The Comfy Corner

Like the naive middle-class, half-Asian boy that I was, I grew up thinking that I lived in the trashiest town in the world. I thought that downtown Asheville was a bunch of dirty hippies that never washed their hair. In fact, I covered my food for fear of bugs jumping off their dreadlocks and onto my plate. I thought that Fairview (the smaller, less glamorous town where my house is) contained the most amount of rednecks per square mile than any other town in the world. And I thought, stupidly, that if I moved to the North, I would forever escape stupidity and poor driving. This weekend, it finally dawned on me how wrong I actually was.

I visited a little town called Beckley in a little state called West Virginia. It is important to note that I went to Beckley to escape the small town of White Sulphur Springs. Kevin and I needed to go to a movie theatre that showed more than one movie a week and Beckley was the closest metropolis. When we arrived, I was thrilled to spot a Chili's. Chili's and Chic-Fil-A are quite possibly my two favorite places in the world. When we walked in, however, I quickly realized that we were not going to blend in well. The eyes of West Virginian judgement stared right through my fitted blue H&M polo with white piping and right into my soul. The look in their eyes read, "Ya'll ain't from around these parts, are ya?" I felt a slight shudder of discomfort but I couldn't quite find the words to describe it. When we went to the movie theatre, though, I gazed at the poorly fitted pants draped around too-big waists. I gazed at greasy hair tied up in greasy pony tails. I gazed at all the "Tapout" shirts and zip-up hoodies wrapped around women with pores big enough to fry chicken in and I found the words that had previously slipped my mind: white trash. Kevin turned to me and said, "Can we go back to the car?" I nodded quickly because we weren't from around these parts.

When I drove back into the beautiful mountains of North Carolina, I realized that Asheville wasn't so bad after all. People here are sensible and dress decently. There is a manageable amount of Tapout clothing and most people bathe. For the first time in a long time, I felt at home in my home. And I realized that the North isn't so glamorous as I once thought. There are a lot of stupid people there too, they just have different accents. So next time I visit home, I will make sure to leave my judgement shoes at the door.

So, I would by no means consider myself a yogi. In high school, I attended a few yoga classes at the local YMCA. That was back in my fitness class heyday when I would do cardio-lite with all the local moms. They were obsessed with me because I knew the Grease dance and I was this random teenage boy doing cardio dancing to disco music. I loved it, though. I even became great friends with the teacher, Marianne, and I regularly attended her cycling, muscle pump, and spinning classes. She kept me in great shape. Anyway, I digress, yoga.

The very first yoga class I took was at the downtown YMCA. Now, for those of you who are not familiar with downtown Asheville, NC, it is the hippiest, gayest little mountain town in the country. So yoga is kinda a big deal. I got there with my friend Becca and it was dark in the room and smooth mountain music was playing (banjos and shit). I copied the other people and got a mat, but I wasn't sure if I should get one of the block thingies or the blanket. I decided against it. A mat would have to be enough. I found a spot and sat quietly on my mat while the other hippies melted into the room with measured breaths and relaxed demeanors. The teacher guided us through the class and I did fairly well. My strong fitness background paid off. We then got to the part where you just lie there. I call it nap time, others call it shavasana. Everyone in the room started wrapping themselves in their Mexican blankets but I just chilled there blanketless. It was too late to get up and grab a blanket. I would have interrupted the flow of the bandhas or whatever.

After nap time, the teacher (who had a slight Southern accent) put her hands in prayer position and said, "Ya'll have a nice day" to which I politely replied (with my hands also in prayer position because I had taken to copying her) "You too." Well, that's when Becca laughed and laughed at me for the longest time and when she stopped laughing she informed me that the teacher had actually said "namaste." In my defense, she had an accent, it was the end of class, and it is not unreasonable at all! Namaste means "I bow to you" which is essentially what you are saying when you say "Ya'll have a nice day," right?? Ugh, well now I know.

Namaste ya'll. Stay comfy.

As I slowly creep into that amorphous phase of life known as adulthood, I am starting to develop an appreciation for the finer things in life. Fine wines and cheeses, high class restaurants, and five star hotels. This may sound like a good thing at first, but I am starting to find that it is actually kind of dangerous. Or, to put it more bluntly, expensive. I visited the Greenbrier Resort and Casino a little while ago. It is self-proclaimed to be "America's Resort" and it is nestled in the beautiful mountains of West Virginia. It features all of the luxuries you might find on a five star cruise ship such as gambling, fancy restaurants, a theatre, expensive shopping, and an infiniti pool, but it also features a huge golf course, horse back riding, and croquet lawns. The clientele at this resort are some of the snobbiest, hoitiest toitiest people I have ever met in my life. For instance, I was waiting to see my friend in the resort's show, "Rockin' the Fifties" and these two old ladies had gotten there way early. One of the ladies was going on a rant, "I don't know why they don't just open up the doors already. On the cruise ships we always get to the shows early because the bingo is happening and they take up all the good seats. Then you end up sitting behind a pole or something. It's already 8:01 and they said the doors would open at 8:00. This is ridiculous." To which the other lady responded, "I have 7:59. Maybe their time is wrong." This is the extent of the worries these people have. Yet somehow, I find myself attracted to this lifestyle. I kind of wish these were the things I worried about.

