Where are My Upside Down Margaritas?

This past weekend, while neither here nor there, was rather interesting. My parents busily canceled all our plans to meet in the city, including a museum visit and brunch. Too bad; I could really use a free meal.

In the afternoon, Vanessa invited me to attend one of her yoga workshops in Yardley. I took Yoga in high school and utterly despised it, and I still don't know if I can take it up full-time (though I think it has amazing mind/body benefits), but yoga with someone as into it as Vanessa was probably a good introduction. She led the group without being controlling, which was just as well since I flagged after 4 rotations of any and every position. Mostly I admired the way everyone there was working towards merging the mind/body divide. I myself tend to approach my body as an abstraction rather than as an equal to my mind. I know I sound ludicrous, but it's just that my entire life has been structured around mental exercise, and now that I'm no longer a student, everything else - emotion, physicality - is coming to the forefront. I think a lot of my stress is due to my total lack of awareness of my body and what's best for it. I never realized how redemptive even breathing can be.

In the evening I went with Christoph to Samir's party in Princeton. It had already snowed a ton by then, but I suddenly felt as if my social livelihood would collapse if I missed a local gathering. So much for channeling the yoga and making good decisions. The party itself wasn't bad -- Samir was playing some beautiful samba reggae, afoxe, guaguanco, and makuta, and people were actually dancing – but I didn’t know anyone, they were out of alcohol, and I didn’t feel like making a spectacle of myself on the dance floor. I met a really nice guy – David – and had a good conversation with him about what we want to do with our lives (he’s trying to get his band going), but I had a lingering sense of unease. It really bothers me, because I want to be that person who can seamlessly integrate into any social setting, especially since I love dancing, but reticence inevitably emerges and cripples me.

Samir and his friends started playing on the drums (I know, I know, I seem to be in drum circles all the time these days), which was really cool to watch. As I told Katy (who unkindly guffawed), I think my resting facial expression is pretty serious, because just as I thought I was having a perfectly good time, some guy tapped me and said, “smile.” I laughed it off, but five minutes later, he got up and was kidding around, and telling me to smile and dance a little, at which point I reverted to my usual inept self and said “I’m not into public humiliation.” Needless to say, he wandered off and found another girl with better manners. At that point I decided to bid adieu and trudge home in the snow, a nice 20-minute venture which gave me plenty of time to reflect upon the fact that I’ll never meet anyone and that my inability to function in these gatherings implies that I can’t participate in the most basic social traditions of my generation. Really, I just felt like a leper.

When I got home, Carrie took pity on me and lent me “Bitch: The Feminist Response to Popular Culture,” a magazine from which I think we can all benefit.

Sunday was quiet. Vanessa and I took a long walk through the town (the snow came up to my knees! Glee!), threw a couple snowballs until she held a boulder of snow above my head and I pleaded cowardice, and I made two snow angels in our backyard. I spent the rest of the day doing some work and baking valentine brownies for my housemates.

Speaking of valentine’s day, this year will undoubtedly be another ego-bruiser. The saddest part is that I don’t even have friends around with whom to watch girly movies and feel both happy for the company and melancholy for the lack of romance. I think I’ve given up on the idea that the man of my dreams will materialize and shower me with affection. But Balu will be around, and therefore I’ll at least have the cachet of seeing the night through with Vanessa’s ginger-haired loverboy. As much as I complain about how Valentine’s Day is stupid (which I really do believe), I still feel like it should somehow be a special day, even in an unromantic way. It would be nice to get a card or to have plans for the evening. I guess 22 just isn’t the year for spilling wine on my date, tripping over his socks on the way to bed, or disgustedly watching him drool on my pillow. Tant pis.

It really just comes back to the age-old questions. Why don't I have a Eurasian lover? Why do I suffer karmic retribution? And where, in the immortal words of my L&R professor, are my upside down margaritas?