Finals. Finally.

Semester has been rattling along at a nice clip, with a steady rhythm of tests every few weeks, and I've grown accustomed to my new, hermetically sealed/hermitic life. [As an aside, when I say hermitic, I am referring to my mostly shut-in status, not the spiced cookie of the same name that I did not know existed until I googled hermitic to check my spelling. The learning train stops for no one.]

However, the best.thing.ever is about to happen. Finals. A week from Tuesday and I am a free woman until February 2012, whereupon the wild rumpus starts anew.

However, part 2: as with all highly anticipated things, in lieu of my looming date with freedom, time has slowed to a crawl, and with it has gone all my motivation. I have become an apathetic, whiny (mostly in my own head, hopefully) college student who has exerted for 12 weeks and who frankly is more than a little out of steam. Hopefully there is some tiny reserve of steam left in me somewhere, though I've yet to locate it. I'm sure my driving need to get perfect scores will push me across the finish line in something like style, and I am extremely appreciative of September, October and November Sarah who worked really hard so that December Sarah can get a few things wrong and still get a good grade.

However, part 3: it appears that unless I give up teaching altogether (not happening), due to the hours-heavy nature of science classes, I may not be able to take more than 2 classes per semester, which puts me squarely in the crosshairs of summer school, and potentially in a land where the next five years will actually turn into 6. Although the difference isn't that great, the length of the sentence (and the length of that last sentence) starts to make my head spin.

Pade, pade, as my teacher Manorama would say. One step at a time. If only I could get time to speed up for the next week and then slow to molasses for winter break.

In Which I Am A Little, And Then A Lot, Bothered By Your Posture

This bothers me, a little:

But I get it. I took this picture at an area coffee shop that I frequent during my lunch break from classes - and I do mean frequent, because they now know me by name. That's a little scary.

My point is, the 'stand on one leg and stick out the other one with both legs turned out' look that's so popular for line-waiting, as demonstrated so beautifully for us by these three anonymous models (although the dude in the middle I know as 'the other guy they know by name in this area coffee shop') is not an isolated incident. Next time you're standing in line at the store, or your own area coffee shop, after you finish reading about this year's sexiest person, check out the way you're standing. Odds are it will look something like the above.

We've become somehow allergic to a) standing on both legs evenly and b) pointing said legs straight forward. We think we look like robots when we do that. No really, we do. People tell me that when I make them do it. But I do it myself, on purpose, all the time, because it helps with my scoliosis/crazy hip, and it's cleared a lot of one sided lower back pain. You know what I hear, constantly? (I'll give you a clue - it's not "Are you a robot?")

I hear: "Your posture is amazing!" "Are you a dancer?" "I've been admiring the way you walk for the past hour!" (That last one was a little creepy, but still a compliment). I can talk about it until I'm blue in the face (and if you've ever taken class with me, odds are I've mentioned it at least once that you can remember) but until you start doing it, you won't believe me that it can make such a big difference in your mood, your 'tude, and your dude (I needed a third thing. If you are a dude or know a dude, either way it will make a difference).

This bothers me, a lot:

This is from the latest Urban Outfitters catalog. I'm not sure how well you can see what is going on for this poor deformed lady, but she's basically making a huge kyphotic (backwards) C curve with her spine, while throwing her shoulders anteriorly (forward), jamming her pelvis anteriorly (forward), and borderline overextending her neck (backward). Apparently, if you close your eyes and do that, the bubbles come.

Monkey see, monkey do - I'm no longer in the demographic that UO is aiming for (and yet they haven't dumped me from their mailing list, which I sort of appreciate in a "what are those crazy kids up to these days?" way), but it makes me so very, very annoyed to see this, because back in MY day, when I WAS being aggressively marketed to, at least the women got to stand like this:

I mean, bananas outfit notwithstanding, and setting aside whatever you may know or think about this particular person, this is the stance of a strong woman inhabiting her body. [Side note: she also gets to have muscles.]

This is not supposed to be a post about the vagaries of modeling, although I could so very easily go there - but that's another story.

