Find Your Happy Place

I’ve been practicing Bikram yoga for six years. The yoga room is my happy place.

When I first tried yoga in high school, I was completely bored. In my gym rotation I practiced the sunshine series. I found it repetitive and slow. But when I found Bikram—and I grew up a bit—the yoga room transformed from a place of tediousness to a sanctuary of smiles.

Practiced in a room heated to 105 degrees I complete a 90-minute moving mediation of 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises two to three times a week. When I leave the room, I drip as if I had climbed out of a lap lane.

But I feel incredible. No matter how my class went—I could have been nauseous or dizzy, I could have sat out multiple postures—I feel revitalized and wide-eyed after. Literally, my eyes dilate and I see more clearly.

The endorphins pace through my veins and I feel light and rejuvenated. At times, I think to myself this is bliss. What the hell happens in that yoga room?

Sure Bikram is a fantastic workout (you can burn up to 900 calories in a class) and there is a piece of me that feels productive knowing that I worked out so hard. But when I do an aerobic workout or a cardio workout, the high is never as euphoric or whole.

Why does yoga feel so happy?

1) Yoga is the one place where it is my job to dedicate time to myself. Teachers coach: this time is for you, so I don’t feel guilty about being “selfish.”

On Friday night, I took class with Emily Vartanian who injects a bit of silliness into her class to keep the hard work and concentration that we perform lighthearted. The clock struck 6pm and Emily welcomed the class to “your date with yourself.”

After the standing series—Bikram divides the class into a standing series and a floor series—Emily congratulated us, “you’re halfway through this date and it’s going great.”

It is healthy to get to know yourself. It’s important to spend time with yourself. Not enough people spend time with themselves, as if on a date getting-to-know-you style.

2) Yoga is time away.

No one is going to chase me down into a hot room. I check my cell phone and internet connection at the door. This is the ultimate me time.

3) I slow down in the yoga room. Life, particularly in New York, moves so fast. But in the yoga room it slows down.

I’m not a master yogi. I cannot silence my thoughts, but I have learned to slow them down. Instead of whirring around in my head like a tangled ball of yarn, they come in one at a time and in order like a smooth string.

This past weekend I saw The Shawshank Redemption for the first time. In the movie, Shawshank releases institutionalized prisoner Brooks Halten after 50 years of living inside the walls. Brooks writes to his fellow inmates, “I can't believe how fast things move on the outside. I saw an automobile once when I was a kid, but now they're everywhere. The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry.”

We did. We are all in such a hurry. Life feels more like a race than a journey. Yoga, even if temporarily, allows me to experience life at a more enjoyable tempo.

4) I feel accomplished.

When I leave the yoga room, I feel like I did something productive to improve myself.

5) I achieve mental clarity.

I feel like when I leave the yoga room, I linger in a state in which I understand what is truly important to me.

When I leave yoga, I often make a phone call. My friends can tell when I’ve just come out of yoga. My voice is clearer. Happier. Uplifted. Unbogged by worry or self-judgment. I feel fantastic.

Of course, there is always a threat that the happy place will begin to feel like an obligation. Beware of this.

Before Friday, I hadn’t been enjoying yoga as much. Of late, I entered the room very seriously. “This is work out time,” I said to myself. I was getting upset when I wasn’t hitting my mark in poses. I had lost sight of the happiness in my happy place.

The atmostphere of the 2012 National Yoga Asana Championships held in New York further fueled an idea of competition and a goal within myself. The championship had been in the media, reporters questioning if the integrity of yoga had been compromised by the idea of quantitative judging and medals.

As an attendee, I had been looking forward to watching the best in the world demonstrate the poses for which I aim. But sitting in the darkness of the auditorium, watching people bend their bodies in what I previously believed were impossible ways, I felt that something was missing: peace. The peace that I strive for, I did not see.

As productive as yoga is, I needed to remind myself that accomplishment and production is a bonus. The champions can do what they like (impressively, I might add). There is some inspiration in seeing the greats reach the full expressions of postures. For now, I go to yoga to relax. I go to yoga to detach from the outside world.

