 2020

Take it Outside

For the last five months, we’ve been locked up with our families for 17 years. Each day is another long, hot trek to bedtime. Parents break their brains thinking up creative ways to entertain their kids during this “summer vacation” that started in March and threatens to continue through fall. The phrase “Families Can Be Together Forever” is now a terrifying prophecy.

Here’s what we’ve learned: Sometimes video games ARE the answer.

Celebrities share Tik Tok videos about being “stranded” in their $6.5 million log cabins where everyone has their own TV, floor, masseuse, trampoline and personal chef. I’m not belittling their suffering, I’m just . . . well, I guess I am.

For common folk, trampolines are as hard to find as Lysol wipes. Puzzles, board games and sidewalk chalk are valuable commodities on the black market (along with livers, since we’ve been day-drinking for months).

Everyone is heading outside to escape.

Extended families stretch the “No large gathering” rules to the max because COVID wouldn’t ruin the annual family reunion, right? Lakes, canyons, national parks and camp sites are packed with people who thought they were the only ones who needed a break from looking at the same dirty carpeting for one more day.

I’ve been on several hikes this summer, sometimes with the puppy, sometimes with the grandkids. Not necessarily relaxing, but at least we take the fight to a different location.

My latest hike was tackling Bell’s Canyon with my daughter and three of my grandkids, including a 3- and 4-year-old. If that sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel, you are correct.

Before we even started up the trail the complaining began. “I’m so hot.” “The trail is too steep.” “The dirt is too dirty.” “I’m so thirsty.”

My daughter told me to shut up and set a better example, but it was too late. The littles were soon echoing my whines at super-high decibel levels. I ended up confiscating water bottles after a good portion was dumped onto the trail to make mud. I explained to the toddlers what happens when you dehydrate. They didn’t care.

It took roughly five days to make our way to the reservoir where the kids splashed in the cool water, tossed wet sand at each other, threw crackers at the ducks, slipped on the rocks and screamed at the dragonflies.

I considered calling in a rescue helicopter, figuring the expense was worth not having to walk back down the trail. Instead, we bribed the kids with McDonald’s, promising processed chicken parts if they’d walk faster than a drugged porcupine. We made it back to the car exhausted, sunburned and grumpy – just like a normal summer hike!

Backyards are also being used to their fullest. Our luxurious backyard pool (a 6’ wading pool from Walmart) is usually a weird shade of green and full of dead bugs, but that doesn’t stop us from soaking in the probably dangerous water, eating popsicles. If I don’t get sick from COVID, malaria might be another option.

The grandkids set up a tent a couple of weeks ago, hoping to have a backyard campout. They roasted marshmallows over the grill and climbed into their sleeping bags only to be shaken awake two hours later by a microburst that threatened to carry them to Oz. Everyone was safe, but traumatized, which seems to be the status quo in these crazy times.

Returning to school is the big debate right now, followed by what should be a strange Halloween and holiday season. Sure makes eternity feel like a really long time.

This column originally appeared in The Davis Clipper

June 25, 2020

A defining moment for America

Did someone drop America on its head? Instead of celebrating the birth of our country, I feel we should stage an intervention. Leadership has not only gone off the rails, its torn up the rails and melted them down so no one else can travel down the track.

Turning to social media each morning is equivalent to opening Pandora’s box, minus the hope.  Protestors are raging with pain in the wake of another Black man murdered by police, looters are taking advantage of the situation to cause chaos. Videos of police range from empathetic kneeling to abuse of power.

All over social media I see rage, pompous bragging, resisting blame, running from accountability and finger pointing. And that’s just the president. It’s like we’re staggering home from a rave, puking in the gutter and trying to call Uber on a ham sandwich.

On top of the rage, Mother Nature gifted us with COVID-19 and climate change to teach us a lesson. I think the lesson is “Shut up and work together or you’re all going to die.” She’s really into tough love.

The heartbreaking, devastating images of Black men and women being abused and murdered is more than a punch in the gut. It’s like someone took a shovel to the dirt of our country and dug up a whole bunch of wormy ugliness, rank with centuries of hatred and death as the soil is turned over to face the light of the sun.

It’s a defining moment, not just for our county, but for us as individuals. As White people.

I’ve never had someone be afraid of me, just because I exist. (Well, my kids, but that doesn’t count). No one has ever changed direction as I walked toward them or clutched their wallets if I made eye contact. I never have to act like my existence isn’t a danger to those around me. I take my innocence for granted. People of color don’t have that luxury.

