Letting My Hair Down

As I’ve gotten older (but never wiser), I expected the hot flashes, mood swings and irritability. What I didn’t expect was that my age would turn my hair into a mortal enemy. Each morning, I stare in the mirror and prepare for what feels like a battle to the death.

If the indignity of having my face turn a heat-blasting shade of scarlet at any given moment wasn’t enough, I suddenly developed cowlicks along my hairline, giving my head the appearance of constant swirling, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

My hair suddenly changed directions and refused to be bullied into lying flat.

In fairness, my hair and I have been through some stuff. We endured the spongy, pink curlers mom twisted onto my head every Saturday night. We survived my feathery Farrah Fawcett era, the spiral perms, the lemon bleaching in the summer, the sky-high bangs of the ‘80s and a decade of nothing but ponytails when my daughters were little.

Maybe my hair never forgave me because now there is no amount of styling products or heated irons that make my hair manageable. It usually looks like newlywed hawks nested on my head to raise their young.

After another morning struggling to arrange my hair in some semblance of control, I threw my hair straightener down the hall and burst into tears. My husband walked out of his office and asked what was wrong. I pointed at my head and kept bawling.

“I don’t care if your hair looks like a tornado emoji,” he said. “You’re always beautiful to me.”

“I don’t want to be beautiful to you,” I sobbed. “I want to be beautiful to complete strangers.”

He doesn’t get it. Men can be bald or gray or have a comb-over or just a Van Dyke beard and they’ll still be considered handsome, even distinguished. But if a woman can’t style her hair using a tube sock, a bottle of mousse and a barrette, the TikTok police jump out of nowhere and create harsh videos for public shaming.

But it’s not just the random cowlicks that give my scalp the appearance of a tropical storm weather map, it’s the breakage and the sensitive scalp and the way my hair just refuses to comply. My hair breaks so often, it looks like my stylist started to give me a bowl cut and then got bored after trimming the first layer.

I’ve invested in expensive shampoos and luxury leave-in conditioners with no effect. My hair just twirls insolently from my head. I purchased soft brushes and vitamin supplements and I paid someone good money to rub my scalp for 45 minutes. The pampering hasn’t paid off.

There’s no such thing as “styling” my hair. I have to distract it, wrestle it into place, staple it down and spray it with a light coat of cement. It doesn’t matter. Within minutes it’s spinning around my face like it drank too many mimosas for breakfast.

Maybe the lack of compliance is the reason many older women end up cutting their hair into cute pixie styles, easy crops or elegant bobs. But my face is too round for a short haircut. I end up looking like a basketball wearing a toupee.

I hope at some point my hair and I can become friends again. Between my mood swings and hot flashes, I don’t have the patience to be irritated at one more thing.

Peri Kinder is the owner of Life & Laughter Coaching. She’s a happiness coach, yoga and meditation instructor, and award-winning freelance writer. She is the host of the Life & Laughter podcast.

Originally published in the Davis Journal.

A Bitter Pill

I’m at the point where each doctor visit starts with “Well, at your age…”. I need to get my liver rotated, my heart valves oiled, my lung filters changed and I need a lot of bodywork done. Nips and tucks won’t do it, I need parts replaced and a complete undercarriage overhaul.

I’ve got 99 problems and the cost of health insurance counts for at least 90.
When I found myself without health insurance at the end of last year, I jumped on Healthcare.gov to explore my “affordable” options. The site states that four out of five people can find a plan for $10 or less a month, after tax subsidies.

What they don’t tell you is that the fifth person has to get a third job, sell organs on the black market or start printing money in the basement to afford a healthcare plan.

As I scrolled through my health insurance options, I got irrationally angry. Plans started at around $500 per month, with deductibles ranging from $7,500 to Lamborghini. Keep in mind, this was for one person, not an entire family with pets and farm animals.

Since I had to register by the middle of December, my email was flooded with reminders from the site. Have I registered? Why not? Did I forget? Did I become independently wealthy? Did I decide to use the money for something fun instead?

No. On the day before the deadline, I put on my adulting hat and signed up for health insurance. I’m still irrationally angry. I am seriously considering Alternate Healthcare Plan B, which is file for bankruptcy in the event of a major medical emergency. Still haven’t ruled that option out.