I needed to re-enter that mindset. I needed to allow my happy place to be happy again.

My point is not that everyone should embrace Bikram yoga, or even yoga. My point is: find your happy place.

Find the place where you make uninterrupted time for yourself. Find a place where you slow down and silence the outside world. Find a place where you feel accomplished—where your desires become clear. Find something that makes you happy. Be gracious to yourself. Visit your happy place often and I promise, you will feel fantastic.

The New York Moment

I love New York. People say it. People wear it. People believe it. But why? Why do we love New York?

There are so many reasons, not to love New York. It’s loud. It’s crowded. It’s dirty. It takes longer to go 2 miles than it does to do the same anywhere else in the country. It’s arguably over-stimulating. It could be easy to hate New York. Or you could be of the mindset, “It’s fun to visit, but I could never live there.”

The truth: there are so too many positives that outweigh the negatives (which is why I’m still here). Nothing reminds me more of why I tolerate these nuisances than what I call "The New York Moment." Those snippets of life that are distinctly New York. Those instances that make you shake your head and laugh and say, “Only in New York,” and secretly add an extra spring in your step.

Lately, I’ve been soaking up New York moment after New York moment.

Moment #1

A couple weeks ago, I went on an after-work drinks date. It seems to be a theme with me that on Thursday nights I go straight to drinks without eating and end up unintentionally intoxicated. As I sat there and sipped my Sangria, I loosened up and began babbling on about myself. I left the date and got on the crosstown bus, ready to fill my stomach with something other than wine. So naturally I dialed my girl friend to tell her about the date.

“Hey, so do you know I’m on a dating site?” whispering to what is barely speech in Ruthie volume.

“Uh, I do now,” she says.

“Well, I just came back from a date,” I say, hissing into the phone.

“Ooh! Is he Jewish?”

“Of course he’s Jewish! Would I be on a dating site if I wasn’t trying to specifically meet Jewish men?!” screaming at the top of my lungs. The guy in the seat across from me starts cracking up, he is actually bobbing from laughter (not from the bus) Oh well, so much for being discrete.

“How did it go?”

“I think I talked too much,” I confess.

My friend has to hang up, so now I’m sitting there considering the surplus of conversation I provided on this first encounter.

Bobbing man looks up and goes, “Was it a first date?”

I break into a huge smile, “Yes.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you didn’t talk too much.” So comforting from my stranger-on-the-bus.

“Oh, you don’t know me. I’m sure I did.” I nod just to add an oomph to my certainty.

“Well how did it go otherwise?” he asks.

“I think it went well. I dunno. I haven’t been on a date in forever.” Not entirely true, but feels like it. It’s definitely the first date of been on in forever where I met the guy ON the date.

“I’m sure it went fine. Girls are supposed to talk more. We’re used to it.”

I just shake my head and chuckle. I’m divulging the details of my dating history to a bus. An entire bus—even though he’s the only one responding.

I spoke too soon: “Where did he take you?” chimes in a girl about my age, glancing in the mirror as she blotted her jungle red lipstick.

“A wine bar.”

“That’s classy.” She smushes her lips and claps the compact shut.

We continue to analyze this date. Would there be a second? Do you think he’ll call? until we hit Broadway.

And then I descended the stairs and laughed as I realized that this could never happen anywhere else. Nowhere else in the world would you engage in a full dialogue about your dating life with complete strangers. Nowhere else would you be given the opportunity. After all, it’s only because we live on top of each other that we were on that packed bus in the first place.

What was your last New York Moment? Do you remember it? Did you take the time to stop, recognize and appreciate it?

Allow yourself to open up. Take the time to pause and notice these New York oddities. Slow down. Witness the New York moment. Wander and observe and invite the New York moment. And as we continue on The A Train, I promise to share more of mine.

Money Mentality

I have always had a fear of spending. For some reason, from a very young age, I understood and clung to the old adage: money doesn’t grow on trees. While my brother and sister were busy asking for souvenirs in Disney World, I thanked my parents for taking me there in the first place, thinking to my ten-year-old self, “Mommy and Daddy paid enough for this trip.”

