Namaste

Yoga is not for sissies.

Back in the day, I casually practiced yoga. It was easy then.

The asanas, or poses, were akin to warmup stretches I’d done for years cheerleading. My body was young. My muscles were flexible. Life was good.

That was before I carried a child in my womb for nine months, gave birth to him, then proceeded to sacrifice my body in all manner of ways to raise him into the fine, young first grader he is today.

One can only run on the fumes of a good fitness history for so long. Years of stress, changes and parenting begin to show.

Junk in the trunk. Bowl full of jelly. A little waddle here or there.

So when we arrived in Wichita, our family joined the YMCA. The Ys here are impressive and affordable. We needed to get into shape. It was destiny.

Went to my first yoga class last Friday.

I sweated. I stumbled. I noticed I how badly I need a pedicure.

I struggled to breathe as the instructor lead our class into the 30th chaturanga dandasana of the hour. Good push-ups gone bad.

When yoga instructors give the command to do some New Age visualization, feel the energy bands, look to the inner flame or whatever, I talk to God instead.

At one point last Friday, I feared I was going to meet Him.

The instructor was trying to kill me. A pencil-thin, pretzel-like assassin intent on carrying out yogini’s revenge. Downward, dog.

When the class was over, an older gentleman who had labored alongside me approached the instructor. “Great class,” he said. “I’m glad I got to see it.”

Then the woman behind me spoke up. “There’s a beginner’s class tomorrow morning,” she said. “We go slow and take it nice and easy. You’ll be with a bunch of other people who are learning.”

A remedial class?!

Use it or or lose it. Reap what you sow. Law of the land. Ah, but there is another law at work.

The yin and yang? The swinging pendulum? The circle of life? Hardly.

Grace is at work.

Grace spoke Saturday morning in the company of beginners. “Hold this pose if you want and can. Or not if you don’t. This is the Y. We’re not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

Easy does it. One step at a time.

We drop the ball. Wreck the train. Make a chocolate mess. Waddle here or there.

“Pick it up and try again,” says Grace. “I’ll help you.”

Namaste, Grace. Namaste.

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free from the law of sin and death. Romans 8:1-2 NIV

Amazing Grace by Leann Rimes. Sing it, sister.

Namaste is a friendly greeting between people when they meet. Derived from Sanskrit, it literally means “bow me to you” translated as “I bow to you”… In other words, when one says “Namaste” to another it means “I salute or recognize your presence or existence in society and the universe.” wikipedia.org

Posted on January 10, 2012July 14, 2012 by Aimee 25

Reader’s Choice 2011: Lyrical Interlude

Alicia Norton keeps me in stitches. The woman needs to be on stage.

Alicia loves involving the audience, as any good entertainer does. Perhaps that explains her Reader’s Choice selection. The audience comments on this one are as funny as the post itself.

Her pick also marked a milestone as the 100th entry on everyday epistle.

Leave it to a fun, significant person to choose a fun, significant post.

Alicia’s Reader’s Choice is:

Lyrical Interlude

pinkguitarlady — click to read Lyrical Interlude

Posted on December 29, 2011December 17, 2012 by Aimee

Reader’s Choice 2011: Put Your Own Mask On First

My precious friend Kathy doesn’t read my blog very often. She doesn’t need to because I tell her everything anyway.

Her husband Brad, on the other hand, does read everyday epistle.

Like me, Brad is a bit of a morning person, while our spouses are night owls. Guess who will be waking whom at the crack of dawn Christmas morning?

The kids of course.

Brad’s Reader’s Choice is:

Put Your Own Mask On First

pickmeslowchildrenatplaysm — click to read Put Your Own Mask On First

Posted on December 24, 2011December 17, 2012 by Aimee

Reader’s Choice 2011: Perfectionist? Your Secret’s Safe with Me

Elizabeth Whelan is not a perfectionist. Neither am I.

Furthermore, the fact that our husbands pitch their tents on the footloose-and-fancy-free side of organization is not our just desserts.

Thank goodness we have such delightful senses of humor.

For reasons I cannot explain, Elizabeth’s Reader’s Choice is:

Perfectionist?
Your Secret’s Safe with Me

J&Asml — click to read Perfectionist? Your Secret's Safe with Me

Posted on December 23, 2011December 17, 2012 by Aimee

Reader’s Choice 2011: The Great Clinique Heist of 2011

It’s the most wonderful time of year.

You know. When Sephora stocks jumbo bottles of Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion.

Already got mine. And I’m keeping a tight hold on it.

My friend Kim Powell of Via Peregrini says she thinks of me whenever she sees Clinique’s flagship product.