I also have Healthcare Plan C: try not to get sick or need a blood transfusion or get concussed or go for an ambulance ride or break a bone. No emergency room visits. Just good old-fashioned stubbornness and denial.

There are also herbal remedies and a variety of healing crystals that don’t actually solve my internal issues (there’s only so much power in a rose quartz) but it’s cheaper than an MRI.

Or there’s always my mom’s answer to any illness when I was a kid: a spoonful of paregoric. The opium-based medicine made me feel very sleepy and hazy.

But, for now, I’ll end up paying at least $7,000 per year to cover my annual physical, a series of blood tests and a couple of prescriptions. But I still have a copay because that seven grand isn’t nearly enough, obviously.

I’ve been without health insurance before, but here’s the thing, affordable insurance shouldn’t be tied to employment. Because I’m not made of diamonds, I took a part-time job to cover healthcare costs.

When we stayed in San Diego last summer, we dreamed about staying in a luxury hotel for $800 a night. Hospitals charge that much just for the ice chips. But our family learned the hard way that a one-week stay in the ICU can quickly reach nearly $100,000, or about $14,000 per night. And that’s without the beach access and sunrise mimosas.

Ironically, Intermountain Healthcare recently rebranded as Intermountain Health. Literally taking the “care” out of healthcare.

I’m just one more person complaining about the high cost of insurance, but when medical expenses are one of the leading causes of bankruptcies in Utah, shouldn’t we start looking at the root cause?

At what point do we put the “care” back in healthcare and create affordable options so I can get my joints greased, my oxygen system replaced and my body’s systems recalibrated?

Christmas Unwrapped

It was the Christmas season as I wandered the aisles at Gibson’s Discount Center with a $5 bill crumpled in my pocket. It was 1975 and parents didn’t care if their 7-year-old wandered alone through a store.

I’d earned money to buy my parents Christmas gifts and I had to find the perfect presents. I imagined mom’s surprise when she unwrapped a brand new purse that wasn’t filled with broken crayons, Cheerios and used tissues. I pictured dad’s excitement as he opened the model airplane he would assemble at the kitchen table. I would be an example of humility as they raved about my thoughtfulness.

Dad agreed to drive me to Gibson’s and we climbed into our blue Ford Pinto. Once there, I told him he couldn’t follow me, that I wanted the presents to be a surprise. He hung out at the soda fountain drinking root beer so I could shop with privacy.

It didn’t take long to realize my $5 wouldn’t cover the cost of a purse or a model airplane. My heart sank as I walked the aisles. Everything was so expensive. Maybe mom wanted an oven mitt or a wooden spoon. Perhaps dad would like a small bottle of model glue.

Then I saw it. A pint-sized, cut-glass pitcher that gleamed under the store’s fluorescent lighting. It looked so elegant. It wasn’t big enough to mix a half-gallon of Kool-Aid but I didn’t think mom would care. She would cherish it for all eternity. And it was only $3.

That left a present for dad. Walking past the drugstore aisle, I saw a mini-size bottle of Brut aftershave for less than $2. Mission accomplished.

I wrapped the presents and placed them under the tree, right up front. On Christmas Eve, I had the holiday insomnia where you try to sleep but you hear jingle bells and ho-ho-hos and prancing reindeer on the roof. Finally, it was morning and I dashed down the stairs.

I don’t remember what I got for Christmas that year. Probably a Madame Alexander doll, a Nancy Drew book and a journal with a heart-shaped lock. What I do remember is being so excited for my parents to open their presents.

Mom unwrapped her gift first. I watched with the giddy excitement of a child who knows she nailed the perfect present. She opened her glass pitcher and held it up for everyone to see. It sparkled in the tree’s lights.

Dad was so grateful for his little bottle of Brut that he never used it. The tiny green bottle sat on the bathroom shelf for at least a decade. I asked him once why he didn’t use it. Didn’t he like it?

“I love it!” he said. “But if I use it, it will be gone and then I won’t have it anymore.”

I get it, dad. I feel the same way about the expensive bottle of tequila in my office.

Mom filled the pitcher with her homemade syrup we poured on pancakes, waffles and French toast. She used it for all my childhood. My grandkids ate pancakes with syrup poured from that pitcher. I think she even took it with her when she moved to North Carolina.