Now that I’m an adult—a definition with which I’m still toying—and I’m making my own money and handling my own finances, I can’t seem to shake the habit of holding on to my dollars for dear life.

When I first moved to New York, I was making just enough to pay my rent. While I am in a more financially stable place now, I can’t seem to rid myself of the mentality or the feeling that I don’t have money to spend.

A $13 movie ticket seems ridiculous. A $30 dinner, reserved for special occasions.

Yet, I am not the only one of my friends who appears to be cautious about my spending.

Me: Want to go to dinner?

Friend: Sure, but let’s pick some place cheap? I don’t need a $20 entrée.

Me: Want to go out dancing tonight?

Friend: Is there a cover? I really don’t want to go somewhere with a cover.

Invite to a dinner party: Hi Everyone, So the info for the party is below. If everyone could chip in $10-$12 dollars to cover the expenses, that would be great.

And the thing is, these questions and requests are totally commonplace. We want to spend time with people, but not spend a lot of money. We want to enjoy New York, but on a tight budget.

We seem to have become adults in an age when no one has money: the country is in overwhelming debt, major industries called for bailouts, top companies continue to file for bankruptcy, we all know people our own age who still don’t have jobs.

Have we adopted the societal tone when it comes to finance? Do we think of ourselves as poor or only temporarily financially healthy because of the massive decline we’ve witnessed as we graduated childhood and matriculated to real life?

We watched wealth and stability disappear and so we may feel vulnerable to the same thing. I feel I need to hold on to every penny because one day it might all go away even if that’s not what the actual circumstances of my life indicate.

So what is worth your money? And what dollar amount is worth fretting over?

Is it worth ditching your girls’ night out because they choose to go to a club with a $10 cover? Probably not. Ten dollars is not life-or-death savings. And while my default philosophy would be to respond, “Yes, but $10 here and $10 there add up,” I really should be saying, “What’s $10 for an awesome night out with girl friends?”

In that same vein, we even skimp on safety. Sometimes taking a cab home at 3:30 in the morning…probably worth the $15-20 so that you don’t ride the train alone and risk your safety. For those of us who feel the subway is just as safe at 3:30pm as 3:30am…that’s your wallet talking.

On the steeper end, it might also be worth it to totally splurge $200 on that amazing hot air balloon ride from Bloomspot, or a weekend getaway, or hotel staycation, or spa day, or hosting a lavish dinner party, and then rework your budget around a one-time big spend. You’ll only do this every so often. We need to learn to treat ourselves.

An older friend of mine once told me never to say that your are “poor” or “cannot afford” something because that mindset will stick with you forever, even when down the road of a successful future this is far from the case. She pushed me to maintain a mentality of richness.

Pretend that you have all the money in the world when you decide if you want to do something, and then consider your finances when you decide if you actually do it. But don’t supply money as your confessed excuse. At the end of the day, we’re all struggling to figure this out. Live to experience life, not to track it.

You've Got a Friend In Me

Shelter Island. Round two. Last year my girlfriends and I ventured to the isle over Martin Luther King weekend. Elena’s family owns a summer home on Shelter Island and was nice enough to lend it to us for the second time. We had such a wonderful time last year, that this year over President’s weekend Elena, Suzanne, Wesley and I packed and met, bags in hand for our weekend getaway.

After a email chain 38 messages long, we had finally decided when and where to meet, our weekend menu, and who was buying what food. And then we found out, the car we planned to borrow to drive to the island was not available. To get to the island we would have to take the bus. It was a bit more money. It was a bit more inconvenient for the two girls who live in Brooklyn. I pushed hard to roll with the punches.

We all needed the weekend away. We had all blocked off this particular weekend. We had been looking forward to this for a long time. Sometimes, idyllic plans go awry. Factors change. Miscommunications occur. But it would have been a waste to throw away a weekend of friends because of a blip. So we rearranged, took a deep breath, and met under the street lamp of 44th and 3rd to board the Hampton Jitney. It was too important to have this weekend together.

Two and a half hours later we descended the stairs of the bus and paused under the glittering sky. Some things, you just can’t see in the city. The ferry ride from Greenport, Long Island to Shelter Island felt wonderful—leaving the world behind across the glassy water.

