Rage.

For some, there is something intoxicating about getting behind the wheel of a car. It does strange things to the minds of otherwise rational people; they become invincible mavericks consumed by rage and overcome with the desire to wreak havoc on the roads that try to constrain them.

This driving delirium is the reason I hate going anywhere by car; particularly in Atlanta where the majority of the population seems to have been dosed with that hysteria drug from Gotham City (remember, the one Scarecrow uses in Arkham Asylum to induce fear?).

On Friday, I was coerced into leaving my safe living-cave to venture forth into the mayhem of the outside world; dragged into the burning light of day to be suffocated by the smothering exhaust fumes of Atlanta's infamous 4 o'clock traffic. Peter, my primary arm candy, had invited me to join his family for dinner in North Georgia.

We set off and encountered surprisingly little road rage for the first thirty minutes or so. We even had time to strike up a discussion about the importance of active optimism to control the creeping tendrils of depression that often work their way into the minds of those who think too much.

Perhaps the universe opposed our topic of conversation, as we suddenly found ourselves the unwitting victims of motorist mania. During his discourse on the finer points of maintaining a positive outlook, Peter needed to merge as the end of our lane was approaching. Signaling to get over, he realized that the car next to us was speeding up to deny us entry.

Unperturbed, Peter continued his speech and attempted to merge behind the car. We were partially into the new lane when the car behind our first nemesis decided that this was unacceptable and also sped up to block our entrance. A terrifying game of chicken ensued, as Peter was forced to abandon his discourse on optimism to focus all of his energies towards not being run off of the road.

The driver in the car next to us refused to make eye-contact, but forced his way beside us with only inches to spare between our two vehicles. I could tell Peter was weighing the value of our lives against the satisfaction from slamming our car into the villain beside us.

In the end, pragmatism won out and we successfully merged behind the two deranged drivers who had chosen to risk all of our lives in order to save literally no time at all. In fact, we ended up spending the next twenty minutes driving behind the same two cars, who were surprisingly abiding of the speed limit and crosswalk laws.

Suffice to say, the duration of our drive after that debacle did not involve any more discussion on the nature of positivity, but did feature rather heavily on the many ways Peter hoped both of those people would die painful and drawn-out deaths.

This experience, like so many before it, adds to the mounting evidence I have collected that driving is a social experiment being conducted to determine the effects of prolonged anxiety and frustration on the human psyche. The alternative is that the universe is actively responding to our pretentiously optimistic thoughts with the intention of crushing any lingering idealism.

Thus, the only wise course of action is to maintain a relentlessly negative outlook when in public. With this in mind, perhaps the aforementioned "driving delirium" is actually the embodiment of such an anti-enlightenment?

Yogawkward.

I've been going to yoga classes for years; I mostly do this because I am too weak to lift weights and stretching is the most passive exercise that I've discovered (I keep hoping someone will come out with research that says sleeping extra will tone muscle and burn fat).

This year, I made a New Years resolution with a friend to start going to yoga at least once a week. The studio is probably a five minute drive from my house, but I've managed to come up with a multitude of excuses in the past two years that prevent me from going on a regular basis.

One of my preferred excuses thus far has been that I am too creeped out by the instructor of the basics class to attend, but not athletic enough to jump to the intermediate class (and I'm a coward who would rather just relax in child's pose for an hour and then eat ice cream because I totally "worked out").

It all started last year when Sarah and I decided to start going to classes together at this studio; we both wanted to get in shape without having to lift weights or jog. The studio is yoga gold - there is a waterfall fountain at the front desk, the air smells like aromatherapy and organic soap (whatever that means), the separate rooms have hardwood floors, and everyone who works there looks toned and enlightened. We wanted in on that.

Cut to the first class we decide to attend. We arrive early and set up our mats and supplies, then start stretching to warm up. Our instructor joins us shortly thereafter; she is an athletic looking 50-something with beachy hair and an excess of hippie rope bracelets (I have found these bracelets to be surprisingly popular among the yogi crowd). She introduces herself and proceeds to explain to us the spiritual journey we are about to embark on together.

