I’m falling down on my angst game. I drove to Newark, made that awful merge between the Parkway South and I-280 E and moved over to the reserved seats at Deepak Chopra’s talk today (even though the seats weren’t reserved for me) — and never once thought about the fact that it was Friday the 13th. Maybe it was because I had to be in Newark early to see the Dalai Lama, maybe because I’ve been up to my neck in starting the new Authentically Local campaign. I’ve just been too busy to worry.

I was only reminded just now — at 6:45 pm — by somebody’s Facebook status.

“Sign of maturity if you ask me,” says my husband. “Friday the 13th is fake angst anyway.”

Maybe so. But any port in a storm, right? If you have some extra angst that needs to attach itself to something, there’s always Friday the 13th.

What say you?

Photo: Wikipedia.

Apple erased my entire life last night around 1 a.m., so I had to defy the time-space continuum and go retrieve it.

Sure, I like it when a few of the squares in my calendar are blank. That means I get to sleep late, read in bed, go for a walk, etc. But when they are all blank that means that, as Jack Nicholson might say, “What we have is a failure to communicate.” I would append….with the machine that stores all your dental appointments, speaking engagements, days you have to cover for others, not to mention commencement obligations and picking up your sister from the train! And not just the machine — it’s never just one machine these days — it’s the cloud. It’s the network of devices that share all the intimate details of your life.

I won’t bore you with all the details. Noticing the MobileMe wasn’t synching my computers, updating some calendar software, blah blah blah. Let’s just say that for an hour, as I pulled every data-retrieval trick out of the hat that I could think of, I wondered just what I was going to miss and who was going to be really mad at me.

And even though it’s somewhat comforting that you can roll back time, it’s a little unnerving to enter Apple’s Time Machine. For example, I just took a little ride in it to see if I could take a little screenshot of my experience and now everything is missing from my desktop.

I have a feeling that I’ll get all that crap back too.

But what’s next? It’s beginning to feel like my computer is picking my pockets.

“If you could change one thing about high-school, what would it be?” asked my son, as he interviewed me recently for an essay.

Hmmmm, just one? There are so many.

My permed hair? Nah- we all looked like poodles during the 80’s in Jersey.

Not giving a crap about studying? Nope, I still weaseled my way into NYU, and I wasn’t about to encourage him into failing out of 4th grade.

Caring what other people thought about my every move? Most definitely!

“Why wouldn’t you care what other people thought about you, mom?” he asked, puzzled. I shared with him a quote from someone he could relate to, the great Dr. Seuss: “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

A blank stare; okay then, I decided to pull one out of my “yogic” tool-box.

“Well Jake, in the end, as long as you’re a good person, it doesn’t really matter. People are going to judge you and gossip about you, most likely because they are jealous or angry about something that has nothing to do with you. But if you know that you are making good choices and treating people kindly, then there is nothing anyone could say about you that should impact the way you feel about yourself.”

For a second I thought that was a little too deep for his 10-year-old brain, but then he replied: “Like when the boys made fun of me for bringing kale for lunch, but I knew that it was healthy for me so I didn’t care.“

Well done, my little Buddha — now go out into the world and teach that to all your friends, so when they grow up they aren’t a bunch of self-conscious adults, who won’t try something new because they’re afraid someone is going to mock them for it. Like my friend for example.

The other day I ran into said friend at 3sixtystudio, where I teach yoga and a class I developed called Xen Strength. He was dripping sweat from the spin class he just took, and complaining how tight his muscles were; I mentioned that my classes would be a great way to cross-train and gain flexibility. He cocked his head to the side and smirked; “Yoga with weights? I can barely touch my toes in the first place; how am I going do it while holding a 10lb dumbbell? ”

“Okay, I said, how about we start out with my regular yoga class- no weights.”

“ I can’t, look how bad I am at it,” he insisted while bending over to reveal that his fingers practically touched the floor!

“Oh please, you are much more flexible than 80% of the people who already come to my class, I countered- and it’s not about that anyway.”

“Nope, no way, I’m not good enough at it, and I don’t need people watching me, not being good at it.” Clearly his final answer.

I tried to explain to him that the only physical difference between a flexible person and an inflexible person is a few negligible inches, but he walked out mumbling something about the studio being all windows, which made it worse. Maybe he would have listened if I told him that the ramifications of being “mentally inflexible” are much worse!

