Category Archives: Out and about

Tai Chi is Yoga submerged in Jell-O

January 13, 2015 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

We will get to Tai Chi. But first, I just have to listen to one song…

OK. So – Tai Chi.

I was warned about Tai Chi – it’s the old-folks class that doesn’t make you sore or get your heart rate up. This is true. But I walked out of class Friday feeling more at peace and in-tune with my body than I have in a very long time.

Of course I would be late to the calmest, no-rush, most zen class in the world. As I opened the door four minutes after class began, I cringed and looked up guiltily at the instructor, Gray.

“Welcoooooome to Taaaaaaaaaaaaai Chiiiiiiiiii…” he said, his arms curved like a human water mill.

Well OK then.

Look how focused and color-coordinated they are!

Gary looks exactly as you would imagine an American Tai Chi instructor would look. He is in his mid-fifties, a tad heavy-set, and wears large, rectangular glasses. He speaks very gently, and cracks corny jokes throughout class, and people actually laugh. Oh and (sorry, Gary), his thin hair is tied at the base of his neck in a long, black ponytail the girth of a strand of yarn.

Much like in Pilates, I did not blend in with the Tai Chi class. Most students are members of the AARP, and wear solid-color sweaters, grey sweatpants and white tennis shoes. I came to class in my red “Drink coffee, Read books, Fight evil” tee, black yoga pants and — oh yes — fashionable “hiking” boots. (I thought this was a socks only class. It wasn’t.) My wooden heels clacked on the wooden floor with every step, interrupting the sounds of “Introspective Mountain” music and deep breathing.

Sorry, man. Gotta get through class. — Sorry man. Gotta get through class.

Tai Chi is like an hour of vertical yoga, submerged in an ocean of Jell-O. Tai Chi is slow, meditative movements working against invisible resistance. I didn’t break a sweat, but my muscles occasionally trembled.

If you think Tai Chi is dumb, please, please do not go. You will bust a gut by laughing, or you’ll roll your eyes so far into your head that Gary will have to call an ambulance. I went with an open mind, and I am glad I did. (The old people kicked my ass, by the way.) Tai Chi is about isolating muscles, coordinating movement, and developing consciousness with movement. Through my five minutes of research via beginnerstaichi.com, I learned that Tai Chi was either developed in China by a:

Guy who saw a crane and snake fight, then interpreted their movements into human exercises
Mysterious stranger who came to the Chen village and insulted their martial arts. They tried to fight him, but of course he knew Tai Chi so it didn’t work well.
Chen warrior who combined his knowledge of combat, Chinese medicine and acupuncture into Tai Chi. He wanted his village to be able to protect itself.

So yeah, no one really knows where it comes from. Before you knock Tai Chi as something for the elderly folk, understand that there are many variations for many ability levels. It is used to train athletes, and its difficulty can be adjusted for the audience. When Tai Chi is practiced by older folks, it is geared toward them. But as a 22-year-old, I felt my body wake up, balance and stregthen over the hour-long session.

By the end of class, I felt calmer than I have in months. I felt more connected with my body. As I drove home, I could see my left leg was tense because it was bent too much, and I straightened it and felt it relax. All week, I’ve been checking my posture, because when I slouch my shoulders tense up. So no, Tai Chi wasn’t difficult for me, but it is highly beneficial.

I might even come back.

Fitness, Out and about

How Pilates crushed my ego and my entire body

January 6, 2015 kathleenmartin124 2 Comments

The above photo of a graceful woman, exercising with ease and strength? It isn’t me. It’s some chick in Wikimedia Commons.

I’m the woman off-screen with an expression I usually reserve for opening stubborn jars of Prego sauce.

“Just! One! More! Squeeze!”

Pilates made me nauseous last night. It was my first class in over two years, and it beat me.

As I drove home from the gym, my stomach ached as if it just survived Thanksgiving dinner plus four shots of rum. Not good. Maybe it had something to do with the crazy lady wearing sweats who asked me to do 100 crunches, followed by 5 billion other things that made my entire body ache.

On the drive to the gym, I remembered my last Pilates class. I went to the class once a week for four months in Bulgaria, so I considered myself … well … not terrible. I was wrong.

But then, my teacher in Bulgaria only spoke Russian, and I do not speak Russian. (But I did learn to count to three in Russian during that class. Eras! Va! Tree! Seriously, three is tree in Russian.) I went to Russian Pilates with my friend, Elizabeth, and we tried our best to mirror what everyone else was doing. I remember bragging to my roommate that I was never sore from Pilates. I thought it was due to my abs of steel and general Wonder-Woman-esque physique. Actually, it was because I was doing it ALL WRONG.