Sarah and I briefly exchange concerned looks and then listen quietly to her spiel. Apparently, we are all going to connect with our inner heart-chakras, quiet our obnoxious minds and then maybe discover the meaning of life and the universe. Ready, set, GO!

Anyway, the class ensues and we are all easing into our meditative stride when our self-appointed spiritual guru starts wandering around the room adjusting our poses. Except, she doesn't wander around the room. For some reason, she decides to focus exclusively on Sarah and me.

Now, we are by no means experts at yoga, so the assistance was probably warranted. However, there were six other people in the class and at least half of them had worse form. Yet our instructor was doggedly fixated on adjusting exclusively our poses in the most hands-y way imaginable. At one point, I recall glancing over as Sarah was bent into a forward fold and seeing the awkward guru slide two palms up her rear end, while leaning over her body. Sarah resolutely held her form, but I could see her annoyance boiling to the surface.

I hardly had time to mentally giggle at Sarah's dilemma before I found myself facing my own unbidden pseudo-molestation. We were in the position called "happy baby", which is already a rather vulnerable place to be, when awkward guru decided that I was simply not "deep enough into the pose" and descended upon me to fix this issue.

Her intervention involved straddling me crotch-to-crotch à la the yoga scene from Couple's Retreat and sliding her palms up and down my inner thighs. The whole affair was made even more uncomfortable when she leaned in closer and whispered, "good, now you're sooooo open".

The rest of the class is a blur of anxiety and dismay, punctuated by feelings of shame and my indignation at the injustice of it all. At the end of the class, Sarah and I hurried to collect our belongings and slink away. Before we could escape, awkward guru shamelessly verbalized her desire to see us again and we were forced to mumble lies about our plans to return in the near future.

The moral of the story is that exercising in public is not safe and will most assuredly result in being physically violated, at some point. Heed my warning from this cautionary tale and proceed at your own risk.

Ow.

Today, I had an annual checkup with my dermatologist. This is something I decided to do on a whim, after considering all of the facts.

Fact one: I am pale and have lots of freckles. Fact two: My skin burns in the sun like rice paper soaked in gasoline. Fact three: I occasionally crave the taste of human blood. Unfortunately, my insurance doesn't cover spirit healers, so for now I can only follow up on two of my problems.

 

I was also hoping to score some Retin-A cream (it is so much cheaper to buy it with insurance), but my mental planning was blown away by a quick succession of unpleasant surprises.

Before I continue, my dermatologist is great - she is very friendly and there is usually very little wait time in her office. However, like all doctors, she is completely oblivious to the fact that MOST people feel extremely uncomfortable discussing their life aspirations whilst naked and being examined with a magnifying ocular.

Doctor Derm (we'll call her that) is a very fast talking person and that tends to throw me off, as I feel obligated to pay attention during her monologues. Our conversation started with a few innocuous questions about my current school situation. I mentioned my plans to go to Georgia Tech to pursue an engineering degree, while she carefully examined my calves.

A series of rapid-fire questions about my working goals distracted me from the pen she was using to mark up my legs. Each question about my school was punctuated by a cold hand moving my body around for better viewing. Standing on one leg while she looked between my toes, I told her about my previous degree. This process continued on for a while, my brain reeling from the excessive amount of dialogue (I spend most of my time sitting around quietly, hoping people won't notice me), until I was sitting on the table and Doctor Derm was scrutinizing my back.

"Well, good for you for having travelled so much. Sally, hand me the scalpel. Do you think you'll stay in Atlanta?"

"Yeah, I'll probably... wait, what?!"

My alarm was clearly apparent, but was not enough to stop the process already under way. "Oh, we're just going to collect some biopsies to be safe", she explained AS SHE SHEARED AWAY MY HELPLESS FRECKLES WITH HER SWITCHBLADE. Okay, that's an over-exaggeration, it was just a big razor. But, shouldn't you have to sign some kind of form to agree to that?

At that point, I was shell-shocked and unable to resist as she removed three more offending freckles in quick succession.

Naturally, I wandered out of the office in such a daze that I completely forgot to ask for my Retin-A. Oh well, I suppose I will shell out the extra $30 a month to avoid future freckle massacres. Also, I hope I don't have skin cancer.