Halloween is my favorite holiday, though I have to say I don’t care at all for all those masks. I like to be able to see someone’s eyes, if you know what I mean. Lets me better believe I know what they’re thinking, or at least a close approximation thereof. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of costumes, not like my sister who’ll crawl under the bar at a Halloween bash, but I don’t necessarily care for the scary ones.
I like candy. I am terrified of calories. However, Halloween is a fearless time and I’ve enjoyed AYCE peanut-butter cups for a week. These are the days I wish yoga pants were puffy and ill-fitting like kung fu outfits. These hips don’t lie.
I could easily say that a certain political party scares me, but for fear of giving myself away, I’ll just say politics scare me. It gets hot like hell in those debates; in all those heads, too.
As far as fear of flying goes, Erica Jong ain’t got nothing on me, if ever a loaded statement there was. Men and airplanes, baby. I’ll keep my feet firmly on the ground – in more ways that one.
Corrective color scares me. You know what that is….someone comes into the salon where I do hair. They’ve decided to get wild with it in the kitchen around mid-night with a couple of boxes of hair color and tequila. The next day they come into the salon to get it fixed. Even though this terrifies me, because I leveraged not having to do perms against everything else, I do corrective color.
I am frighteningly good at it. I’m not just saying that, either. Just ask my lady I worked on today.
I go out on a limb, really, throwing both arms out to the side and meditating on the wall of hair color tubes there in front of me. I close my eyes and the first three bottles of hair color my index finger touches are the three I’ll mix and put on my lady’s head. No matter what colors they are. I’m under contract with the Universe and Redken. If I fix it, they will come.
This works every time.
Now, finally, one of my biggest and best phobias ever – driving in the big city. I mean, anything more than highway 98 between my house, the yoga studio (shout out Abhaya!) and the salon, I’d rather not negotiate.
This driving in the big city thing ends up being like doing color corrections at the salon. Just close your eyes, point your finger and you’ll end up where you’re going. At least, I did.
I went to Atlanta last weekend for a two-day yoga workshop. My friend, Delaine, goes with me in what is to be our first road trip together. I am prepared within an inch of sanity – four peanut-butter sandwiches, a bucket of almonds, instant coffee in the event where we’re going doesn’t have coffee anywhere at anytime. I have books, a journal, another journal, a notebook for yoga notes, a Michael Jackson cd, extra panties, body spray and mala beads.
However, I am not prepared to drive through Atlanta traffic.
I ask friends who have been there and lived there. I map quest directions to be damned in an attempt to circumvent actual city driving. The yoga center is in the city!
I close my eyes, point my car and go.
It was the best feeling ever.
City life is like corrective hair color. I’m far from fearless; I often watch bad television and then scare myself. But negotiating Atlanta traffic makes corrective color and standing on my head like no big deal. When we next visit Atlanta, driving won’t be the focal point of my anxiety.
It’ll totally be the weather. Cold weather kind of freaks me out. But then again, so do perms.