(However, the Russian teacher saved 15 minutes at the end of each class to teach amateur strip-tease moves. This made Elizabeth and me very uncomfortable, and we left early.)

**If Gerard Butler helped teach, we MIGHT have stayed.**

The second I removed my fuzzy winter boots for American Pilates last night, I knew I was in over my head. All the other girls wore cool sports-girl socks with neat, black check marks on the ankle. My socks were a mismatched polka dot print.

As I grabbed a mat, I was warned by a sweet, “I’m-50-but-my-skin’s-so-tight-I-look-30” Pilates veteran, who told me we would also need a mat cushion, small ball, Big Ball, Big Ball stand and strap. I decided to grab it all in one trip, and promptly knocked two Big Balls down from their five-foot shelf. My bad.

This instructor, a firm-voiced, “I’m-50-but-my-butt-cheeks-look-20” Pilates goddess, began us with what I call modern torture in sweats. One hundred crunches, our legs in the air. Twist this, pull that. It was like sadistic Twister.

Over the course of the hour, I tried (and failed) to hold in my laughter every time I heard “Grab your Big Ball.” I swear, this lady actually prefaced one Big Ball exercise with, “I don’t know why people struggle with this, unless they have gluteal amnesia.”

"It's easy! Just balance on the swan with one foot on the ground, and unless you have gluteal amnesia, the rest will come naturally!" — **“Just balance on the swan with one foot on the ground and, unless you have gluteal amnesia, the rest will come naturally!”**

Yes. Gluteal amnesia. Don’t laugh – millions of people suffer, including me. I was was the only woman there who, after resting my front half on the Big Ball, couldn’t pick my legs off the ground by sheer power of my ass. I ended up resting on my Big Ball with my “can’t open the spaghetti sauce jar” face, and my legs stayed on the ground.

No one else struggled with this. The “my-butt-cheeks-look-20” instructor swept her legs over her head and bent her body like a pretzel, and I flailed like a paraplegic lobster, then gave up and started laughing. Variations of the “Impossible Exercise Looks Easy, But Kathleen Finds it Impossible and Starts Laughing Before Collapsing” occurred regularly for the rest of the hour.

Meanwhile, I think the rest of the class looks like this. — **Meanwhile, the other girls are like the next Cirque du Soleil. Perfect.**

But seriously- this instructor has my admiration. I, on the other hand, would be the worst Pilates teacher. For one thing, I’m terrible at Pilates. For another, I laugh too much. (Big Balls and spirit-woman-mountain-tone-music! Come on!) But most importantly, I am not a strong disciplinarian. If I was a Pilates instructor, it would sound something like:

“OK, so we want to focus on the gluteal amnesia to grab the Big Ball and count to 500,000 … Oh, you’d rather sit down and watch ‘This Old House’? Well yeah, that’s a good show. We deserve a break after that 10-second stretch … OK that’s lunch!”

I’m obviously exaggerating, but there’s some truth in this. That’s why I exercise in groups – I need a stronger disciplinarian than myself.

I am sore this morning, especially in my abs and my butt.

My ego is particularly bruised. I’m used to being really good at things and when I suck at things, I do other things, like sit on the floor and watch “This Old House.” I’m super good at that.

I know this is a terrible life-philosophy, and I’m working on it. Grad school applications are tough, especially when one has to create their poetry portfolio from scratch and hope it holds a candle to portfolios by people who have studied poetry for years in order to get into one of the most competitive graduate school programs in the nation. So I’m working harder on this than I have ever worked on anything.

Anyway, I think the secret is to success is to want something badly enough that you’ll go through ego-bruising humiliation every day to get it. And I really do want better glutes.

I think I can, I think I can... — I think I can, I think I can…

Out and about

The Flint Hills are alive with Elton John

December 1, 2014 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

It’s Monday evening and I’ve worked over 20 hours this week. Granted, this weekend was my turn to work for The Gazette, so the 20 hours is expected. In any case, I didn’t sleep enough and left work at 7:15 p.m. tonight, feeling cynical and ready to crash. The CD mix in my player, made by Bea Burchill and titled “Songs of Home and Adventure,” began to play this song. Bea made the CD in preparation for my semester studying abroad in Bulgaria. (Don’t worry, this is the cheesiest this post will get.)

I chuckled as my mind flashed back to the summer of 2008, when I heard the song while driving with my brother, Bill, to Montana. He had graduated high school a week earlier and was already hired at in a university lab in Missoula, Montana. Smartie. Since this was his first solo road trip, my mom sent me as bodyguard.