After settling in and appropriately watching an episode of Friends we resisted passing out on the couch, strewn across each other, and dragged our butts to our bedrooms.

12pm Saturday morning. Sleeping in is one of G-d’s gifts. Living in an apartment building on the courtyard-facing side on the second floor, I did not realize how wonderful it is to wake by sunlight. Yellow beams streaming through my window in waves across my bed. It just felt so peaceful.

Herein lies the beauty of a weekend away from the city: the tranquility. It necessitates slowing down. Being in New York, my pace is naturally accelerated. There is so much to do and never enough time. Yet, glancing up at the stars, or smelling the wind while gazing at the water, or treading through the sand, there seems not reason to live so fast.

The scenery itself was relaxing. Let alone the fact that our largest priorities were eating delicious food and just spending uninterrupted time with each other. I even resurrected by cooking skills and made a decadent french toast breakfast with a lovely pineapple display.

As we watched the Sex and the City movie (yes we are stereotypical) we ate delicious snacks of wine and cheese, veggies and hummus and chips and salsa. It felt so right: four friends who met in New York watching a movie about four women—all so different—who build a legendary friendship.

We spent time dancing around the kitchen, cooking dinner, and talking in to the late hours of the night.

With weekends like this, full of time spent enjoying each other’s company and confiding in each other, I think (and hope) we’re on that SATC road. My dad’s best friend, my Uncle Gary, advised me on my Bat Mitzvah video, “If you have one true friend in life then, you are truly lucky. I hope for you that you have a friend like I have in your dad.”

While the setting and the tempered pace were a relief, it was not so much where I went for the weekend, but who I went with. It’s easy in New York to spend a lot of time among strangers. To go out each weekend in search of something, but encounter the same old. In fact, last year at the time of this trip I was worried about missing nights out in the city.

But now I realize how lucky I am to have such true friends to spend weekends with, in the city or away.

Am I My Mother?

The old adage goes: “If you want to know what a girl will turn out like, look at her mother.”

Yet if you hear a woman actually talk about her mom you’ll hear: “Don’t ever let me turn out like my mother.”

My mom hits a milestone birthday this week, and it’s made me start thinking about the woman I am apparently destined to become.

It’s easy to find fault with a woman you’ve lived with your entire life. It’s much harder to sit back and realize her gifts. In honor of my mom’s birthday, I decided to do just that.

My mother has an unlimited capacity for caring. If her heart muscle were as large as her “heart,” it would have exploded right out of her chest ages ago. She takes care of everyone, but it’s not just about taking responsibility, it’s that she genuinely cares about the wellbeing of everyone she knows.

From her students to her best friends, from the synagogue congregation to her family, my mother provides a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on and a guiding light. She invests herself in her relationships, giving not just a piece of herself but her whole self. She is never too busy to devote a phone call to a friend who needs to vent. She is never too tired to accommodate that last-minute student who texts at 11pm on Saturday asking for her to meet with them at 9am on Sunday. She devotes herself to their success.

To be honest, my mother doesn’t take care of herself the way she takes care of others. And it’s important to know this so that I “don’t turn out like my mother” who refuses to be selfish, but also so that I do turn out like my mother who characterizes herself by the amount she cares.

My mom’s greatest accomplishment is our family. Bar none. Her commitment to us is never-ending. After 25 years, she still loves my dad completely and unconditionally. In this way, there is no one I would rather turn out like than my mother who has built a marriage that has survived the odds of the divorce rate and unhappiness statistics in this country. She works at it, but she also enjoys all of the time she spends with my dad. I can only hope to be so lucky some day.

She does everything for her kids, no matter how much of a pain in the ass each of us can be. Her patience rarely wavers. Most people are amazed by how close-knit our family is. Not only do we love each other, we all really like each other. In fact, when I am home in Connecticut, I choose to spend my time with my family rather than visiting long lost high school friends. The credit goes to the way my mom raised us and the household she held. I’m not sure what she did…what her secret is. I’m going to have to find out.