I gambled for the first time at this resort. I walked into the brightly lit, tackily decorated casino. And as I stood next to giant clam fountain and listened to the tink and beeps of the slot machines, a sort of rush came over me. I let myself drown in the chatter of rich rich people and I felt, if only for a moment, like James Bond in Casino Royale. I purchased a ten dollar Malibu and coke and sat myself down at a slot machine. My blood was rushing, my back straightened, I felt like a high roller at last! I pulled a crisp, five dollar bill out of my pocket and slipped it into the machine. Approximately two minutes later the money was all gone and I was done. That's about the time when the woman next to me started screaming and jumping up and down. She had just won 8,000 dollars!!! One of the ladies working at the casino waddled over smiling with a stack of 100 dollar bills and started placing them in her hands. I picked up my rum and coke, walked away dejectedly and decided that gambling wasn't for me. I decided that as much as I love the high life, I will not be living it for quite some time. Until then, I will content myself with happy hours and 50% off sales at the Gap. Ralph Lauren can wait.

Stay comfy ya'll.

I think we've all had those moments where we make a new friend (or a new boyfriend/girlfriend) and the time comes when you must attempt to integrate this new friend into your old circle of friends. It's kind of a dreadful place to be. Awkward hugs/handshakes, so nice to meet you's, heard so much about you's, etc. etc. ad nauseum (First time I've used that phrase, ad nauseum! Hope I used it correctly!). Well, I don't know about you, but every time I have to introduce a new friend I get really anxious inside hoping and praying that they won't be Mr/Mrs. Bottom-of-the-bitter-barrel and scare away my friends. You know the type. The kind of person that just kind of looks bored and stares off into the distance when they meet new people. And inside you're like, "Come on! At least PRETEND to be excited to meet these people! This is important!" And they are all like, "Why should I pretend to be something I'm not?" And you're like, "Because that's just what you have to do sometimes to make a good first impression!" After all, who doesn't want all of their friends to get along, right? So if you happen to be this friend follow these simple rules:

1) Smile! A smile goes a long way.

2) Talk! Silence makes people uncomfortable. And I know it is difficult for some people to jump on board the empty conversation train, but it is a valuable skill!

3) Listen! Don't zone out and act like you'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

4) Laugh! A sense of humor is a valued quality in a new friend, so at least give a chuckle if something is funny.

5) Be slightly conservative... meaning don't lead with your strong personality traits. You need to feel out these new friends before you go all out. For instance, if you have a knack for dirty jokes. Maybe wait until they know your name and where you are from before you whip out the big guns.

Just a few comfy tips for meeting new people. Slash a bitching rant on how not to act if I introduce you to my friends. :)

Stay comfy ya'll!

So, I've recently been stressing a lot about what kind of clothes I should be wearing. Clothes are a big part of one's personality and I feel like I have somehow never really developed a sense of style. I like wearing black so my style has pretty much consisted of a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. That usually makes me pretty happy. But recently, I've felt this thirst to go beyond the black and venture into the world of patterns and colors. And I was doing pretty well! I spend a couple hundred dollars at every poor, gay man's two favorite stores H&M and Forever XXI. And I got some cool plaid shirts, nice pants, a sensible cardigan, I even got a hat! And I've felt so comfortable wearing these clothes until tonight when my nephew looks at me and says, "You need a new pair of shorts!" I look down at my just-above-the-knee, fitted shorts and say, "Why?" He says, "Those are WAY to small." I look at his sagging cargo shorts that are mid-shin and say, "Well, at least I'm not wearing capris! Pull your pants up and get a belt." I showed that 12-year-old.

But in all seriousness, fashion in the South is way different than it is in the North. The clothes I feel comfortable in up there, I feel silly in down here. I suppose that is why I am still hanging on to my few pairs of cargo shorts that my boyfriend hates so much (Kevin, okay, you're right, cargo shorts are over but I need them for when I visit the South so I don't get hate crime'd!). Then at dinner my sister is like, "Ugh, those plaid shorts you were wearing the other day with that striped shirt. Awful." I looked at her and said, "Mixing patterns is in, don't you know?!" It's true, I read it in the news somewhere. Who is she to tell me that I can't mix patterns!?! As she sits there with her purple feather earrings. Pshaw! So here is a message to the South: It is okay to wear clothes that fit, it is NOT okay to wear cargo shorts, and if done tastefully mixing patterns is FINE! I will wear my Northern clothes with pride and family, stop harassing me about my clothing choices.

In days of old it was completely appropriate to ask to see a picture of one's children, pets, or perhaps a husband or wife because those are the appropriate things one might carry around photos of in his or her wallet or purse. Nowadays, the whole photo frontier has changed completely. Most people don't carry around wallet size photos anymore because they can just store photos on their phone. It's convenient, yes, but at the same time it stresses me out. And this is why...

So I had a moment today that I'm not proud of.