This is me, pleading with you to stand up straight, and point both feet forward, and stand on both of them. That's it. It's really, really simple, and I would bet you money that it will make your lower back happier. Plus, you'll get compliments. Oh, one last thing: you have to do it for the rest of your life. But honestly, it's not as hard as having to go to rehab for your screwed up L4/L5 or knee issues. I promise.

The Proof Is In The Reading

The biggest difference, work-wise, between the arty classes I used to take in college and the all-science, all-the-time roller coaster I ride lately is the method of testing. Back then, I would sit in lectures and take long, rambling notes, debate topics in long, rambling arguments, write papers in long, rambling run-on sentences, without ever having to answer a single yes-or-no question.

Not so for science classes. I have at least one, if not more, quiz or test or exam every other week. It's kind of like having someone's thumb permanently pressed into the side of my head, reminding me not to relax too much because I need to memorize some terms, or answer sample questions, or write out balanced equations.

I've discovered, however, that proofreading is not only a useful tool for writing, but invaluable for these kinds of tests. My science class test-taking method is to answer all the questions with at least something first, and then to pause, breathe, and read through all of them again. Every single time, I find I've marked 'A' when I meant to mark 'D,' or left out an important detail in a description that would have cost me a few points or more.

Your body does the same thing. Did you know that? During DNA replication, the enzymes doing the replicating make an error roughly one in every ten thousand nucleotides (like DNA building blocks). So your body has repair enzymes that pause, breathe, and read through all of the replicated nucleotides again, catching and fixing so many mistakes that the error rate drops to one in a billion. Not bad.

There are always students that jump up 20 minutes after the test has started, hand in their paper, and walk out. I wonder if they are so brilliant they've made no errors, or if they're not following the example set by their DNA. I feel urged on by their departure to also make a quick exit (jeez, I really can't quit this need to come in top of EVERYTHING, even leaving the room) but I force myself to stay longer and make corrections.

It's not as dramatic. Proofreading isn't sexy. No-one makes a dramatic statement and then pauses to proofread it before storming out and slamming the door.

But if it's good enough for my DNA, it's good enough for me.

Week 8

aka, The Halfway Point of the semester.

Marked by a noticeable increase in general Honey Badger-ness towards being in school. I started out the semester giving my all, studying for hours and hours, overloading and overwhelming myself. Although I try to let go of needing to not only get an A, but a 100% A, the perfectionism is near-primal in me, and as such, hard to shake. In addition, I've been putting more pressure on myself as these grades will play a part in getting accepted to the grad school I want.

However, something happened Monday morning, aka First Day Of Week 8. I slid into my usual Chemistry class seat behind Girl Who Talks Too Loudly And Doesn't Know The Answer, next to Quieter Girl Who Is Really Funny But Hardly Ever Shows It, and I could feel something in the air. The class has thinned to what is, I assume, its fighting weight: after our first test, a small exodus has us down to about 45 students. We have the air of survivors, and while we spent the first half of the semester putting up with our Chem teacher's preference for replacing actual teaching with dated sexist jokes, now we're done tiptoeing around him.

(sample conversation - Me: "I'm sorry I'm a bit late on Wednesdays, I get here as fast as I can from work." Him: "Oh, I thought you were sipping cappuccinos with your sweetie and lost track of time." Me: "No. I'm a grown up with a job.")

I'm realizing that while I am halfway through this semester, I'm only 1/8th through all my post bac requirements, so the only way to survive this is to chill, a little. I had a Biology test and scored a 100 out of 104. My Bio teacher - who I adore - gently chastised me for missing 4 points (he knows my story, and has high expectations of me, which I appreciate). I, in return, laughed. Honey Badger don't care.

Front Bit

I ran into a fellow yoga teacher last Sunday at the store. We don't know each other particularly well, although I've always had a sense that I would like her a whole lot if we did, but our circles overlap enough that we're aware of what each other is up to, generally. One of the first things she said to me was "man, I'm so impressed with what you're doing."

I don't know if it was because I was feeling particularly worn out at that moment, or if I decided that the people closest to me are tired of hearing me complain so I haven't wanted to burden them with this, or if energetically she just seemed to understand, but I replied the truth in my soul to her, which is: every day I think about quitting. Every day.

