It's not easy being green

Relax. I'm not about to add my voice to the "we just discovered the environment and act like we invented it" bandwagon.

When I talk about green, I'm talking, like Kermit, about skin color.

My story starts with a fence.

I was on the fence. It was close to midnight. The fence was on the ground. So was I. It had fallen over. And, not seeing it in there the dark when I went out to chase down my recalcitrant cat, I fell over it.

I don't remember tripping. I was running across my patio and the next thing I knew I was flat on the ground — well, on the fence — sobbing for help.

No one heard me.

Somehow, I got into the house, grabbed a towel in the bathroom, filled the towel with ice cubes, put the towel over my face, and used my other hand to punch numbers on my iPhone (it was flat on the coffee table) to call Tom. When he answered, I was able to say that it wasn't life threatening, but I'd fallen and it was messy. Fortunately, Tom is used to emergencies (he does safety for large community events) and he said "I'll be right there."

I lay face down on the kitchen floor, face in the ice, and waited.

By the time Tom arrived, my teeth were chattering from all the adrenaline. He looked at my face, said I'd be all right, and talked me into looking at myself in the mirror. What I saw wasn't reassuring, and I opted to go to the emergency room.

The folks at the ER took me in immediately and by the time they sent me off for a CAT scan, I'd relaxed enough to be as puzzled as everyone else was about how I'd managed to smash my nose without injuring any other part of my body. There was a tiny scrape on one hand, but it wasn't even bleeding. The conclusion was that my body had decided it was doing yoga and had somehow caught itself and lowered itself to the ground. My nose, unfortunately, hit a piece of the fence. And the bone at the tip was broken.

They sent me home with prescriptions for pain killers, which I didn't fill. I took a bath, iced my nose, swalled my usual Ibuprofen, and went to bed. When I got up in the morning I felt fine.

Until I looked in the mirror. That was pretty horrible; I'll spare you the description.

I had been very much looking forward to going to a formal event Thursday evening, and it seemed unlikely I'd be able to attend. But on Wednesday — by which time I resembled a dark purple racoon — Tom suggested that I alter one of my Steampunk hats so that there would be a double veil in the front. I took a heavy veil from one hat, doubled it over, and pinned it on to a more subtle hat.

Thus began the adventure of the mysterious veiled woman.

The event we were attending was the opening of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. The invitation had suggested formal wear and costuming, so I was sure I'd blend right in. But it turned out that most of the other outfits were all about definition or exposure. My veil (worn with a plain black evening top, black chiffon pants, and very high heels) was just the opposite. And turned out to be a real attention-getter; people literally stopped and stared. Particularly when the women hand-feeding guests chocolate-dipped jalapeno peppers had to lift the veil to feed me.

I won't be able to employ the veil this coming Wednesday, when I am supposed to be filmed for a video on small businesses owners. So it was off to a local salon yesterday to find out what they could do for me in terms of makeup. The makeup artists raised their eyebrows — by this time, the purple smudges looked like football player's anti-glare makeup — and dove for the concealer. What they came up with was great and allowed me to walk down the street without getting alarmed looks, or having to explain to people that I'd been in an accident.

This morning the purple smudges were smaller, but now the skin around my eyes is turning pond-scum green! (Yes, everyone has given me arnica, and maybe that's working.)

I continue to be grateful for the luck and the yoga that prevented damage to things like kneecaps, wrists, and cheekbones. The offending fence has been safely sidelined, and the cat seems suitably sorry.

The experience of feeling fine and "just like myself" while looking both hideous and misfortunate — and seeing those readings in other people's eyes — is certainly food for thought. I'd been working on some mystery fiction with a female protagonist, a detective, who suffered facial disfiguration and has to overcome a fear of going out in public in order to take on an investigation for a dying friend. I think I can bring a great deal more to that story now.

And I may do some writing about — and experimenting with — being veiled.

Something new: Moo Doe

As part of my exploration of fitness options, I did some web research on Seattle area martial arts programs. But, somehow, nothing called to me.

Friday, after leaving the car to be detailed on Aurora Avenue, I walked over to the Greenwood & 85th business district. It was cold and rainy and not a very exciting day to be out and about. Not much is open before 11, except for a couple of tiny local coffeehouses. One of the closed businesses I walked by was a martial arts studio, of the very traditional variety: many faded black and white photos of masters, a few stacks of simple brochures by the door. I was staring at the brochures when I realized someone was beside me, opening the door. He asked if he could help me, and we went in and talked about the School of Oom Yung Doe (for that's what it is).

I was impressed by the explanation that Adam, the master, gave about the relationship of the martial arts to yoga, and by his insistence that each individual's practice be tailored to her or her own body and capabilities. (I will not be expected to go flying through the air, kicking people! The emphasis is on health and efficient use of energy, not on combat moves.)

Today I stopped by the studio with Zorg, who practiced martial arts some years ago and talked with Adam again. Starting the week after next, I am going to give Moo Doe a try. I remarked to Zorg that my renegade yoga teacher, who had nothing but disdain for paternalistic Eastern programs with people bowing to "masters" and murmuring in foreign languages, would be horrified.

"She left," he said. "You can study anywhere you want."

Which yoga is right for you?

Whether you run, lift weights, dance, or just laze around on the beach like this guy, chances are someone has suggested that you add a yoga class to your workout schedule.

To avoid disappointment, check out this MSN UK guide that matches you by your workout preferences and fitness level to one of the several styles of yoga.

The guide describes
• Ashtanga ("Power Yoga")
• Kundalini
• Bikram ("Hot Yoga")
• Iyengar (which makes use of blocks, straps, and incline devices)
• Anusar

Unfortunately, the guide does not cover the classic Hatha yoga or Vinyasa ("Flow") yoga, which is very popular in the U.S.

I've been going around dabbling in yoga classes since my favorite yoga teacher moved to L.A., and continue to be amazed at the differences between the styles. (And I haven't even tried Bikram yet!) I feel as though I learn something important from every teacher in terms of improving my yoga.

Thanks to Melanie Crow's blog for pointing out the MSN article.

Step-by-step yoga

I've been enjoying this website with animations that demonstrate yoga exercises (asanas) and poses. I'd never seen the Revolved Triangle pose before.

Harder! Faster!

As I search for the perfect workout (am I as tiresome as my 20-something girlfriends searching for the perfect guy?) I've been looking at two local yoga programs.

Today I tried one. It was great. But it was wrong. (Yes, I do sound like my 20-something girlfriends searching for the perfect guy.)

The teacher is a delight and an inspiration, and explained sequences of activating muscles to achieve amazing pre-backbend poses. I learned a quite a bit, enjoyed the people, and plan to keep taking the once-a-week class. But workout value? Not much. This was the perfect warm-up for a workout. And fortunately, I'd logged a fast two-mile walk mid-day.

So, back to my workout search.

Unfortunately, what would be great workouts for lots of folks aren't appropriate for me. The issue is risk. I need a tough workout with very low risk of injury because, at my age, recovery time from an injury is measured in weeks, not days—by which time my fitness level would be zapped. (Were it not for this, I'd be trying out for one of the roller derby teams, or doing African dancing or capoeira.)

When I got back from yoga I did some online research and think I've discovered something. Ever heard of "tabatas"? Stay tuned.