Kim’s Reader’s Choice post is:

The Great Clinique Heist of 2011

cliniqueddl — click to read The Great Clinique Heist of 2011

Posted on December 18, 2011December 17, 2012 by Aimee 4

Dear J Crew

Dear J Crew,

We go together, you and I, like peanut butter and jelly.

You fit me. I like your style and quality. You’ve spoiled me with not one, but two retail locations in my town plus a crewcuts store. Divine.

That’s why I regret to inform you I will be moving to a new town soon. A town that has no J Crew stores. A Cowtown.

Oh, I know I can order online. But it won’t be the same.

I’ll miss your quirky, cool salespeople, the convenience of trying on things before buying, your super in-store markdowns.

Today I appeal to your president and creative director Jenna Lyons. Please open a store in Wichita, Ms. Lyons. Do it for fashion. Do it for me.

Wichita is the largest city in Kansas with nearly 400,000 people. It’s the Air Capitol of the World. Home to the jet setters—Bombardier Learjet, Cessna and Hawker Beechcraft.

And it’s a seat of American success and entrepreneurship. Take a look at Forbes list of the largest privately held companies in the United States.

Numero uno, Cargill, headquarters its beef operations there. Koch Industries, second on the list, is headquartered in Wichita too.

I’ve taken the liberty of scouting a location for you. Bradley Fair appears to be where all the happening cats hang. There’s only one vacant storefront left, so you better get cracking.

And Ms. Lyons, while you’re making plans for your store, will you ask Apple, DSW and Trader Joe’s to open stores in Wichita? It would be of great help to me.

Also please see about installing a direct line to my new residence. You know, a red phone like the ones in the stores. With free shipping.

In the meantime, I’ll plan buying trips to your stores in Kansas City, Tulsa, and Oklahoma City. I’ll reach out to the delivery man in my new neighborhood. I’ll chat with your minions of personal shoppers online.

It may seem like I’m asking a lot. But surely you can understand. J Crew is my go-to store. The one that I want. The one I need.

For the sake of the well-dressed, the hip and the square on the prairie, I implore you to act. Open a store in Wichita, Jenna. It will be worth it.

And why worry about your clothing? Look at the lilies of the field and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. Matthew 6:28-29 NLT

How do I live without you?

Posted on December 9, 2011October 22, 2012 by Aimee 9

Gray

“There are no salons where you’re moving,” said my hair stylist of 10 years.

“No salons?”

“No salons that carry our line of coloring,” she said.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy,” I said with all reverence.

Women spend more time finding a new hair stylist than they do finding a new gynecologist.

“Our line is pretty exclusive, but I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “There are no salons with our products anywhere near Wichita. None.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.

“There are other lines I can recommend,” she said and rattled off the secondary choices. Then she scurried away to pick my poison.

Ten years of successful haircuts and six years of spot-on color. All about to be sacrificed on the altar of corporate relocation.

She returned with my color in one hand and a small piece of paper in the other.

“This,” she said handing me the paper, “This is your recipe.”

“My recipe.” Cue Indiana Jones.

“And here’s my card,” she said. “Any good colorist should be able to translate your recipe. Have them call me if they have any questions.”

Whimper. What have I done?

“This is the last time I see you before you move, right?” she said.

“No!” I said. “I mean, no. I think I have another appointment in December. If I don’t, I’m making one. I must see you again before we move!”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said and slathered on the magic.

My mom colored her hair over the bathtub. She had her cosmetology license and her nursing license. All the bases were covered from peroxide to triage. She could bleach your hair, splint your sprain, curl, crimp, suture or stitch.

01_62_25---Black-Sheep_web — image from freefoto.com under creative commons license

The thought of me coloring my hair myself terrifies me more than going gray.

There would be no one to blame if I turned my brunette sherbet orange like an apricot poodle. Or platinum blonde like a towheaded surfer. Or jet black like a black, black sheep. Baa.

“Look younger, longer,” reads a Clinique tagline.

Look younger, longer? So at what point after longer am I to concede it’s a lost cause? When do I give up and go gentle into that good night?

salonchair — what happens at the salon stays at the salon, unless you blog about it

One of my friends is a decade older than I am. She’s in better shape and runs faster now than she did when she was my age.

Her hair color? Vibrant, luxurious auburn.

There’s hope for me yet.

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:6-7 NIV

You gotta keep your head up, and you can let your hair down.

Posted on November 30, 2011February 11, 2013 by Aimee 18

Squash on the Lamb

Tis the season of pies.