It's not the school part. I like class, and as we've established, I'm a dork and I enjoy studying. It's not teaching my group classes, or teaching privately, or teaching anatomy weekends, or writing. I enjoy all of those things, individually; but at the moment, theyareallmashedupagainsteachothersoclosethatthereisbarelyamomenttobreathe.

Case in point: I forgot the word for foot yesterday. Really. I followed up by calling my client's core "your front bit."

The wave of momentum behind all this activity both holds me upright when I feel most likely to collapse, and pushes me forward to the next class, test, client, workshop, deadline. It seems out of my hands, like something happening to me, not because of me, and the vague outline of a goal I held a few months ago feels unrelated to this onslaught.

My free time has diminished to the point that people I used to see on a regular basis have become once-a-month catch-up friends. I miss them. I decided that the lion's share of my attention has to go to my growing nephews, and their even-more-worn-out parents, which means I see them once a week for a few hours. Several times a day, my dog gazes at me balefully, toy in mouth, a slow wag in her tail, hoping I might be convinced to come out from behind the computer, but more often than not she ends up discontentedly lying back down with a heavy sigh.

Am I complaining? I did this to myself, voluntarily, and I can undo it with the click of a mouse. (Quite literally - you can withdraw from classes online now. Ah, technology.) There are moments each day when I wonder what the hell I used to do with my time - if you can cram this much thisness into a day, was I just sitting around eating bon bons and watching reality tv dance competitions? But in the moments when I accept that this is just how things are for now, and that like everything else, this too shall pass, I lift my chin and pick up the next task.

The Brain Behind The Curtain

When I went to college the first time around, I was a bona fide arts student. I took Art History classes (my major) and English and Photography and Theater and Film, and spent hours sitting around tables discussing Kurosawa and the Italian Renaissance. I had a science requirement that I fulfilled by taking those arts major standbys, Rocks For Jocks and Shake and Bake. I didn't do particularly well in either of them, either.

Flash forward to now, and not only am I taking much more challenging science classes, I'm doing pretty well. I'm not talking about grades - it's too early to call, and I still have a non-scientific fear-of-jinx reflex - but I actually understand what's going on when my Bio teacher is discussing the parts of a cell and their functions. I totally get how to figure out formulas for double replacement reactions in Chem lab. Not only that, but in my 'spare' time now, I'm writing articles about anatomy or reading books with titles like "Fascia: Clinical Applications for Health and Human Performance" (thank you Jill Miller - it's a cracking good read).

It feels like there was some part of my brain lying dormant for all these years, and suddenly a curtain has been drawn back to reveal a laboratory with bleeping blooping lights and whizzing dials and reams of paper coming out of machines (the lab is from the seventies) and a white-coated person with a clipboard who looks up at me and says, "Ah yes. Here you are. We've been waiting for you. Right this way, please."

How did this happen? Is it because I'm older, and I'm less distracted than my youthful peers? Or because this isn't my first time at the rodeo, and I have a handle on how to take good notes and what to learn for the quiz? I don't know - it feels like I've got some new person's brain. Hey - did I have a brain transplant and I can't remember because it was a brain transplant? Someone help me out here.

Uncle

Ok... so, in true overachiever form, I overreached. Stress-induced malady in the form of a hacking cough and snotty cold, coupled with a sudden complete inability to sleep past 6am as I *boing* awake with crazy brain has convinced me that perhaps I don't need to be taking so many classes at once while also teaching a full schedule, leading weekend long anatomy modules, guest writing articles, writing this blog, etc.

As a reformed overachiever however, I don't feel badly about dropping a class. Old me would have seen this as a failure, especially since the teacher of said class threw down a pretty serious gauntlet about who would pass and who would drop out, and I find that kind of challenge nigh irresistible (and I've never dropped out of anything in my life - are we sensing a pattern here?). New me sees it as a chance to still have a life while I'm going back to school, rather than a) feel guilty if I'm getting a pedicure or hanging out with my amazing twin nephews instead of studying in every possible free moment or b) actually be studying in every possible free moment, have no life whatsoever, and be miserable.

So yay! Let's count this as a win. A win for my toenails, if nothing else.