It takes so little to make a child feel loved. It’s sometimes hard to use the gifts kids give you for the holidays, but they’re always watching. Wear the macaroni necklace. Use the syrup pitcher. Put on the reindeer earrings. Your child will never forget.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

Hark! The Herald Angels Scream

It was the Cabbage Patch Kid frenzy of ’83 and parents had lost their dang minds. I was a young mother and didn’t think my 6-month-old daughter needed the trendy toy of the year, but watching crowds of people attack each other over a doll was inconceivable.

TV news showed Black Friday sales where hundreds of loving parents trampled their friends and neighbors to get one of the elusive Cabbage Patch dolls. I understand wanting to find the perfect present, but having mom arrested the day after Thanksgiving because she shot a store employee with a crossbow doesn’t exactly ring in the holidays.

Each year brought a new toy so necessary and valuable that people went shopping armed with baseball bats and pepper spray to ensure they got the Furby, Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo or Teddy Ruxpin for their child who already had too many toys.

Shoppers expected riots, looting, broken bones and black eyes for every Black Friday sale. News reporters showed videos of chaos, pandemonium and anarchy. If you didn’t get a concussion while saving on bath towels, was it even Black Friday?

I didn’t often participate in Black Friday, although I once waited outside Toys R Us at 5 a.m., in freezing temperatures, to save $50 on a Barbie Dreamhouse. My early-morning shopping adventures ended when a full-grown adult stole my 8-year-old daughter’s promotional football at Mervyn’s.

If I wanted to experience holiday anxiety, panic and frustration, I didn’t need to shop the Black Friday sales. I could feel all that stress in the comfort of my own home. But now, if there was a Black Friday sale on gas, gluten-free cake mixes or bags of dog food. I’d definitely get up at 4 a.m.

Today, Black Friday just isn’t the same. Instead of waiting in line for hours while your toes freeze, people just turn on their phones and cybershop until their fingers bleed. There’s no frenzy, bedlam, fracas, turmoil or mayhem. Not even a hullabaloo. Just scrolling and clicking. Like every other day.

Americans are a wacky bunch. We spend Thanksgiving Day offering appreciation for our abundance and then eat until our livers explode. By midnight, gratitude is over and it’s time to spend until our credit cards warp. Within hours of Thanksgiving dinner, we’re in combat-mode, ready for holiday shopping.

It’s so on-brand for Americans.

Buddhists teach about a realm of hungry ghosts who have large stomachs but tiny mouths. They are tormented by unrelenting cravings that can never be satisfied. A student once asked Buddhist teacher and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh, “What is it like in the realm of hungry ghosts?” he answered, “America.”

Ouch. But accurate.

Because it’s not just Black Friday anymore. It’s Small Business Saturday, Shell Out Sunday, Cyber Monday, Take-All-My-Money Tuesday and What-Did-I-Even-Buy Wednesday. Social media platforms taunt us with shiny items that might ease the relentless craving for more. But only for a moment.

Back in 1983, I never imagined how the world would change in 40 years. I thought we’d go on beating each other up for toys until the end of time. I never dreamed we’d be buying holiday gifts online, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on our phones or hanging Christmas lights that could be controlled through an app.

I probably wondered if we’d ever learn that violence isn’t the best way to start the holiday season. Especially a holiday with the catchphrase, “Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.”

Let’s face it, holiday shopping will always be a jungle. Speaking of jungles, what’s on sale at Amazon?

Originally published in the Davis Journal

Plymouth Crock

One cool November morning, Mom twisted my blonde hair into two braids and painted my face with orange and blue stripes. I put on a fringed vest made from a paper grocery bag (decorated with stick figures and animals), donned my construction paper headband with its fake feathers and walked uphill (both ways) in the snow to school.

Along the way, I met up with friends dressed as Indians or outfitted in Pilgrim attire, with black, buckled hats or kitchen aprons. We were heading to our second-grade class party, unaware we were perpetuating a myth handed down for generations regarding the First Thanksgiving.

We’d been taught the feast was a celebration of friendship, that the Indians didn’t want their BFFs to starve during the winter. We didn’t know Pilgrims were the guests who never leave, who end up stealing your bath towels and giving you smallpox.

We also didn’t know ancestors of the Wampanoag Nation hadn’t been invited to the feast, but responded when they heard Pilgrims firing guns, and thought the settlers were under attack. But the Pilgrims were just shooting their rifles into the air, celebrating a successful harvest, like ya do. Have Americans always been gun lunatics?

