Mrs. Ram's Jams

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    • A Poem: A Pseudo Ode to Women Wearing Yoga Pants in Melt Your Face Heat

      Posted at 1:31 am by Mrs. Ram Jam, on July 7, 2018

      I just don’t understand.  I believe women should wear whatever they damn well please, BUT I SAW WOMEN SWIMMING TODAY IN YOGA PANTS (at SeaWorld/Aquatica in San Antonio).


      To the ladies traipsing about outdoors in yoga pants in 97 degree heat and a million percent humidity,
      I truly respect you, so please excuse my following acidity.
      It’s a tad ridiculous you’re sporting your winter athletic wear while gallivanting in this blazing heat.
      I’ve seen you donning them at the beach, at the zoo, and on the streets.
      I know what you’re trying to disguise,
      but your yoga pants won’t act as a chrysalis and transform your legs into beautiful butterflies.
      Those yoga pants are burning you alive,
      operating as two individual ovens roasting your legs like rotisserie chickens.
      Hey, I get it. Flattering summertime women’s legwear can be slim pickings.
      You don’t have to resort to rocking daisy dukes,
      but why wear heat-stroke-inducing pantaloons that cause you to nearly puke?
      Seriously girl, wear whatever you want because you’re gorgeous,
      but honestly (one chick to another), that sweat stain on your booty looks like a tyrannosaurus.  

      Posted in poetry, Uncategorized, yoga | 3 Comments | Tagged blogging, poems, poetry, writing, yoga
    • Mrs. Ram’s Jams New Year’s Resolutions

      Posted at 9:06 pm by Mrs. Ram Jam, on January 11, 2018

      Because my birthday falls on January seventh, my New Year’s resolutions never appear prior to January’s second full week. I’m a firm believer of birthday indulgences. I refuse to let my birthday get in the way of resolutions; therefore, I wait to avoid failure.

      Because intentional failure is stupid.

      But unexpected failure happens all the time for me.

      For example in a moment of lice inspired weakness before Christmas break, I lamented to my principal that I’m an idiot, relinquished all knowledge, and begged her to be my life coach. In the hallway. Loudly. With students and other teachers around.  

      That, my friends, is failing at life.

      As is catching lice at nearly 35. 

      (For my lice debacles, check out these posts: A Little Thing Tale: Merry Licemas and A Mrs. Ram’s Jams Tale: Happy Lice-a-Days)

      And I’m disconcertingly at peace with my spectacular fails.       

      Anyway, here are my resolutions.

        1. Read less. Write more. Instead of inhaling books at an alarming rate, I’m stepping back a notch. I’ll be just fine if I read 60 books instead of 119, allowing me more writing time. I’ve posted weekly since starting the blog, but often I’m scrounging around at the last minute trying to post something before my weekly Saturday self-imposed cutoff (because I’m caught up in a book). Writing is greater than reading in 2018.  
        2. Break the bad habit of spacing twice after a period. WHO KNEW THAT THIS IS NO LONGER A THING, AND HOW COME NO ONE HAS ALERTED THE MASSES??? Or were the masses alerted, and I missed it? Again, another life fail.  
        3. Do yoga everyday (barring contracting bubonic plague, botulism, or whatever more plausible virus is contaminating my middle school). I’ve done yoga everyday since November 13–that’s 60 days in a row! Might as well see if I can keep it up. I can already see the difference, and my back has NEVER felt better. My muscle inflammation is essentially nonexistent. On days that I know I can’t handle 30 minutes, I try to do a gentle 15 minute practice. On top of daily practice, I want to learn about yoga’s history, too.
        4. Brush up on my Russian. I was three classes short of graduating with a minor in Russian from the U of I. The department head, who I loved, left after my sophomore year and was replaced with a scary lady. By junior year, I was one of the few non Russian students. Feeling overwhelmed, I said dosvedanya and left the foreign language building’s basement. Fast forward a decade and I’ve forgotten everything I was taught except how to read it. (Okay that’s not true. The first full sentence from the Russian 101 textbook was лифт никогда не работает, which means “The elevator never works.” Why? Why was this the first thing I learned. Do elevators consistently refuse to work in Russia??? Also the Russian word for water is вода, pronounced voda. It’s. Only. One. Letter. Away. From. Vodka. Can I start calling water “wineter”? Do you think I can pull it off? Or is this a Gretchen Weiners-esque fetch pipe dream?) I dilly-dallied over relearning Russian last summer but was unwilling to fully commit. Rosetta Stone’s new best friend will be Mrs. Ram Jam this year. (Again, life fail. I’d like you to meet my future summer time best friend, Rosetta. I bought her for $179. She’s reteaching me Russian, and she’s not a real person.)
        5. Secret Resolution. Sorry! I’m being that girl.  

      Are these difficult resolutions to keep? Heck no! If I read 119 books, started a blog, mommed hard, taught hard, had a septoplasty, and visited four different doctors regularly in 2017, then 2018’s resolutions should be easy peasy lemon squeezy.

      (P.S. teaching a tiny Little Thing how to say easy peasy lemon squeezy was hilarious. I caught it on video circa three years ago. You’re welcome.)  

       

       

       

       

       

      Posted in books, chronic pain, fibromyalgia, fitness, reading, Uncategorized, writing, yoga | 0 Comments | Tagged books, chronic pain, fibromyalgia, lice, little thing, new year, new year's resolutions, reading, reading goals, writing, yoga
    • A Poem: Yoga Yucks

      Posted at 10:54 pm by Mrs. Ram Jam, on November 24, 2017

      Here are my current thoughts in poetic form about the thirty-one day yoga challenge I’m in the midst of attempting to complete.


      Why did I decide to do yoga?
      I would rather be wearing a toga
      pretending to be a Greek goddess wrapped in a safety pinned sheet
      and drinking beer that’s real cheap.
      I’m twisting and turning through thirty-one days of a yoga challenge
      when I could instead be watching The Wonder Years starring Fred Savage.
      Thirty minutes daily of stretching and contorting for a month.
      Am I too old for this type of stunt?
      I’m on day twelve.
      It’s a downward dog, tree pose, and forward fold special kind of hell.
      I forced myself through day eleven yesterday after Thanksgiving dinner and drinks,
      and right now my back is knotted in a quagmire of kinks.
      At least my yoga pants collection is learning its name’s trade
      unlike millions of pairs out there being worn and displayed.
      Maybe now since I’m putting this is writing
      I’ll be compelled to completion and can move on to something more exciting.
      Now excuse me while I go cry and tantrum myself into happy baby.
      If I’m not back in thirty minutes, someone please come save me.

      And bring beer.   

      Posted in poetry, Uncategorized, writing, yoga | 1 Comment | Tagged poems, poems about yoga, poetry, working out, yoga
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