Mintra and me looking tough to promote our many successful films. 2006? — Thirteen-year-old Kathleen and bestie Mintra: We got your back.

We prepared for the 20-hour drive by going over our route and itinerary and packing bags of snacks. Our parents had to reserve hotels for us since we were too young to do so ourselves.

Bill helped me write a Gazette story while we were on vacation in New Orleans. What a good brother!

Bill had three jobs for this trip:

Program the GPS
Drive half the shifts
Find good CDs

He definitely succeeded with #2. Navigation was iffy on both our parts. But Bill kinda bombed #3. He didn’t have CDs of his own, and as I opened our CD book, I found two Johnson County Public Library CDs. (We later returned them, as we’re law-abiding citizens.)

“These Are Jokes,” by comedian Demetri Martin (props)
The single “Candle in the Wind” by Elton John (no props)

Bill meant to grab an Elton John mix. While Elton isn’t my favorite, anything would’ve been better than a single of “Candle in the Wind.” I mean, who loves Princess Di enough to pay Elton $5, knowing full well they’ll just feel sad and start buying collectible Princess Diana beanie babies on eBay?

Thankfully, we had our sister’s CD of Elton John’s greatest hits on hand. We listened to “Tiny Dancer” when the road was dark and we sang along as the sun went down. Instead of counting sheep due to road hypnosis, we could’ve counted the headlights on the highway.

Instead, Bill played “Tiny Dancer” over and over and over again. The chorus is difficult to understand, which should frankly be the least of Elton’s worries about this song. Seriously, all I heard was:Or

Lay me down and she’s so blanely

(Or “Lay me down and sheep still play me”)

You had a fill today to dane?

Not knowing the lyrics bothered Bill, and we didn’t have Smartphones to look up the words.Two hundred gold stars if you figure the whole song out without Google. Bill likes understanding things, which is probably why we were on the 20-hour road trip to jump-start his successful career in biochemistry. I, on the other hand, cared very little what the chorus says and still do. But I still sang “Tiny Dancer” at least three times in 4-7 different keys.

—–

I still think about road trips past when I drive through the Flint Hills around Emporia, which is coined as “The Front Porch to the Flint Hills.” I’ve been good friends with these hills since I was 12 years old and traveled to the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield with my bestie, Mintra, and her family. Then there were violin competitions and later, a college visit to Wichita State University. Once every month during my first three years at WSU, I made the trek to Overland Park for orthodontist appointments.

At Rosalia Ranch during the Symphony in the Flint Hills. I believe this is Kaitlin Whelan and Jen Bookhout. — Kaitlin Whelan and Krisi Metzen wander Rosalia Ranch during the Symphony in the Flint Hills concert in June 2014. I helped the Flint Hills Media Project this summer, after being a student. I believe this is Kaitlin Whelan and Jen Bookhout.

I could write on and on about what the Flint Hills mean to me. Mostly, they mean big sky. A half-hour drive to Bazaar Cattle Crossing after a hard day or on a lazy Sunday wakes me up to the spaciousness of sky and land. The hills stretch out for more miles than I can see, but they’re comforting because I can believe that, unlike anything else in my life, they will be there when I die. A Flint Hills thunderstorm is frightening and invigorating. I can watch lightning stab down from the sky, and the hills survive.

Kansas is beautiful. Many people don’t understand this. They haven’t been through the Flint Hills, trying to remember the words to a chorus.

Oh, Elton. Let’s here one more! (Sorry, Bill.)

Out and about

How to drink like a small-town journalist

November 21, 2014 kathleenmartin124 1 Comment

CAUTION: This post is not meant for my mother, current (or future) employers, or former alcoholics. It is written in jest, so don’t blame me if you end up with your stomach pumped. I’d also like to remind everyone that Gazette employees don’t drink on the job.

Rightly so, I am writing this in Mulready’s Pub on a Friday night, Brambleberry Martini in hand. I was reviewing my bank statements last month while pretending to be an adult with a budget and financial planning stuff, and I noticed I spend a high portion of my income on alcohol.

We all drink for different reasons: to socialize, out of boredom, to hunt for slutty people, because we’re lonely, to forget, etc. I drink to relax, be with friends, feel silly, and because I genuinely enjoy the taste of a good brewsky. (But my favorite drink is a whiskey gingerale.)

I decided that if I continue to spend money on booze, I should know why I’m doing it and have a game plan. So here it goes: my guide to drinking like a small-town journalist. (Please don’t die of alcohol poisoning. Or judge me. Actually it’d be great if you don’t do either.)