Our school Thanksgiving dinner consisted of turkey-shaped sugar cookies, banana bread, orange soda, candy corn and other forms of sugar, because that was one of the main food groups in the ‘70s. Our meal was nothing like the first Thanksgiving where lobster or eel was probably the main course, not turkey. I don’t know how they stuffed an eel, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.

The teacher told us to write down things we were grateful for. My list included my family, Nancy Drew mysteries and apple pie. We also brought offerings for a food drive where some lucky family in the neighborhood received 25 cans of cranberry sauce, four boxes of Stove Top stuffing and a case of olives.

Maybe the Pilgrims also made gratitude lists, including finding a land so completely devoid of other humans that they could take whatever they wanted and build a country. Did they think the people native to this continent were just visiting? Lost?

The official Thanksgiving holiday started in 1863 when President Abraham Lincoln was so tired of the Civil War, he just wanted a piece of pumpkin pie. Since then, in typical American style, the holiday evolved into a food orgy, consisting of overcooked turkey, mountains of mashed potatoes and nine different Jell-O salads. My food tracking app usually starts to smoke during dessert.

Although it’s true Pilgrims celebrated days of thanksgiving, those observations usually involved fasting and prayer, not gluttony. These “thanksgivings” often occurred after a massacre of Native people. For instance, in 1637, Massachusetts Colony Governor John Winthrop called for a day of thanksgiving after hundreds of the Pequot tribe were massacred.

Not really something you celebrate with grandma’s homemade rolls and jam.

Along with your holiday celebration, maybe you can learn about the challenges still faced by Native Americans including poverty, domestic violence, healthcare and the continuation of harmful stereotypes.

As a 7-year-old, I didn’t know cultural prejudice or appropriation was a thing. I didn’t realize the Disneyfied version of the first Thanksgiving wasn’t accurate, with its cartoonish Pilgrims, smiling Natives and bouncy soundtrack. But now I do. When you gain wisdom, you get to make better choices.

First published in the Davis Journal.

The Truth is Out There

Depending on who you ask, aliens have either 1) frequently visited our planet, 2) never visited our planet, or 3) are currently running our planet.

It’s been quite a year for Unidentified Flying Objects, which are now called Unidentified Aerial Phenomena. (Tomayto, tomahto.) These “extraterrestrial” vessels made the news, created a TikTok channel and had their own congressional hearing.

In early 2023, the Air Force started blasting weather balloons out of the sky. Although weather balloons have been used since 1896, it’s only in the last year the balloons became malicious enough to be shot down. It’s definitely American to shoot first and never ask questions.

It reminds me of the 1978 video game Space Invaders, where the goal was to blast UFOs out of the atmosphere before they reached Earth. Whether the current UAPs were peace emissaries from Alpha Centauri or galactic multi-level-marketing sales-aliens, we’ll never know.

Look at it this way. If you launched a celebratory light-speed rocket on the day Jesus was born, it would still be in the Milky Way Galaxy, even traveling for 2,000 years at the speed of light. So if a flying saucer made its way across its galaxy and our galaxy, it would take hundreds of thousands of light years to reach us, only to be casually shot down by an F-22.

Maybe they were on their way to teach us how to travel at light speed, how to create a functional Congress or how to evolve so our skin glows in the dark. We’ll never know.

UFO sightings occur all over the world, but the U.S. has the most interaction with aliens. The Roswell crash in 1947 was the first “flying saucer” wreckage that authorities said was a UFO, then it was a weather balloon, then it was Carl’s tractor from down the road and then it was the remnants of an atomic test, which didn’t make anyone feel better.

Air Force pilots share stories of strange objects in the sky, security cameras capture “meteors” and eerie lights, and there was a congressional hearing to talk about what the government isn’t telling us. Spoiler alert: the government keeps a lot of secrets.

Many people are convinced the pyramids were built with alien technology. Some people think UFOs travel the world making intricate designs in crops, kind of like alien graffiti. Others point out the first microchip was created just 10 years after the Roswell crash. Coincidence? Hmmmm.

Records from Rome (AD 65) and Ireland (AD 740) document chariots flying through the clouds or ships floating in the air, filled with people. Too bad there wasn’t an F-22 to shoot them down.