We watched heavily armed men storm a state capitol building, spitting on police officers and demanding justice. We all know what would have happened had those men been Black.

Either we are for equality or against it. Either we are for the right for Black men to leave their homes and get back safely, or we’re not. Either we believe gays have the right to work and live where they please, or we don’t. Either women deserve equal treatment under the law, or they don’t.

There are no more gray areas.

It’s not the America I thought I lived in because I’ve been living in ignorance. My White privilege kept me blindfolded. I live in Utah for hell’s sake. The only thing whiter than Utah is a polar bear eating vanilla ice cream during a blizzard. But that’s no excuse.

I’m not one of those people who say they don’t see color. Of course, I see color. That’s what makes this world beautiful. How boring would it be if everyone were white? I’ve got beautiful, smart grandchildren whose fathers are from Mexico. What battles will they face because they are not 100 percent White?

It’s unforgiveable it took the flagrant killings of Black people, by those sworn to serve and protect, to finally shake us awake to the ever-present danger faced by tens of millions of people every. single. day. Don’t tell me All Lives Matter when all lives are not being brutalized.

We’ve watched this drunk, train wreck of a country trying to keep up the illusion it doesn’t need help. The last few weeks have pulled down that curtain of delusion. It’s time for frank discussions and intense rehab.

Originally published in the Davis Clipper

June 12, 2020

Om is Where the Heart Is

woman-meditating-in-the-outdoors-2908175In a subtle attempt to calm me down, my husband enrolled me in a mediation course. I love meditation, in theory, and had a random practice that included meditating in bed, grocery store lines and during TV commercials, but I didn’t have an actual sit-down meditation practice.

Now I do. Twice a day I sit for 20 minutes and watch the thoughts in my brain battle to the death. According to Instagram, nothing proves how spiritual you are more than sitting quietly with perfectly styled hair and make-up. The longer you sit, the better a person you are. Fact.

So now I’m a super-spiritual Zen person. I make sure I talk about my meditation practice all the time. The more you talk about how you’ve merged with your inner self, the more interested people around you become. They could listen to you talk about your meditation practice for hours.

You also need an expensive meditation cushion. Here’s a conversation I had with my husband, who just couldn’t understand the complexities of meditation.

Husband: Can’t you just sit in a chair?

Me: To be uber-spiritual, I need an $80 meditation cushion so I’m closer to Mother Earth.

Husband: Why don’t you just sit on the floor?

Me: Don’t be crass.

I tried sitting on the ground to meditate. I was in San Luis Obispo at a conference, and I went to the beach early in the morning. I listened to the waves, communed with my inner being and radiated calm as I left the beach to go back to the hotel.

As I ran up the trail from the beach, I tripped on a rock and fell face-first onto a wooden stair, nearly breaking my nose and spending the rest of the weekend with a bruised and swollen face. If I’d been sitting on a beautiful cushion instead of the ground, my inner being wouldn’t have been pissed off and try to kill me. Fact.

Meditation in nature is supposed to be super-relaxing, but right when I close my eyes I feel an ant crawl across my foot and I have to look to make sure it isn’t a spider because then I have to jump up and scream.

The only reason to meditate outside is so people can see you meditate and understand you’re a super-spiritual person.

I’m teaching my puppy to mediate with me, hoping my calm energy will soothe her. After 10 minutes of getting her to settle down, I’ll place my hand on her back, syncing our breath and heart rate. Just as I create an intense connection to her heart chakra, she jumps in my lap to lick my face and ruins everything. She’ll never be as spiritual as me. Fact.

blue-buddha-ceramic-head-figurine-1597017People ask what I do when meditating. First, I sit quietly on my expensive cushion, noticing the thoughts running across my mind. I spend several minutes trying not to notice the thoughts running across my mind. I achieve two seconds of stillness before the thoughts start up again.

Soon I become numb from the waist down. The more numb you feel, the more spiritual you are. I can’t feel my toes and my knees are screaming for help. But that just proves to the Universe that I’m dedicated to my meditation practice. Sometimes I fall asleep and jerk awake before I hit the floor.

I expect I’ll achieve enlightenment any day now since I’m so good at meditating. If there’s one thing I excel at it’s doing absolutely nothing. Fact.

 

Originally published in the Davis Clipper