Kindly allow Billy Joel to get you in the mood for the rest of this post. It’s a classic.

SMALL TOWN JOURNALIST DRINKING GAMES

Small-town style: Take a shot every time:

A sweet old lady calls to tell you about what she watched on CBS
The store down the street puts 15 “5% off” signs on the front door
Nothing happens outside

Animals in the headlines: Drink whenever you write a story about:

An opossum-bite
An escaped ostrich
The hot-button chicken issue
The squirrel caused a blackout
Another runaway dog

All these things have made the headlines of The Emporia Gazette, which is why I love my job.

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 7.39.34 AM — I know I’ve used this one already. But how often can you say “Cock-a-doodle do or don’t?” and get away with it?

Pure journalism: (I don’t drink at work) Take two sips each time:

The power goes out right before deadline
A source takes something off the record after an interview
Someone gives you a blank look in the middle of an interview
You’re stressed/sleep deprived/both and therefore slap-happy.

(Does the hospital still have discounts for group stomach pumping?)

TOASTING THE MEDIA MASTERS

Option 1: The Don Draper

Yeah, I know Don Draper isn’t real. A girl can drink and dream though, can’t she? Don Draper doesn’t take it on the rocks. Don Draper drinks in the middle of a day. Don Draper drinks with his boss at the beginning, middle and end of every day. Don Draper should’ve had his stomach pumped by Season 4 of “Mad Men.” Actually, let’s scratch Don Draper from our list of heroes. He’s just a pretty face and an Old Fashioned.

Mad Men Cocktail Guide from AMC

Option 2: The William Allen White

Screen Shot 2014-11-21 at 9.37.26 PM — Hear hear!

Apparently no one actually knows why William Allen White is famous outside of Emporia. Suffice it to say, he was sincere, kind, courageous, and one hell of a writer. If he had a drink, I think it would include three shots awesome and one shot of rum. I’m proud to work at his old newspaper. Let’s all raise a glass.

Option 3: The Walter Cronkite

I actually don’t know too much about Walter Cronkite. I’m not a huge fan of televised news. But he was cool! Hmm…that Brambleberry Martini is kicking in. Better Google “Walter Cronkite” for ya…

You're a cool cat, sir. — You’re a cool cat, sir.

(Two minutes later) Well that was gold! Walter Cronkite is featured in winemag.com

Here’s Walt on wine: “I was so concerned with illness I had acquired that I went to see a doctor. He asked about my habits and so forth, and I told him. I didn’t include my diet at all. And he said, “Do you drink alcohol?” And I said, “Well sure, doesn’t everybody?” So he asked, “Do you have alcohol in the evening, at lunch, when?” “Lunch,” I answered. “What do you have?” “White wine,” I said. And he said, “How much white wine do you have?” “Oh maybe a bottle.” The doctor looke at me, sort of gasped and told me, “And you wonder why you’re going to sleep in the afternoon?” From then on I became a more intelligent wine drinker..”

Well I can’t leave you on a better cautionary tale than that. Thank you Walt, my new hero!

Good night and good luck! Whoops, wrong guy.

Here’s the rest of the Brambleberry Martini: “TO EDWARD MURROW!”

The winner of every journalism drinking game! I don't know how he does it! — The winner of every journalism drinking game! I don’t know how he does it!

Out and about, People watching

Why Gilmore Girls’ Stars Hollow is and isn’t like Emporia

November 12, 2014 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

This post goes out to Cat Hummel, who asked me if living in a small town is anything like the Stars Hollow of “Gilmore Girls.” You know the one — where kooky characters roam the streets (see Sunday’s post). Where you can see your house from the local diner. Why yes they are alike, Cat! And at the same time, not so much.

1. Luke Danes isn’t around

Oh, that backwards baseball cap and grumpy face! What I wouldn’t give to see him serve me pancakes. Unfortunately, I have yet to meet a Luke Danes, Jess Mariano or Dean Forester. It might be because they aren’t real. Sniff.

2. Our festivals aren’t so kooky

Not that we shouldn’t have a Festival of Living Art (Casey Woods, you dig?), in which we all dress as painting figures and pose still for a full minute. Or historical re-enactors who stand all night in the snow to commemorate the night when soldiers waited all night for a battle that never happened.

We have:

The Dirty Kanza, a gravel-grinding 200-mile bike ride
The Glass Blown Open, a frisbee-golf tournament
The Great American Market, with street vendors spanning 10 blocks

3. Everything is within walking distance

Rory and Lorelai can walk to Luke’s, Kim’s Antiques, Weston’s and the Red, White and Black.