“War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells was written in the late 1890s. It was one of the first novels that detailed an alien invasion on Earth. People lost their minds when Orson Welles dramatized it on a 1938 radio show.

I’m not saying UFOs are real. I’m not saying they’re not. But sightings have increased, usually in the form of an orb, a disc, a triangle, a cylinder, an egg, a toaster, a VW Bug or other random shapes.

I’ve been saying for years that Earth is a hit reality show in the universe and little green men (or blue or white or gray) watch the hilarious antics on our dumpster fire of a planet while eating alien popcorn.

It’s pretty egocentric of us to think we’re the only planet with intelligent life. And I use the word “intelligent” lightly. I hope somewhere in the universe there’s a planet where the inhabitants live in peace and work together to create new ideas. I just hope they don’t come here. We’ll shoot them out of the sky.

Peri Kinder is the owner of Life & Laughter Coaching. She’s a laughter coach, yoga and meditation instructor, and award-winning freelance writer. She is the host of the Life & Laughter podcast.

Originally published in the Davis Journal.

It’s Like Pulling Teeth

There are lots of people in this world who scare me, like toddlers, Christian nationalists and the barista who always compliments my shirt, even when I’m wearing a blood-stained hoodie. 

But dentists! Dentists are a higher level of fear. I’m sure they get tired of being compared to the sadistic dentist in “Little Shop of Horrors” but if the tooth fits…

My dentophobia is rooted in an experience when I was 5 where many of the details are still slumbering in my subconscious, waiting to burst when I’m least expecting it. The only thing I remember was the dentist was not my friend. 

I started dreading my annual check-up. Mom would write our dentist’s name on the bathroom mirror in red lipstick, so she’d remember to schedule the appointment. But every time she wrote it, I’d take a wet washcloth and wipe it off. I’m sure she never noticed the smeared lipstick or the dripping-wet mirror. 

Now that I’m older, I should be braver, right? I should be grateful I don’t have a medieval dentist who also works as the village butcher, barber and blacksmith. I’m lucky I’m not Tom Hanks in “Castaway” when he uses an ice skate to knock out his abscessed molar. Modern dentistry is a privilege. 

My rational mind knows all those things, but I’ve never left a dentist’s office thinking, “Hmmm. That wasn’t too bad.”

I recently had my first root canal, which didn’t ease my fears. At all. I was upfront with the endodontist and told him I didn’t like him very much.

“I understand,” he said.

“No, really. I loathe you,” I said

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

We went from there. He offered me nitrous oxide because if I’m going to be root-canaled, I’d rather be floating somewhere near Venus. After I was nice and drifty, he told me I’d feel a little pinch as he numbed my mouth. Then he proceeded to nail my face to the chair while the nurse handed him a Black & Decker drill. He laughed maniacally, donned a hockey mask ala Jason Vorhees and started excavating my back teeth.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

After the root canal, I had to make an appointment with my dentist to put a crown on my tooth. I called the receptionist who said I could schedule time on Sept. 12 at 2:30 a.m. or wait until June 2023. Typical.

I don’t know why I’m still terrified of all things dental. The smell of a dentist’s office makes my stomach roll. The sound of a drill makes my jaw clench, which makes it really hard to work on my teeth. When it was time for my crown appointment, I sat in my car for a good 15 minutes, giving myself a pep talk. 

“You’ve got this,” I said. “You’re a big girl.”

“Nope. I’m going to Starbucks,” I responded.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to act like an adult and walk in that office.”

I stuck my tongue out at myself and went to get my crown. Not a cool crown like a Dutch sapphire tiara but a porcelain crown that I’m afraid to chew with. I’m pretty sure my dentist has a hook for a hand and he proceeded to stab my gums repeatedly, probably just for the fun of it. And then it was over. For now.

I’d rather face a zillion zombies, a multitude of mummies, a van full of vampires or a ton of toddlers before seeing the dentist again. He’s the scariest monster I know.

Originally published in the City Journals

Barking up the Wrong Tree

My dog Jedi started barking at cars. All the time. I don’t know why but my best guess is she a) hates cars, b) loves cars, c) wants to scare cars or d) she needs a ride to Petsmart to pick up some jerky treats and tennis balls.

I stop her from dragging us both into traffic by creating a distraction, usually with yummy treats. I tell her to look at me, hoping to snag her attention away from the tempting Hondas and Toyotas with their tantalizing and rumbly engines. 