Maybe part of it is that we all have fun together. My mom is really fun. Just ask her.

In all seriousness, her enjoyment of friends and music and laughter make her fun. She’s not afraid to talk to anyone, which is why we made friends with the people sitting five inches from us at the Carnegie Deli and the cute guys sitting behind us at the US Open. There is no one I would rather gamble with than my mom. We get on the crap table together and it’s the recipe for a good time. The line between friend and mom blurs from time to time. (Still contemplating if this is how I want to be with my kids). There is the occasional embarrassing moment, but that just reminds me she is, indeed, the mom.

When you first meet her, her strength shields the fun-loving and sensitive Mommy I know. My mom taught me to be strong. To hold on to my beliefs as principles to live by. To be unafraid of the challenges these principles may present—it wasn’t always easy to complete a week’s worth of schoolwork in advance so I could observe Passover or to use practically all of my vacation days for Jewish holidays. She led by example and taught me to be strong.

Now my mom isn’t perfect. There are times when she dwells on problems. There are times when she stresses about things beyond her control. There are times when she pries. There are times when she gives too much.

I think it’s important to look at our parents, not just our mothers, as potential forecasts of our future but not as destinies carved in stone. What do you love about them that you want to emulate? What behavior do you dread repeating? I don’t believe that who you become is as fated as the old adage decrees. And while I am in my 20s and laying the foundation for who I will be when I grow up, it is crucial to realize that we shape ourselves and choose from the models set before us.

We determine if we become our mothers.

For the record, I think the world could use her spirit and generosity.

So I must admit: the woman she is at this milestone is a pretty amazing example to follow. Happy birthday Mommy.

Am I My Mother?

The old adage goes: “If you want to know what a girl will turn out like, look at her mother.”

Yet if you hear a woman actually talk about her mom you’ll hear: “Don’t ever let me turn out like my mother.”

My mom hits a milestone birthday this week, and it’s made me start thinking about the woman I am apparently destined to become.

It’s easy to find fault with a woman you’ve lived with your entire life. It’s much harder to sit back and realize her gifts. In honor of my mom’s birthday, I decided to do just that.

My mother has an unlimited capacity for caring. If her heart muscle were as large as her “heart,” it would have exploded right out of her chest ages ago. She takes care of everyone, but it’s not just about taking responsibility, it’s that she genuinely cares about the wellbeing of everyone she knows.

From her students to her best friends, from the synagogue congregation to her family, my mother provides a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on and a guiding light. She invests herself in her relationships, giving not just a piece of herself but her whole self. She is never too busy to devote a phone call to a friend who needs to vent. She is never too tired to accommodate that last-minute student who texts at 11pm on Saturday asking for her to meet with them at 9am on Sunday. She devotes herself to their success.

To be honest, my mother doesn’t take care of herself the way she takes care of others. And it’s important to know this so that I “don’t turn out like my mother” who refuses to be selfish, but also so that I do turn out like my mother who characterizes herself by the amount she cares.

My mom’s greatest accomplishment is our family. Bar none. Her commitment to us is never-ending. After 25 years, she still loves my dad completely and unconditionally. In this way, there is no one I would rather turn out like than my mother who has built a marriage that has survived the odds of the divorce rate and unhappiness statistics in this country. She works at it, but she also enjoys all of the time she spends with my dad. I can only hope to be so lucky some day.

She does everything for her kids, no matter how much of a pain in the ass each of us can be. Her patience rarely wavers. Most people are amazed by how close-knit our family is. Not only do we love each other, we all really like each other. In fact, when I am home in Connecticut, I choose to spend my time with my family rather than visiting long lost high school friends. The credit goes to the way my mom raised us and the household she held. I’m not sure what she did…what her secret is. I’m going to have to find out.

Maybe part of it is that we all have fun together. My mom is really fun. Just ask her.

In all seriousness, her enjoyment of friends and music and laughter make her fun. She’s not afraid to talk to anyone, which is why we made friends with the people sitting five inches from us at the Carnegie Deli and the cute guys sitting behind us at the US Open. There is no one I would rather gamble with than my mom. We get on the crap table together and it’s the recipe for a good time. The line between friend and mom blurs from time to time. (Still contemplating if this is how I want to be with my kids). There is the occasional embarrassing moment, but that just reminds me she is, indeed, the mom.

