Natasha Regehr
Do you hate Valentine’s Day? Well here’s a little gem from back in 2010, when I was academically obliged to analyze a case study of a bunch of Harlequin Romance addicts from the 1970s. Part of the assignment was to read and respond to a romance novel myself, and compare my experience to that of the readers in Janice Radway’s study. I confess, I had a little fun…
“Hey, are these guys any good?” I asked, gesturing at the Peterborough Singers brochures on the counter. It was February, 2008, and I was hauling yet another load of mistreated school band instruments to B Flat Music for a little TLC.
“Oh, yes, very good!” declared Peg McCracken.
“You’ve heard them, then?” I asked skeptically.
“Heard them? I’ve sung with them for eighteen years!”
Undaunted, I pressed her further. “What kind of music do they sing?” I was not into the flaky schmaltz that so many community choirs seem to thrive on. I made that immediately and unapologetically clear.
“Well, we’re singing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in our next concert. You should join us!”
Wait. A. Minute. Are you telling me that a place exists in Peterborough where I can go and sing exclusively Bach for two hours a week, every single week, until May? Pinch me hard; I must be dreaming.
“Start by coming to our concert this weekend. If you like it, we can set up an audition.”
I went. The moment the choir started singing, Continue reading
A revealing exposé of my secret grad school romance with a hoop:
I am a yoga experimentalist. Or perhaps merely the subject of a greater mega-yoga conspiracy, designed explicitly to stretch my tendons and my temperament in various hypothetically-possible ways. It’s okay. You needn’t worry. Yoga and I have a history.
It began at a weekend synchronized swimming meet in the late eighties, when, as a virgin yoga-attemptee, I worried that I might be doing something dangerously evil by lying on my back and thinking about my breathing when I should have been in church. My spirit emerged intact, however, until my next wobbly attempt, a decade and a half later, in the much safer environs of my local gym. I’ve tried power yoga, yoga fit, hatha yoga, and, in a more audacious experiment, Tai Chi (which I realize is not yoga at all, but I include to convince you of the scope of my yoga-quest). I like to think I have become rather good at it. I can twist myself in all sorts of unprecedented directions. I am beginning to think that Yoga and I are becoming too familiar with each other.
It was with a sort of giddy delight, therefore, that I discovered Hoop Yoga. “What can it be?” I wondered. “What does one do?” I rubbed my palms together in greedy anticipation. There’s nothing I like better than an adventure.
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