Sometimes she continues flinging herself toward cars but once she realizes a treat is coming, in the form of mozzarella or pepperoni, she usually stops barking and waits to be rewarded. Not really rocket surgery, but it works. 

Someone suggested Jedi’s barking could be a reaction to stress which is probably true because we’re all as stressed as a Yellowstone bison being approached by human-shaped idiots. 

Jedi also feels the urge to run outside at 3 a.m. to bark at neighbor dogs, tree shadows and (probably) aliens. Her woofing seems to be important. It’s like breaking news in the canine world. 

I can’t yell at her to be quiet because then we’d both be barking at three in the morning. Plus, she’d translate my yapping as, “You are doing such a good job at howling, Jedi. Please, continue louder. Some neighbors might still be asleep.”

Once the noise levels drop, I check social media where barking has been elevated to an Olympic sport. Viral TikToks catch people in the act of snarling at each other. Twitter feeds show a slow regression back to our caveman roots where everyone spoke in grunts and howls. 

Parents bark at teachers and librarians. Drivers bark at each other. Customers bark at grocery store cashiers, and let me tell you, cashiers don’t get paid enough to put up with that baloney. Restaurant guests bark at the waitstaff, which usually ends with a footprint on your waffle. Y’all bark so much, I think some of you might have rabies. 

Dogs bark because they’re excited, hungry, bored, scared, tired, playful and frustrated. The trick is to distract them and teach them a different way to communicate. Humans also need a different way to communicate, because barking isn’t working. 

It doesn’t matter if you’re barking in fear or anger or fatigue, your message gets lost in the noise. Every time. Have you ever screamed at someone and thought, “Boy, I really think I got my point across. I feel so heard”? Yeah, me neither.

On the opposite end of the rainbow, my daughter had a teacher who only spoke in a whisper. The kids had to be quiet to hear what she was saying. It was kind of creepy talking to her because she’d forget she was talking to an adult and keep whispering. 

Maybe there’s a happy medium between barking and mumbling. I know, let’s call it “civil discourse” where our conversations actually promote understanding and connection. Revolutionary!

Instead of talking to prove your point, can you kindly explain why you hate avocados, without melting into a puddle of sweat? Can you avoid the gnashing and spittle that comes with barking and just talk like a human being? 

It might take practice but maybe if we calm down, our families will settle, our communities will rebuild and our civil discourse will improve. 

Less barking, more listening. And lots of treats.

Peri Kinder is an award-winning humor writer and hosts the Life & Laughter podcast and was voted Best of State for 2022. She’s also a yoga/meditation instructor and life coach.

Originally published in the City Journals

A Bit of a Stretch

If you’d told me 20 years ago that I’d be a yoga instructor, I’d have laughed hard enough to tear a hamstring because I was very inflexible. 

I took my first yoga class as a dare. My tennis instructor laughed at how tight I was and challenged me to try yoga. I hated every minute of that stupid class. I hated the words and I hated the poses and I hated the teacher and I loathed downward-facing dog with a fiery passion.

But I realized my tennis instructor was right. My muscles were as tight as two-by-fours, but less bendy. So I kept going back to yoga. Hated it every single time. 

After about two months of practicing yoga, I noticed, little by little, my flexibility was improving. I could almost touch my toes without the usual amount of grunting and tears. My hips didn’t scream out loud while doing pigeon pose. My shoulders dropped away from my ears, where I’d held them at strict attention for decades. Even my back stopped hurting each time I rolled out of bed. 

I grudgingly had to admit yoga wasn’t the hippy-dippy dumpster fire I thought it was. But learning the poses was just the beginning. As I explored yoga’s history, philosophy and favorite recipes, I came to realize yoga was a lifestyle that encouraged, nay demanded, self-love and compassion. 

Yikes. As a lifelong subscriber to self-loathing, I wasn’t sure how to handle that type of ideology. Just like when I started the physical practice, I took lots of tiny, baby steps toward accepting myself as a worthy human. 

Fast forward 20 years and not only do I teach yoga but I LOVE yoga with a fiery passion. Yoga has changed me in so many ways. I used to be sarcastic, cynical and snarky but after studying yoga for so many years, I’m a sarcastic, cynical and snarky yoga instructor. 

See. People change. 