Should come as no surprise

pumpkinstotheleft — pumpkins to the left

To spy these fugitives hanging around
Behind the church where I found

pumpkinstotheright — pumpkins to the right

Them shivering in the chill and shaking.

Alas, they’re not the type for baking.

The LORD is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Psalm 9:9 NIV

You don’t have to take the broken road.
You can turn around and come back home.

Pin It

Posted on November 21, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee

Not a Moo Moo

Needed pajamas for a girls’ weekend away. My comfortable, old nightgown was threadbare. The loungewear department was calling.

As I swept across the sales floor at Dillard’s pulling things to try, I spotted it. A rack of baby terry cloth by Miss Elaine. Bright colors, soft fabric. I circled back for a closer look.

There I found a slightly A-line dress. No waistline, v neck, side seam pockets, tea length hem. Modern, close fit at the top. Loose on down.

The dressing room verified my suspicions. It was comfortable. Extremely comfortable.

So I bought it along with a couple more items for my trip. It was too warm to wear the baby terry dress at the time, and it was still full price. But I couldn’t leave that caliber of comfort in the store.

I bought it dreaming of a cool fall Sunday after church, pulling on the baby terry dress and lounging around the house. Making hot chocolate or popcorn. Watching movies. All cozy and warm.

Then it occurred to me. I’m only 40. Had I just purchased my first moo moo?

To me, Miss Elaine seems like an upper end line for mature women. And baby terry cloth? No pretty young thing I know would be caught dead in tea length baby terry cloth. No PYT even knows what tea length is these days.

It’s not a moo moo, I reasoned. It’s fitted at the top for goodness sake. And it’s got a mini patch pocket.

Besides who cares if it is categorically a moo moo? It’s one of the most comfortable garments I’ve ever owned.

I heard a Bible teacher once chastise us women for seeking our own comfort. Who did we think we were to put ourselves first and care foremost about our own well-being? To choose comfort instead of sacrifice?

Rather than a call to asceticism, I think she meant for us to see our own selfishness—as if we needed to be bashed over the head with the obvious and have the sacrifices we do make heartily invalidated. We wallowed in guilt while comfort was called on the carpet.

It’s fall now. A chill nips the edges of our daytime temps. I’m sitting at my computer, wearing my baby terry dress that’s not a moo moo.

The world is spinning into chaos outside the door of my little house. The economy is stalled indefinitely. There are protesters occupying Wall Street.

Decisions are not being made. Conflicts are left unresolved. People I know are divorced or alone, hurting, sick or dead. Winter will be here soon.

God comforts us. He wouldn’t do it if we didn’t need it. Over indulgence, selfishness, and hedonism are vices for sure. But comfort? Comfort is a necessity.

All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT

Going classical with Comfort Ye My People from The Messiah by George Frederic Handel. Sacred prelude to the holiday season.

trio of terry

Epilogue

Recently I hit Dillard’s clearance. Picked up two more Miss Elaine baby terry dresses that are not moo moos. Only $6.20 each. All rise for the Bargainista.

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Posted on November 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 18

The Three Bears Go House Hunting

220px-The_Three_Bears_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_17034 — public domain image

As we make plans to relocate to Wichita, my husband’s employer is sending us on a house-hunting trip. Momma Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear have different priorities for this excursion.

“Mom,” said the Cub, “we need lots of space.”

“What do you plan to do with lots of space?” I said.

“We need lots of space so we can have a soccer field,” he said. “Or a long-distance swimming pool.”

Papa Bear is also concerned about outdoor space. Give him room, lots of room. Don’t fence him in.

He grew up on a farm. You know what they say. You can take the boy off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy.

Problem is, Papa Bear already has a job and farming is not it. Nor is landscape gardening. Nor lawn mowing.

Hobby, yes. Phenomenal green thumb, that man. But full-time work? And don’t think for a minute Momma Bear is interested in taking the reigns of a Deere.

Search criteria for Papa Bear consists of lot size, proximity to the neighbors, and what backs up to the property. Heaven forbid we back up to another house.

playingbearssculpture — cubs sculpture, as seen at the National Zoo

“Here’s one,” he said as we perused real estate sites, “and we wouldn’t have to worry about anyone building behind us.”

“Why’s that?” I said.

“See this big field behind the property on the map?” he said. “It’s a cemetery.”

Momma Bear looked up to see if he was serious. He was. Dead serious. She huffed a low growl under her breath.

“What else have you found?” she said.

Papa Bear cracked a smile. “So living next to a cemetery is out of the question?”

“Completely.” Grrr.