We Interrupt This Broadcast

To bring some slightly unrelated (school-wise), yet on a macro level, somewhat related (anatomy-wise) news. Please know that this topic has been duly covered from every single possible angle that you could ever single want to read about (and many you don't) over here, and this will not be another blog about my hip.

However. There has been a lot of pain in my hip recently, and more worryingly, now in my knee as well (sharp shooting pain out of apparently nowhere). I made an appointment to see Dr. Snibbe in Beverly Hills (only the best for Hip) as recommended by PT extraordinaire Sean Hampton, and as it turns out Dr. Snibbe knows surgeon extraordinaire Dr. Robert Buly at HSS in NYC who did my surgery. (And yes, that entire paragraph was about linking to the people I know and love who have performed miracles on Hip, in case you ever need them.)

As you can probably imagine, a waiting room in Beverly Hills is a pretty funny and entitled place, and yes, there was a celebrity there discussing crudites and lunch meat on the phone (I'm not making this up) but my favorite moment occurred as I was walking in to the back area to get X rays, when a woman with a walker yelled "DOOR!" at the closing door behind the nurse and me. These are always the moments when I wish I had the ability to raise one eyebrow at a time. In fairness, she had a walker and was going to have a hard time getting the door open, and she also retracted slightly and mumbled "I mean could you open the door for me please," and while we're at it let's be generous and assume she would have done that anyway, regardless of my unsuccessful eyebrow raise and meaningful stare.

Back on topic!

Ugly gym shorts, freezing exam room, same old same old. And then I got to see my hip in X ray for the first time in four years. Let's just say, time has not been kind.

Anatomy lesson (to keep this on topic)

A happy, healthy hip joint (femur bone and acetabulum) is two smooth, sliding surfaces with no jagged edges or rough points. The head of the femur, in particular, should look like this:

And yes, by 'this' I mean 'John Travolta.'

My femur looks like this:

Which is pretty in the night sky, but not ideal for pain-free movement, as the lumps and bumps grate over the acetabulum, and also get 'caught' on the side, also known as impingement.

The bottom line is that hip replacement surgery is basically guaranteed in my distant-ish future, and in the meantime, an MRI will show if Synvisc injections would be a good idea. Hey, science dorks: Synvisc is a synthetic synovial fluid made from rooster combs. Crazy.

Also: I will be a fascinating cadaver for dissection. They'll be able to trace the spinal scoliosis right down to the hip wear and tear! It's just like CSI!

Everyone is so kind to me about this, and says such nice things, and I truly, madly, deeply appreciate it. The real point of this is to tell you that Dr. Snibbe specifically attributed my relative lack of pain (relative) and real solid range of motion to yoga. I attribute it more specifically to Yoga Tune Up®, which is also what I used to rehab a client back from his hip replacement surgery. Come take class with me.

Enough detour: I have to go study for Psych 103, which as it turns out IS going to be a really hard class, because quizzes are only 5 questions, so if you miss one you're already down to a B. Jeez. Was it this hard the first time around?

Everything Settles Over Time

And that includes my brain. Second week down and I'm getting into the swing of things with school, and discovering (don't tell anyone) that I actually really like it. I like sitting in class, opening my notebook, writing copious notes, feeling faint wisps of recollection of hydrocarbons, amino acids and the like. I like that my Physiopsychology teacher folded her arms and threw down a challenge the first day. (To paraphrase, she told us it was going to be hard to get an A in her class. Since I am something of a smartass, I mentally replied that she just didn't know me yet.) I like how my Chemistry teacher looks like John Goodman and says things like "How much ecstasy can a 150lb person consume without overdosing?" to teach measurements. And I completely adore my wacky Biology teacher who did a running demo of a Jesus Christ lizard to show how the properties of water permit life. (He loves Biology so much, and it shows.)

[My hat is off to all of these teachers, and I am deeply impressed across the board with how good they are and how hard they work at their jobs. I really hope that for the most part, we've all gotten over the idea that teaching is for people who can't do anything else. It's an offensive idea.]