When you first meet her, her strength shields the fun-loving and sensitive Mommy I know. My mom taught me to be strong. To hold on to my beliefs as principles to live by. To be unafraid of the challenges these principles may present—it wasn’t always easy to complete a week’s worth of schoolwork in advance so I could observe Passover or to use practically all of my vacation days for Jewish holidays. She led by example and taught me to be strong.

Now my mom isn’t perfect. There are times when she dwells on problems. There are times when she stresses about things beyond her control. There are times when she pries. There are times when she gives too much.

I think it’s important to look at our parents, not just our mothers, as potential forecasts of our future but not as destinies carved in stone. What do you love about them that you want to emulate? What behavior do you dread repeating? I don’t believe that who you become is as fated as the old adage decrees. And while I am in my 20s and laying the foundation for who I will be when I grow up, it is crucial to realize that we shape ourselves and choose from the models set before us.

We determine if we become our mothers.

For the record, I think the world could use her spirit and generosity.

So I must admit: the woman she is at this milestone is a pretty amazing example to follow. Happy birthday Mommy.

Take a Class

I just rolled in at 11pm from my new Wednesday night ritual: Travel Writing with Cullen Thomas.

Last January, I picked up Memoir at Gotham Writer’s Workshop. It lent a purpose to my Saturday afternoons—not to mention a great community of writers I still keep in touch with and a boatload of writing that seemed to pour out of my head the moment my teacher mandated an assignment. The structure of organized learning less than a year out of college warmed me like steaming chicken soup in flu season.

When the offer came through to spend another winter semester with Gotham’s finest, I jumped at the chance.

Rather than Saturday afternoons, I thought I’d give the weeknight circuit a whirl. This leaves me Saturday afternoons to actually write; or Saturdays to gather my brain after its gradual spilling out Monday through Friday and then write on Sundays.

After blogging from Argentina, I began to think about travel writing. How amazing would it be to get to travel and write at the same time? Those people at Travel & Leisure got it right. But I definitely need some honing. After all,ruthieinargentina.blogspot.com is a far cry from Fodor’s.

My class meets once a week for three hours, during which Cullen—who reminds me of the grown-up version of my high school boyfriend—guides my class of nine women through the basics of Travel Writing. What types of travel writing exist? What are the basic structural ingredients of a travel piece? Travel memoir or destination piece? Use more sensory detail. Use less first person.

We read the masterful work of Bruce Chatwin and the short pieces of the Times travel writers. We study their style. We critique them. We bring in our homework. We critique each other.

Each week we have an assignment. On top of that, twice in my ten-week course I will write longform pieces of 5-12 pages to be ripped apart—and hopefully also complimented—by my classmates. I am on deadline.

And yet, the pressure is just enough to yield quality work without completely stressing me out. One class at a time is manageable in an adult life.

Learning after college is a must-do, a gift if you make time to bestow it upon yourself. I remember why I loved school. The excitement of knowledge. The taste of progress. Each week, I walk away with a new reading list of at least five authors to which Cullen has referred during our session, for my own exploration. Each week, I learn at least one thing about the craft of composition that renders me a better writer.

Meanwhile, little do I realize I’m also making friends. Because in the process of learning, we inevitably blunder. And as you make mistakes, and pick up your pen again, your classmates help you up. My classmates are just as nervous about criticism as I am. Yet we know it is the only way to improve. So we lean on each other. We make friends. We listen to each other’s stories—which at the very least are entertaining in a Travel Writing seminar.

Pick your passion. Find a class. Make time for the interest that makes you happy. Meet friends who share your zeal. New York bursts with a schedule of classes for anything you can imagine:pottery, painting, dance, yoga, business, social media, design, computers, rock-climbing, archery,skating, or a language (NOTE: I have not personally tried all of these). Enrolling in a class doesn't mean you have to break the bank, either.

A class might be just the thing to grant your life Purpose and light a fire under your...butt.