I’m also much less judgmental. I’m not so hard on myself and I give most people the benefit of the doubt. Most people. Maybe someone can propose a bill that would require our legislators to take a yoga class each morning before discussing the divisive and harmful bills proposed this year. Okay, when it comes to our lawmakers, I’m still pretty judgmental. 

Being a yoga instructor is super silly. As an instructor, I get to say things in class that don’t make a whole lot of sense, and my students listen to me!

I’ll say, “Breathe in through your collar bones, breathe out through your kneecaps. Inhale to fill up your armpits, exhale to release tension in the ear lobes.” 

Or I’ll instruct students to “Melt into the mat, send energy out of your fingertips, ground through your sitz bones, wring out your body and lengthen the crown of your head.” And I’m totally serious. (Laugh emoji)

My yoga practice has evolved from trying to do the most difficult poses and making my students sweat and swear, to focusing on deep stretches and stress-reducing breathing exercises. 

It isn’t about who can be the bendy-est or the one who can hold crow pose for five minutes. It’s about appreciating what my body can do today. Not what I think it should do or what I want it to do tomorrow, but what it can accomplish right now. 

I appreciate all the yoga teachers who took this rigid block of a body and mind and transformed it into a pliable, warm and accepting human being. My hamstrings thank you.

Originally published in the City Journals.

Rage Against the Machine

First, robots came for assembly line workers. Then they came for agricultural and warehouse jobs. Then a cyborg assassin time-traveled from 2029 to 1984 to kill Sarah Connor. What will artificial intelligence target next? 

If you ask our publisher, journalism is on the robotic chopping block. He recently sat down with our editorial team and told us we’d better get our act together or AI will certainly replace us within five years. 

It’s the plot of every sci-fi movie. “Let’s merge robotic efficiency and human connection to create a utopian workplace.” But then, the robots download a virus and turn into killing machines. It doesn’t end well for humanity. 

But let’s back up a bit. When encyclopedias were created in the 1700s, people were astonished to have so much information at their fingertips. What’s an encyclopedia you ask? Thanks for asking, young whippersnapper. 

Encyclopedias are books bound in fake leather that weigh the equivalent of a baby hippo. They were like printed versions of Wikipedia that became outdated as soon as they were purchased. They were used for footstools and sometimes for murder weapons. 

They were also used for rampant plagiarism. Teachers often received essays copied straight from Encyclopedia Britannica.

As technology advanced, plagiarism got easier with the ability to copy-and-paste from any website; more efficient and much harder to detect. Then along came chatbots, or virtual assistants, like Siri, who learned to answer our stupid questions with a bit of sass. 

Now, journalists are encouraged to use AI to produce copy. ChatGPT launched in November and millions of people have tried it out, creating everything from poetry to fake news. It’s like a Google search on steroids.

In fact, it’s so good at creating fake news, that the CNET media website published stories for months before the articles were discovered to be riddled with errors, misinformation and plagiarized material. Oops.

Following my publisher’s orders, I typed a few questions into ChatGPT and immediately ran into a virtual brick wall. 

“How many people are living on Earth?” I asked. ChatGPT replied 7.9 billion but added its data ended in September 2021. I guess anyone born after that date doesn’t count. 

I asked it to tell me a joke. ChatGPT explained it didn’t have a sense of humor or emotions and didn’t understand jokes. So it could be a Utah legislator. 

So, will AI adapt to create personality, voice, humor and journalistic ethics or will future generations get used to reading pedantic and pretentious articles written by emotionless robots like Tucker Carlson?

Sometimes, the “journalism” churned out by AI is racist, offensive and inappropriate because, and here’s the issue, humans create code for these bots. Fallible, stupid humans who unintentionally create programming that mimics their own limiting beliefs. 

In These Times writer Hamilton Nolan said, “Journalism is the product of a human mind. If something did not come from a human mind, it is not journalism.”

He said journalism requires accountability. The writer should be able to explain the origins and sources of any story. 

Can AI do that? Will robots request interviews from other robots? When questioned, will AI fall to pieces like HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey after being given contradictory orders: lie to the crew but be completely truthful. Pretty much like anything on Twitter.

I’m mixing movie metaphors, but if Sarah Connor’s interactions with the Terminator taught us anything, it’s that we control our own destiny. Can we unite robotic efficiency and humanity? The fate of journalism could hang in the balance. 

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