danapop

Image: Courtesy of Yoga Deck II by Olivia H. Miller and Nicole Kaufman

I took my first yoga class in June 2000 at the corporate gym inside CNN Center, just after I moved to Atlanta. Yoga seemed like a cosmopolitan sort of thing to do and very foreign to me, but at first I didn’t quite get what the fuss was about. It was just so-so and even though I didn’t feel terribly challenged, for some reason, I stuck with it. About eight months later, I signed up for a special lunchtime class on Valentine’s Day dealing with heart chakras. I was single, and that sounded like just the thing to avoiding downing a bottle of wine later that night solo while wearing a chocolate mustache, candy wrappers piled around me, not that I cared too much about occasions like that in the first place, but it could happen. At any rate, I knew my heart needed to be taken care of, and I couldn’t think of a more fitting place for it.

The best I can describe it is that I had some sort of spiritual experience during the class. I started to understand what yoga was about and why people are such devotees. Then, two weeks later, my dad died. I channeled my healing into yoga, and that is when I truly became hooked. Throughout the poses I moved through my grief—depression in the rabbit, anger in the breath of fire, denial in downward dog, bargaining during bird of paradise, and acceptance in eagle. Each day was different in what I felt and how I moved, but yoga, to be blunt, saved my life. It gave me the life I never thought I could have, one that strives for balance both on and off the mat.

So imagine my surprise when my private Prozac, my own special pill, becomes dare I say it, trendy. I’ve seen a rise in articles on the therapeutic theory—with everything from The New York Times running a great piece in February on fertility and the link with yoga as a stress reliever (you can read it here) to  Town & Country last year publishing an article titled “Prescription Yoga” (What? I read it while I was at the eye doctor.) about yoga as the cure all for whatever ails you. Yoga for anxiety, yoga for anger, yoga for anorexia (seriously), yoga for depression–why can’t it just be what it is? I realized more than a decade before Town & Country told me so that yoga is in fact my prescription; I need it like I need other things in my life to feel whole, and I can certainly tell when I haven’t had enough (my family will also vouch for that). But it’s frustrating to see this ancient practice broken down in a way that strips it of its original meaning. Are we so far gone in our fitness and quick-fix pill state to take something so basic, pure, and wonderful and turn it into a dumbed-down version that’s hardly recognizable? It just worries me that once the buzz factor of the practice dies down and the pendulum stops swinging which part of yoga will remain, the old or the new?

I first heard about fitness guru Tracy Anderson on Gwyneth Paltrow’s GOOP, and then, when fellow bloggers and friends Asian Cajuns told me about her workout DVD. (Side note, you’ll get to know twins behind the site, Lauren and Catherine better next week.)

Knowing I was going to be at my mom’s and out of my normal workout routine, this DVD seemed like the obvious choice to take with me. Though, I was forewarned, and I’m warning you, to say Tracy isn’t the best teacher is an understatement.

It’s the first workout DVD I’ve done that you really do have to do several times before you get it because she’ll just start going into a new exercise without telling you. Plus, I get the impression she’s pretty much in love with herself and adds dance moves to just about everything. She reminds me of girls who dance in clubs that stare at themselves in the mirror making sexy faces. Oh, and she looks like Shakira while doing it all. Awesome.

But, in her defense, the interview chapter of the tape did resonate with me. She experienced college weight gain, and nothing worked to get her long and lean, she just kept bulking in the gym. Knowing girls want really toned dancer limbs, she spent eight years developing and researching this program, and the end result is this: it works.

My abs after the first workout killed. Which is ironic because that’s the exact section on the DVD I despised the most, her standing abdominal workout where it appears she’s in a Beyonce video and is ridiculously annoying. Seriously she’s just keeping beat to the music. But, I’m thinking the likes of Gwyneth and Madonna, who are Tracy’s clients (I love that I’m writing about her like we’re old friends) know a good thing when they see it. Though not available for download on iTunes, it’s worth the purchase on her website.

And to completely counterpoint, it might be best to get in the whole club scene and pop a bottle of Armand de Brignac while you’re at it. At the very least it’ll make the standing ab portion actually make sense.

Growing up in a military household, I can’t say I’ve ever had to the motivation to attend a boot camp fitness class. But last summer one of my writing clients was all gung-ho about doing them and asked me to join her long before the sun was up and newspapers delivered. Strangely enough (pretty sure wine was involved), I agreed. Of course I overslept badly and got in a explosive screaming match with my GPS who was giving me poor directions in his British accent to it’s-anyone’s-guess-where-the-eff-I-am-park a good twenty miles from my house.

I knew I was in the right spot when I pulled up to a lot packed with people decked out in running clothes and clearly pumped to be there. I managed to double-park as the crowd waited on me and my unbrushed teeth and raccoon makeup from the night before to join them. They may’ve even clapped in that, “so glad you could join us” way, which is what I also like to call “the sarcastic clap.”