This conversation happens to me about three times a week. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is that people will not try something that has many proven health benefits, including stress reduction and increased fitness levels, because they think someone else is going to visually measure how many inches they are from touching the floor in a forward bend. When did we become so self-important that we can’t take a yoga class in fear that someone will snicker at our inflexibility? It really doesn’t matter, and more importantly, NOBODY CARES!

Is someone in town going to post it on Facebook, or tweet to inform the public where they can catch you looking like an ass not touching your toes? Yes, that’s right on par with Justin Beiber being spotted at Mickey D’s with Usher; I don’t think so.

I know what it feels like to be in the “hot” seat at 3sixty. We all have our butts in the window for much of Montclair to see, but I have the added handicap of a knee injury that prevents me from standing up while spinning. I sit the entire time, while 45 other people are jumping and sprinting out of the saddle. I’ll admit, the first time taking the class where I couldn’t do exactly what the instructor commanded was a bit unsettling, especially since I teach there and people tend to look at their instructors as good “fitness role models.” However, a huge part of yoga is learning to be okay with what is, and I need to practice what I preach. Much to my delight, another spinner came up to me last week and thanked me for letting her feel it was “okay” to listen to her body when it told her to turn down the resistance or sit if she got tired. Why does she or anyone else need approval from the “fitness police?”

On the yoga path it doesn’t matter how “good” you are at the physical practice, it just matters that you are willing to try. The definition of yoga doesn’t have anything to do with a pose, it’s actually means “ stopping the fluctuations of the mind.” So if you can stop thinking just for one second that anybody cares about how many inches your hands are from the floor when you bend over, then congrats — you are ALREADY a yogi!

Danielle Diamond is the founder of XenStrength, a practice that combines yoga with strength training.

Photo: Lululemon on Flickr.

You don’t need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows, as Dylan said, and you don’t need Moodscope to tell you how you’re feeling.

God (or Google) only knows where I found this web app, which purports to take your daily emotional temperature and help you sort things out by sharing it with your friends.

Now usually I like anything psychological, especially if it involves cards. Give me a Myers Briggs test and I’m in pig heaven. Online tarot is one of my favorite indulgences. But the difference between either Myers Briggs or tarot and Moodscope is that they don’t ask you directly, are you nervous? Are you enthusiastic? Instead, they ask something indirect and specific: Myer Briggs: Do you feel involved when watching TV soaps? Or, in the case of tarot, here’s a picture from the collective unconscious, with rainbows and parents watching their children dancing, or a person lying on the floor with 10 swords in their back. Now how does that make you feel?

Well, more engaged, curious and alive that using the unwieldy mechanism of turning cards “back to front” and “head to toe” to answer the same questions, day in and day out. Are you nervous? Are you enthusiastic?

Here’s what Moodscope told me today:

Quite good Debbie.
Tuesday May 10, 2011

Pretty good Debbie. Today’s score for you is 59%, which is 14% less than your all-time high of 73%. It looks like things might not be as positive as they looked the last time you took the test and got 73%.
You’re probably feeling that matters have taken a downward turn, and it is likely that you aren’t feeling as positive as you were. There’s no better time than the present to take action. Try not to dwell on bad stuff that may be happening around you, and alternatively concentrate on developing an overview of how things will look for you once you’re firing on all cylinders again.

Which is 59% of what exactly? Or 73% of what? Of being totally fearless, enthusiastic, active, and so on?

What Moodscope doesn’t ask me about is what it’s like to have my 22-year-old come home from college with all her worldly possessions and no job pestering me by Facebook chat to take her out shopping. Or how it feels to compete with Arianna Huffington and AOL in running a local news blog. Or how good I feel about having written an “authentically local” manifesto for a new movement I’m spearheading, but how frustrated I feel about the logos generated so far to go with it. Or how happy I am that it’s bright and sunny and how down I am about the five days of rain that are forecast to start on Friday.

The fact is Moodscape doesn’t know me at all. If I’m looking for a one-hit reading of my mood, I’ll find a more accurate reading on Weather.com. Sunny=happy.

Or better yet, just opening my eyes in the morning and looking out the window.