Momma Bear’s main concerns are for the innards of the house. She would like an open floor plan so everyone can be together. She would like the heat to work in the winter and the air conditioner to work in the summer.

Enough room so every bear has his space, but not too much that she can’t clean up in a jiffy. A yard bigger than a postage stamp, but smaller than a park.

bearchair — bear chair detail, as seen at the National Zoo

Our relocation agent has her work cut out looking for our just right.

One tidy, cozy, move-in-ready, little house on the prairie with a soccer field for a yard that doesn’t back up to another house or a cemetery.

Hibernating would be simpler. Any empty caves available in Sedgwick County?

Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. Ephesians 4:13 NIV

We can work it out.

Posted on November 2, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 24

Lipstick, Interrupted

In admiration of Ilene Beckerman’s book Love, Loss, and What I Wore, I give you my life in lipstick.

L’oreal Mica. Love at first sight. Faithfully wore it under Bonnie Bell rollerball lip gloss until the 80s crumbled with the Berlin wall.

Neutrals flooded the early 90s. I fell for Clinique’s Honey Ginger in a free gift with purchase. Head over heels, I broke up with Mica and never looked back.

But Honey Ginger was too orange for me. I began seeing Think Bronze on the side.

Then in 1995, I got married in real life. A Clinique free makeover introduced me to the soft, creamy neutrality of Tenderheart. It would be my steady companion for 10 years, with interludes of Bronze Leaf.

In 2005, I emerged from a postpartum haze looking a little worse for wear. Time for another Clinique free makeover. The gentlewoman in the white lab coat coddled me.

“You’re a Winter,” she said. “I’d hate for you to miss out on color. Let’s try some berries.”

She spoke my language. I was a Winter. I am a Winter. I needed berries. I needed Berrylicious.

Berrylicious sang on my lips. A soul mate in a tube. We spent four beautiful years together. Until that fateful day in Macy’s.

“What do you mean it’s discontinued?!” I said as the salesgirls cowered. All I have left are the flattened remains in the silver cylinder, tarnished with years.

Tried Water Violet for a spell. Tried Heather Moon. Returned to Tenderheart, with interludes of Chocolate Ice.

tenderheart&chocolateice — tenderheart & chocolate ice

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I took my pitiful, leftover Berrylicious on a mission to color match.

After a few discouraging tries with other brands, I stood staring forlornly at the Macy’s Clinique display. The gentlewoman in the white lab coat approached.

“Have you tried Perfect Plum?” she said, “It’s the Butter Shine formulation.”

The heavens opened. Perfect Plum wasn’t Berrylicious, but it was, well, perfect. We’ve been inseparable.

I go through tubes of it, relentlessly applying and sealing with gloss. Bonnie Bell rollerballs are no more, so I’ve taken up with the seasonal delicacies of Philosophy high-gloss, high-flavor sweet candy lip shine instead. Mmm.

Had a scare earlier this year in the makeup capitol of the mall. Couldn’t find Perfect Plum in the Clinique case at Sephora.

“Do you have any Perfect Plum?” I said breathlessly after a sprint to the Macy’s Clinique counter.

They did and I do. Clinique headquarters assured me it’s not discontinued. Yet.

Berrylicious is gone forever. So is Honey Ginger. My other past Clinique colors are still available. And recently I bumped into Mica at Walmart.

Mica looks good. I was tempted to buy. But I look good too. So I’m dancing with the Perfect Plum who brought me. For the time being anyway.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Hebrews 13:8 NLT

Finally, a link up to The Go-Go’s! Our Lips Are Sealed.

Disclaimer

I’m not being paid to endorse any of the companies mentioned in this post. One company could, however, consider throwing me a bone for all the press I give them here and in The Great Clinique Heist of 2011. We’ll call it even for discontinuing my favorite lipstick.

Title inspiration thanks to Girl, Interrupted.

Posted on October 27, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 40

Ella Comments on the 100th Post

Friday’s post was our 100th. The shameless self-promotion continues. Hey, we only reach 100 once.

If you haven’t read Lyrical Interlude and the comments—and logged your own story of “lyricosis,” now’s your chance. It’s good for a smile to start the week.

Speaking of smiles, here’s what Ella had to say about the 100th post:

Enough said. And enough with the fanfare.

Time to craft a story or play fetch, which is in a lot of ways the same thing.

See you later this week with a new post.

…the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied. from Proverbs 13:4 NIV

Snow Patrol Called Out in the Dark. Why? Because I like it. So will you.

This is your life, this is your time.

Posted on October 24, 2011July 10, 2012 by Aimee 10

everyday epistle

there's a story at every turn