I don’t want to be a house

She said her name was Alaya, a name given to her by her “teacher” because it sounded like something “beautiful and flowing.” The sound of the name her parents gave her, Iris, didn’t suit her, she said.

Which makes me rethink my own name: Pam. Because come to think of it, my name sounds like a big, old rock, an unmoving lump. Pam. My name isn’t flowing, like Alaya’s. It’s not fair. I think I will change it to “Stream.”

I met Alaya at a “meditative dance” class. I was dragged, I mean, invited, by a new, and already, dear friend (who I now think may be half out of her mind, like the rest of the people in that class.)

Meditative dance – to me, that’s an oxymoron. I can’t concentrate on my dance moves if I’m busy meditating. Who could? (Of course, for me, meditation means it’s time to think about what I’ll be having for lunch and whether or not it’ll involve chocolate.)

Another problem with meditative dance is that you have to dance in a circle, holding hands. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that when you’re holding hands with someone for longer than 10 minutes, hands tend to sweat profusely. This makes me start fantasizing about the moment I can, finally, wash my hands.

Then, just as I was thinking I’d make a break for it or maybe sever the cord to the CD player, the sprightly, white-haired gentleman on my right turned to me and said, “I’m so glad you are here.”

“Enjoy it while you can, old man,” I thought to myself.

So, of course, when the two-hour torture session, ahem, dance class, broke for a break halfway through, I ran outside for dear life, screaming something like, “Take me into the light. This is most god-awful class I’ve ever had to suffer through. Oh, the humanity.”

And because this was incredibly irreverent on my part, since after all, we were dancing in a “sacred space,” the Goddesses decided to have me trip over a rock and fall onto my shoulder, possibly dislocating it for the rest of my life.

But that can’t be as painful as meditative dance.

Because it got worse.

I was forced to be a “house,” arms held high so I could open up my “roof” to the new season of spring. Then, some of us were instructed to dance into the middle of the circle (without tripping over the lit candles, of course) to our “source” and “sprinkle water” over our bodies to be “renewed.” Then, the others gently placed their hands on our backs.

Afterwards, one woman said she felt “comforted by the supporting hands on her back.” Funny – what I’d been thinking was, “get your sweaty hands off me.”

Guess maybe I deserve the name, Pam. My spirit is not beautiful and flowing, like Alaya’s. But maybe that’s o.k. We all have our strengths. Mine don’t include pretending to be a house.

Surviving the latest vampire attack

I am here at the vampire’s office, waiting to have the life sucked out of me, drop, by drop, in a slow, agonizing bloodletting extravaganza.

I was there to have my blood tested for all sorts of maladies, most of which I’m likely to have.

At 42, I’m a day away from needing arthritis medication, and I know, absolutely, that I have a brain tumor. I had mentioned to my doctor at a routine checkup that I was feeling perpetually tired, along with an interesting assortment of other bodily annoyances, too embarrassing to mention.

Meanwhile, as directed by the nurse, I am drinking vast quantities of water, so that she will be able to easily find my veins. I am ready to pee in my pants as soon as it’s my turn. My veins are as thick as tootsie rolls. I try not to look at them.

“Thank you,” the victim right before me says, as he leaves.

“You’re thanking someone for torturing you?” I ask, eyes wide. Personally, I was planning to kick the nurse in the a- - when she was through with me, and extra hard if I think she enjoyed it.

When it was over, three hours later (the nurse insisted it only took 40 seconds, but of course, she was lying), I was grateful to be alive and surprisingly, still conscious.

Guess my luck is changing. It's entirely possible that I may not have a tumor, after all.

Everything’s okay. After all, I’ve got an angel.

I have an angel watching over me. Or so I’ve been told. But don’t be envious – you probably have one, too. As a matter of fact, as a professional angel reader told me the other day, most of us have several of them looking out for us.

Funny, my angels have been on hiatus since my second grade year, I told the angel reader. Apparently, they are now back on the job.

She laughed, knowingly, as anyone in her position would.

“They come to us when we need them and if we pay attention, we’ll know they’re there,” she explained.

Sounds good to me.

My angel's name is Delilah – a suitable name for an angel, I suppose. The angel reader told me that her hand was on my shoulder. That she would help me find my way to where I was supposed to be.

Can she get me a job? I asked. In these days, after all, it behooves us to be practical.

“You will speak in front of a group of people, who will ask for your services and pay you well for your talent,” she said.

Is the circus coming to town?

Stand-off with a geriatric

I almost got into a fist fight at the gym the other day.

There I was, pedaling furiously on my torture machine - I mean, exercise bike - when a senior gentleman to my right tried a pick a fight with me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him staring my way and figured that he had designs on my svelte, 40-something physique.

So I turned to offer him a gratuitous smile, when he said, "You don't HAVE to sing," with a smirk on his wrinkled countenance.

I apologized, but several seconds later, I was overcome with the stark inhumanity of his request. Since when is it a crime to hum at low decibels in a noisy gym? After all, one must somehow distract oneself from the cruel, unpleasantness of exercise.

Did I deserve such disrespect of tone, of innuendo, of blatant disregard for free speech (and song?) Is it my fault that I may simply need - as an impish friend later pointed out - singing lessons? (I trust that you are vigorously shaking your head, “no.”)

So, in the name of every other enthusiastic, slightly off-key aspiring rock star gal out there who has been wrongly stifled, I took a stand.

I didn’t pull any punches.

I just sang louder.