Guest post by Lisa K. Winkler

I remember visiting my grandmother after she moved from her home in Queens, NY to an assisted living apartment near my parents in Connecticut. She had saved a pile of junk mail and asked me to look through it. The letters — all solicitations for things she didn’t need — combined with an onslaught of telemarketing calls, caused her to worry. To her, if it had arrived in the mail, or someone had called, meant it must be important. When I moved to toss everything in the trash, she became more anxious and insisted I save it to show my mother.

I was reminded of her anxiety when paying bills online last week. I’ve considered myself a rather informed consumer — look for sales, try to only buy what I use, and read labels. At least while food shopping. With gas, I try to find the cheapest, but also don’t drive an extra 10 miles to save 5 cents. But with my utilities, I realized how little I know about what I’m paying.

Why do I have two utility bills: PSEG and JCPL? I turn off lights, lower the heat, and unplug unnecessary chargers but the bill never seems to go lower.

Then there’s the cable television bill. I’m paying for things I have no clue what they are. What is “Blast!?” Why are there two State Treasury fees? (3 cents and 75 cents.) I don’t understand my cell phone bill either — I’m sure I don’t use half the services I pay for.

I know I could spend some time — no, lots of time — deciphering the bills by calling customer service. But that would mean either trying to figure out which number to push, only to listen a recording I won’t understand or trying to reach a human for explanation. I’m not sure who would lose patience first.

With caller ID, I don’t need to answer telemarketers. I toss junk mail directly into recycling. But I’m beholden to those utility bills. Today I turned off the heat. Hopefully there are a few weeks before the air condition needs to blast. Maybe I’ll use the time to learn about my bills.

An educator and writer, Lisa K. Winkler lives in Summit, NJ and can find plenty of things to worry about. She’s in the process of planning her own blog.

Guest post by Robin Ehrlichman Woods.

I don’t know how to be nice anymore. At least that’s what some folks tell me (or are saying behind my back — within earshot). Yes, I know The Golden Rule by heart. Perhaps I don’t understand its practical interpretation.. Do unto others…yup, I get that. As you would have done to you….well, I thought I had that right, too. I’m basically ethical, sympathetic, and in tune with the feelings of others. Or so I thought…

I’ll admit to being sarcastic at times, but never downright cruel unless I’m retaliating for a gross wrong perpetrated unto me. Call me short, I’ll fess up to that. It’s glaringly evident, although at my age it’s something I can’t change. I just hope that I don’t shrink down to three feet tall by the time I’m 60. Call me a chatterbox, and you’re absolutely correct. I can talk to a wall, and have often done that. I think it’s one of my talents. Call me ugly…well I’m going to move into beat down stance. If you haven’t seen me for a long time, and your first question is, “Are you tired?” it translates to “You’re looking old and haggard.” Not nice at all. If I dare respond in kind with something like, “Your big ass is looking a bit smaller these days,” I expect I’ve earned a slap in the face. Touché, y’all.

During a recent dinner with my son, his girlfriend, and her parents, I almost hurt myself being even-keeled and charming. They were definitely not fans of me, my life, or my conversational topics. The feeling was mutual, but I continued to play nice to the best of my ability. But when the other mom said something nasty, sotto voce about me to her daughter which I easily overhead, all bets were off. Why waste good behavior on someone I rarely see or care about? Guess I went too far after that, because she told me to my face, “You’re not a nice person.” Moi? Who would have thunk?

Then, there’s this issue about calling people “passive/aggressive.” Once again, I know the definition of both. I rarely see myself as passive, hummingbird with agita that I am. Maybe I’m more of a Chihuahua on speed. Aggressive? For the most part, I think that women are more often labeled as such when they’re high functioning, driven, and a bit…pushy, shall we say? Males are rarely defined in the same way, unless they’re approaching someone with a loaded gun or raised fist. How did passive aggressiveness become part of normal conversation? Have I asked you to diagnose me? Thanks, but I have a daughter who’s a mental health professional and comes up with varying conditions for me from the DSM IV. So far, I believe I’m controlling and anal, with a touch of OCD.

I call it OCD with Mushrooms. This is coming from someone who loves me.