But most of all, I like using my brain this way again. It's easy to fall off the wagon and start filling your noggin with all kinds of useless junk (hello YoufaceJezeGoFugYourbookTube), and the same way that not using your muscles makes working out seem like hard work, not using my brain to learn like this has made re-entry a bit uncomfortable, but as with all stretching experiences, I'm growing accustomed to the new space. And less willing to fill it with videos of cats.

Here Goes The Next Five Years.

Turns out, I'm ok at Algebra. Ok enough to place out of having to take the class and go right into Inorganic Chemistry (which was the only reason I needed Algebra in the first place, so I am grateful that the two months that I spent making sweet love to the Elementary Algebra textbook paid off). The placement test experience, though? That was a trip.

When I first visited the Assessment Center of my friendly neighborhood community college back in May, there was no-one there. I breezed right through my English placement test (turns out, I'm ok at English). I should also mention that I wanted to take a Math placement test at the time, but that was evidently an idiotic suggestion on my part, as I hadn't studied or taken a Math class in a really, really long time, the admission of which brought on both a ramen spit-take and an unnecessarily dramatic eye roll from the bored administrator.

After teaching myself Elementary Algebra non-stop for two months, I returned to take the Math test in July and was confronted with an entirely different scene. It was something like the DMV crossed with the waiting room in Beetlejuice: packed to the gills with kids who looked like they could be in gangs (and yes: I am old enough to be scared of kids who look like they could be in gangs), many trendy Armenian and Asian teenagers, a few old ladies, and me (and it has occurred to me that to the teenagers, I am indistinguishable from the ones I call 'old ladies'). This time I had to wait an hour before I could take the test, and just did my best to keep all the Math in my head and not let it fall out of my ears before it was my turn.

The test room itself was packed with people at various stages of test-taking, which meant there was a constant stream of people getting up, brushing past, moving around and loud-whispering questions. I tried to put on the headphones provided, but the cable wouldn't stretch far enough, so I ended up with one ear on my shoulder and my hand glued to the other side of my head. Computerized, multiple-choice, 50 questions in 45 minutes, not much time to be unsure of an answer, and definitely harder than the sample questions they had provided for study, but I got through it.

The second part of the community-college-attending flop-sweat-fest is registration. Having previously attended a swanky, expensive university, I had never experienced the panicky fear of not getting into the classes I needed. It works like this: online class registration starts on a Monday, and each student is assigned a day and time they can register over the two weeks that follow. Which means you watch every day as the classes you want fill up, and you are powerless to do anything until your assigned date arrives. Fortunately I was assigned a relatively early registration day, and though I was wait-listed on two of my classes, I discovered on the first day of school that I already made it into both of them.

Did I mention that school started? Oh yes, this past Monday. Am I already overwhelmed? Oh yes, very much yes. I vacillate wildly between "I went to Princeton, I can do this," to "good God what am I doing here where is my #2 pencil," with occasional stop-offs at "I'm so much older than these children I could literally have given birth to almost all of them," and "this is a very stupid idea and I should just go back to what I already know this is a terrible idea whose idea was this."

I am realizing, in bright technicolor reality, that being ok with the idea of hard work is a very different thing than finding yourself immersed in a very large amount of hard work. Guess what? Hard work is actually hard. It is overwhelming. I am spending a lot of energy managing myself right now and not having a full-on seizure-sized freak out. Thankfully, as my friends are pointing out, I have both life experience and yoga experience to draw on. And of course, since the Universe loves a good laugh more than anything, I suddenly have more yoga clients than I know what to do with. (I'm not complaining - I'm truly grateful - but I think it's ironic that it's happening when I have suddenly no time at all and I'm beginning to transition out of this field.)

The next five years or so of my life have begun.

You Got Big Dreams

I am a yoga teacher. I love it. But I want more: more freedom to diagnose, a greater range of clients, I even have vague plans to work with veteran amputees to develop movement and rehab protocols. So at the pretty ripe age of 36, I'm going back to school to get my DPT (Doctor of Physical Therapy) degree.

When I told a client of mine that I was going back to school for 5 years (and to be clear, two of the 5 years are because I did absolutely no college science the first time around) he remarked, "Yes, you're good at deferred gratification."

Turns out, after 15 years in the real world, going back to school begins not with school, but with a test. A Math placement test.

So right here's where I start paying. In problem sets.