Reasons That Lady Is Unable to Move Her Yoga Mat To Accommodate Mine

1.) Mercury is in retrograde and she’s bound to tip over and you know--dominoes.

2.) Oosh--haha! She wonders if you think we’ll all fit? All 3 of us in a row?

3.) She’s wearing new lululemon and she’s not sure if they’re see-through.

4.) Because why? Did you get a Groupon for this class or something?

5.) She just watched the Amy Cuddy TED Talk about power stances and this is NOT THE DAY to ask her to shrink back.

6.) She would, but she just told the mustachioed guy, you know the one who doesn’t believe in deodorant, that there wasn’t enough room.

7.) Trust her. She made garlic snape pesto last night and hooodoggies! She’ll be sweating it out of her pores ‘til tomorrow!

8.) Hold on, she just got ReTweeted by Joanna Gaines and she needs to ReTweet the ReTweet right now.

9.) Something about it being time we built that border wall already….

10.) Cooties.

11.) She already set her intention and moving was not something she manifested.

12.) She’s about to teach the class, so yeah, she’s going to stay where she is, right here, up in front.

Zumba Diaries

The New Year's risk-it-for-the-biscuit mentality had not worn off yet so I walked into the Unknown Class last night at the gym. I might not have been so bold except that the other students in the class didn't appear to have any of that Fearful Equipment of Specialized Gym Classes whereby you're never quite sure what they do with those hot pink bars and purple elastic bands and bright blue balls? (Question, why are the accoutrements of ladies' gym classes always in the color palette of a Lisa Frank pencil case?) (Question the second: What if you think they're just going to use the pole to balance because you wrongly assume this is tightrope class only to discover within minutes that they do other things around the pole, things for which you are wholly unqualified, WHAT THEN?) (Even if you did own a Carmen Electra DVD once upon a time, which is neither here nor there.)

The teacher for this class queued up the samba music and that's how I knew this was Zumba. I've Zumba-ed before, but by all means, please make an example out of me, Zumba Guru, in front of the class of 45 female strangers. "WHERE'VE YOU TAKEN ZUMBA? OH! A DANCE STUDIO? WHERE? OH. NOT CLOSE TO HERE?" Like when did jazzercise get name-droppy?

This teacher was super body positive and had most likely snorted a long line of cocaine before class because I have never seen a body move like this, at least not a body that did not belong to Sonic the Hedgehog (after he did a long line of cocaine, obvi). This class was very, very fast-paced but the lights were kept low. I don't know if the romance lighting was to enhance the whole body positivity or just add to the samba ambience (sambience?) but it did not keep me from almost decking a group of middle schoolers. And not to be all Mean Girls but who let the middle schoolers in? I would prefer only to jiggle around in public with other women who tinkle a little bit when they laugh or women who own a whole drawer of product labeled "age-defying."

The class was an hour long which was good since if left to my own devices, I will Zumba for four minutes until I feel my deodorant start to work and then I'll sit down and start unfollowing all the youngsters on Instagram who don't own any age-defying products, all while keeping that Zumbatastic beat, of course.

After the hour, it was hard to decide what my favorite Zumba moves were. Was it when I accidentally punched myself in the face and my glasses proceeded to rest slightly askew on the bridge of my nose for the rest of class Now...Grapevine! or was it when I proceeded to do the hip thrust in the wrong direction every single time so that it looked like maybe I was trying to partner dance? Cumbia! Oh oh, I know. I think it was when I got a crick in my neck from whipping it so hard in the manner of Sonic the Hedgehog that I Zumba-limped my way right into a hot bath when I got home. Boom, Pop pop pop, wowww!

It's a Wonderful Wife: What Mary Bailey is teaching me about how to live post-Sandy Hook

Five years ago on December 14, we heard and read of the horror that occurred at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, We imagined the grief of these parents who had already wrapped Christmas presents for their children, these babies whom they would now have to bury. Their grief was beyond our fathoming, so monstrous and so paralyzing.

Anne Lamott writes about Sandy Hook in her book Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair, particularly how paralysis is not a place to stay on the heels of grief.  “You have to keep taking the next necessary stitch, and the next one, and the next. Without stitches, you just have rags. And we are not rags,” Lamott writes. “We live stitch by stitch, when we’re lucky. If you fixate on the whole shebang, you miss the stitching.”

A powerful epidemic of kindness ensued following Sandy Hook. NBC 's Ann Curry spurred us on to commit 20 acts of kindness. To include the women who died at the school, The 26 Acts of Kindness movement began with a roar. Donations of talent and treasure and teddy bears swelled not only around Newtown but into communities everywhere. The lightness and goodness did its damndest to drive out the darkness.

Five years later, we are numbed by the regularity of massacre on our soil. We are bereft of shock when another mass shooting occurs. Great sweeping acts of kindness may feel, well, a bit naive when the forces that are meant to protect our freedom from fear are, at best, crumbling, or at their very worst, seem to be the embodiment of evil.

In our impotence, many of us will turn to tropey holiday films as we do year after year. That old standby It's a Wonderful Life will remind us with the chiming of bells and angel wings of what matters.

On a recent reviewing of Frank Capra's classic, though, it occurred to me that the protagonist, George Bailey, is not the hero America needs at this moment. It's the First Lady of the Bailey Building and Loans: Mrs. Mary Bailey. George's mother tells him she is "someone who can help you find the answers." Maybe she can help America find some, too.

At first blush, Mary Bailey may appear to be one who settles, one who cannot dream beyond Bedford Falls. But Mary cultivates contentment in every circumstance. She doesn't get an epic honeymoon; she makes loans to fretful bank account holders with her wedding money. She fixes up a leaking, decrepit, old mansion; she calls it the bridal suite. She's complicit in this -- even seems to take joy in it all -- and we never see her utter an embittered word about it.

When our protagonist faces his dark night of the soul, it is Mary who leads the charge to save him and his bank. Stitching together a network of friends, she watches as each pours in his dollars and cents.

At the heart of all George's pain is a miserly banker named Mr. Potter whose crotchetiness is only transcended by his greed. Unlike George, Mary does not seem to waste a moment fuming at Potter. Mary's focus is on what's possible.

The last few years have been a dark night of the soul for our country.

I have frittered away much of this year reading incendiary Twitter threads and rolling my eyes at political frenemies. To what end? If I am to look to the model of Mary Bailey, then my focus needs to be set on what's possible.

The poignant beauty of Sandy Hook was a whole nation averting its eyes from the Terrible and Unfathomable and pivoting toward the Lovely and Generous. The indomitable spirit within each one of us has the power to spur something powerful again, by first fixing our eyes on a more redemptive future. We will believe that our disparate rags can become something of a shelter in this “drafty old barn,” to borrow a phrase from George speaking to the one and only Mary Bailey, as she asks, “What’s wrong?” while she fixes the salad. Mary, always fixing.