I am in walking distance from Orange Leaf (just below my loft), RuYi’s Asian Food, Willard’s Donuts, Mulready’s Pub and Little Caesar’s.

I have gained so much weight, even though I can also walk to Genesis Fitness Center.

4. Places here also close way too early

Feel like Sunday shopping? Forget it. Late-night coffee? Not after 8 p.m. If it’s not on a 60-year-old’s sleeping schedule, don’t bother. However, this forces creativity when spending extra free time.

5. Our buildings also go pretty far back — way, way back

“Thomas Jefferson blew his nose all over this town.” — Lorelai Gilmore

The Emporia Gazette was built in the 1870s (I think), and many say it’s haunted. It’s still heated by boilers. My bank, Capitol Federal, has marble counters and a 50-foot ceiling. There was a time when people rode horses through town. One man ran into The Gazette with a pistol, threatening William Allen White unless he retracted an article and ended up in hand-to-hand scuffle. Talk about the Wild, Wild Midwest, eh?

6. Small news anywhere else is big news here

“Well now I know what the front page of the Stars Hollow Gazette will be.” — Jess Mariano

I have covered swimming puppies, a flood sale, why that traffic light won’t stop blinking, everything down to your leaky faucet. Oh, and the chickens! Who knew the issue of chicken-raising-legality within city limits was such a divisive, hot-button topic. Because of this, a kind man visited the newsroom the other week to school me in chicken-raising. But I love these stories, and I guess our readers do, too.

7. But we’re keeping up with the outside

Emporia wants to grow. It’s like we want to be Lawrence’s younger brother. Every year we have more community events, more quirky stores and more love for our city. I, for one, am a big fan.

Out and about, Small towns

Six must-haves for your small-town-survival kit

November 6, 2014 kathleenmartin124 Leave a comment

I’ve been in Emporia for almost exactly five months. I now see myself staying here for at least a few years, but not without the help of a few trusted items in my metaphorical toolbox:

1. The Daily Route

Angie, barista/coffee shop owner, can tell you about my morning walk. On my way to the Police Department for the crime blotter, I chat and buy coffee at her coffee shop, Java Cat, then head out via my favorite adjoining vintage boutique, Studio 11. I’ve gotten to know many Emporia business owners, who know practically everyone and everything happening in town. By association, I have coffee with the entire city each morning.

2. Subscription to the local paper

What a shameless plug for community journalism! No, I don’t subscribe to a newspaper I work for that I read for free. But if I didn’t work here, I’d sure as heck subscribe. All the town happenings, the characters, the important issues are in those pages. It’s way better than CBS (no offense, Walter Cronkite).

3. Wine and accepting occasional solitude

In a new city, it takes time to build a social network (even the Mark Zuckerberg kind). Now, I have about four good friends plus drinking buddies. Until you get your girls-night-movie-marathon buddies, enjoy your own company. To do so, I uncork a pink Moscato, watch a favorite show, write and jam on solo acoustic guitar. Don’t be an alcoholic. Do develop your hobbies.

Here’s a very sweet video on solitude:

4. Two wheels are better than four

I call her “The Paddywagon.” She’s a 1975ish KHS bike, repaired by Revolve in Kansas City. With my bike, I can ride to The Gazette, the grocery store, the local pub, Java Cat … any place that matters. Any small townie can tell you the city looks best from a bicycle. We move at slower speeds.

5. Boots and spurs (kidding)

My only country roots are down in Texas, where I only travel to eat turkey every Thanksgiving. I’m from Johnson County, a more urban area near Kansas City. I absolutely do not pass judgement on a country lifestyle, or make fun of country music (out loud). There are three stores who sell cowboy boots – pretend to blend in.

6. Guitar strumming (or insert hobby here)

This one pairs well with #3, but it’s worth mentioning.

Remember when I said I drink Moscato and jam on my acoustic? It’s another Sunday afternoon thing. I always wanted to learn, and I finally have the time. An accordion is on the way. The best part about moving was extra time to get in touch with myself and my creativity.

Haven't named this one yet. Ideas? — Haven’t named this one yet. Ideas?

What items do you need to survive in your city?

Small Town Field Guide

Category Archives: Out and about

Tai Chi is Yoga submerged in Jell-O

How Pilates crushed my ego and my entire body

The Flint Hills are alive with Elton John

How to drink like a small-town journalist

Why Gilmore Girls’ Stars Hollow is and isn’t like Emporia

Six must-haves for your small-town-survival kit

How a small-town transplant can grow

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

How a small-town transplant can grow