In the end, the workout proved to be really hard, but really fun. Two days later when I was itching from the fertilizer rash I had from all the rolling around in the grass for sit-ups and squat thrusts, I was second-guessing my initial excitement about the camp.

Fast-forward a year to when I’m burned out big time on my usual workouts–yoga, Pilates, and running. I’ve peaked. Beyond a plateau, my body just stayed the same and I was plain bored. And don’t even get me going on lack of motivation when my husband was laid off and both of us were working freelance; let’s just say there was lots o’ sleeping in at my house and not enough working out.

I needed something to boost my workout enthusiasm and kick me back into shape. So, for four weeks I decided to do a boot camp series. That’s twenty classes, five days a week for four weeks. Plus, nutritional support. I decided to go in with an open mind; forget about the actual military father, and my usual course of action when someone is screaming in my face of either hitting the road or completely shutting down. None of the above happened. No one yelled, no one cried, no one stormed off in a huff.

First day–I felt really strong after finding out I can actually run a 7-minute mile. First week as a whole, wow it’s hard to wake up at 6 a.m., and damn, I’m out of shape. It reminds me a lot of high school with all the squats and lunges I did during cheerleading practice. I wish for my senior year cheerleading butt. Also I’m feeling really embarrassed about what I’m writing down in my food journal. I mean, I had to put a scotch lunch on there loaded with calamari, spinach dip, fried green tomatoes, and oh right, five different kinds of scotch at one in the afternoon. Just a normal day at the office folks, nothing to see here.

Week two—More than once I thought I would either A) pass out or B) throw up (neither happened) during a workout. This was the week I also realized I eat like pure garbage with all these media events and such and started being really hard on myself and my Oprah arms, marshmallow tummy, and cottage cheese legs (mmm marshmallows). The other girls in my class looked like L.A. Laker girls and did two-a-day workouts with boot camp just being one workout a day for them. Also slightly annoyed with my husband for buying a berry crumble from Trader Joe’s for a photo shoot, which we both devoured in about two sittings. Ridic. We may or may not have wrestled for the last piece.

Week three—I overslept (Monday Monday, can’t trust that day) and was sort of mad at myself all day. I missed the group’s camaraderie and encouragement about helping whip each other back into shape. By Friday of this week, one campmate’s calorie watch said she’d burned 630 calories in 60 minutes … I can’t even burn that running for an hour–talk about good incentive. This week I also got used to having bone bruises on my knees and palms of my hands from all the pushups and mountain climbers. This was also the first week I truly started to feel like I was getting in shape and my body was getting toned. Lastly, I learned that throwing a medicine ball against the wall of a racquetball court is incredibly liberating.

Week four—I’m starting to feel really strong. Running in place with high knees … no problem. Frog jumps … I’m a pro. No seriously, people in the class started commenting on how amazing my frog jumps were; don’t be jealous. After talking with some of the other boot campers, it seems that most people invest in at least two months because just towards the end of the first month is when you’re really starting to notice change. I would agree. Overall, it was a fantastic workout change of pace, both fun and challenging. I’m thinking of signing up for one more month, but my schedule is beginning to get a little spotty with some upcoming travel, which, you’ll read all about next week…

Surf Diva Head Instructor, Crystal Simpson | Photo by Moses Slovatizki | Property of Surf Diva

The word diva has gotten a bad rap. Maybe it’s from the press getting their hands on Mariah Carey’s tour rider or some D-list reality “star” traveling with a 10 + entourage complete with an assistant and a hair extension team. All I know is you generally don’t want to be called one.

But, this was not always the case. The origins of the word come from the Latin word for goddess, or the feminine of god. See, no bad connotation there.

Twin sisters Izzy and Coco are divas, but of the best kind … of the surf. I’ve been a fan of their company, Surf Diva for years and every so often I’ll email my sisters with pleas of heading to one of its two locales for a full week of surfing–with outlets in Costa Rica and California, honestly, it’s hard to choose…

As you read this, I’m packing for a trip to Santa Cruz with my sisters, where I’m hoping surfing is in order. Until then, an interview with the Surf Divas themselves will have to suffice–we talk fashion, fitness, family, and the surf culture.

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I’m running a half marathon in February. I signed on for the race partly because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and also because it’ll hopefully curb my tendency of eating and drinking my way through the holidays.

I’ve found with the training, the iPod playlist is crucial. Working out is one of the rare times I adore pop music. But, with running I need a bit of pop, plus motivation – so, here is a running list, filled with an equal mix of boys I find sexy (lead singer of The Killers) plus pop tart girls that have the tummy I’m striving for (pre-Federline Britney), a dash of pissed off angst (any tune that makes me think of images of things breaking or people marching in protest), and the old stuff that reminds me of my family (the John Lennon, Mick Jaggar, Elton John trifecta). (more…)