The best way I understand P/A would go like this: Going out to lunch with a longtime girlfriend who is obsessed by weight, being alarmingly thin, not eating anything that’s white, has sugar, salt, or whatever’s delicious in it. Why do I go out to lunch with her? The conversation is always lively, and we do connect in deep ways after 15 years. I’m on my best behavior while ordering, sometimes saying, “I’ll have what she’s having” if I’m feeling it’s easier to go her way. On the rare occasion that I’ll order something crazy like a veggie burger with cheese, she’ll look at my plate and ask, “Are you going to eat THAT?” Bingo!

I love babies, children, small doggies, kittens, butterflies and flowers. Not a mean thing on that list. It’s when I wander into the arena of interpersonal relationships with folks who’ll never be or shouldn’t be my friends, that’s the problem and conundrum. So, in the future, if you’re going to do (unto) me–You’ll have to buy me dinner and drinks first. It’s only fair.

Robin is host of “The Buzz” on TV34 in Montclair.

Why did it bother me when my 22-year-old reacted joyously, boisterously — a reaction that was echoed in Times Square and in front of the White House? And why did I not? Why did I want her to tamp down her Facebook response, as though her youthful exuberance would lead to a personal fatwa? (“Mom, it’s not the Mob.”)

When I heard my husband shuffling around downstairs in the middle of the night — and checked the latest headlines to learn that bin Laden had been buried at sea — why did the abrupt disposal of the body make me feel panicky? (I hope they took a picture, I found myself thinking. For proof.) I was able to return to sleep when my husband explained that the sea burial was a brilliant move, depriving bin Laden supporters of a shrine.

Naturally, as one headline said, the world is on high alert. And maybe that’s all it is, the nervousness about revenge. When it will occur, and where?

It reminds me of other things. My mother’s nervousness, as a young wife and mother living outside Washington during the Cuban Missile Crisis, carrying a transistor radio around from room to room — until my father convinced her, ultimately, that people with more experience were being paid to worry about it, so she could stop.

And also, being on a kibbutz in Israel on July 4, 1976, and waking up to learn that a successful raid on Entebbe had taken place overnight. Although I don’t remember being personally nervous then. Because the kibbutzniks were so overjoyed.

Perhaps I am more sensitive now, being older, to living through iconic moments. To being a witness to history. Opening up the New York Times this morning — seeing that picture of the firefighters in front of the news ticker in Times Square — made my heartbeat speed up. I don’t know exactly what that means, what any of it means.

I just know this: smarter people than me may be getting paid to worry about think smart thoughts about this. But nobody can be paid to feel it for me.

I’m worried about me, and the forecasted rain, and the possibility for terrorism.

Mostly the rain.

Hyde Park was preparing for the big event today, and the port-a-potties were all set out but already no toilet paper. (I have nightmares like this). It was a beautiful day to sit in the park, but how about when it’s filled with thousands and thousands? And what if it’s sodden? Should I carry a folding chair? A blanket? How weighed down do I want to get? And where will those giant screens be anyway? They weren’t up yet. It’s a huge park.

I have an invitation to watch it at a private house and street party up in West Hampstead, a place we stayed during our house swap Thanksgiving 2009. And if it’s pouring, that’s where I think I’ll go.

But if I don’t go downtown and get as close to the wedding as I can get, will I be filled with regret forever? And what if I do go, and get soaked, and can’t see anything anyway?

I’m not the only one having this angst by the way. Even Karen Pierce-Goulding, our Royal Wedding walking tour guide, was worried about it. And that was before the rain forecast!

When you take a job which requires you to commute in and out of a city like NY, you know what you are getting into. Three hours of your day are devoted to the to/fro. Sure…you can pass the time how you’d like…that’s on you. But…what about those instances where you HAVE to be home at a certain time?

Maybe you told your spouse you’d be home to watch the kids. Maybe you told a friend you’d help move a couch before he sends the kids to bed. Maybe your daughter has a lacrosse game. That’s what happened one night recently.

So, I planned my afternoon around it…and “backed into” my PM departure time. I don’t “cut it close” because I simply CAN’T. Missing the train is not an option. So the PM comes and I thought I was doing fine. But little-by-little, my advantage faded…and the stress built.

Anatomy of a breakdown…

It takes longer than expected to shut down my PC…a vendor stops by my desk…the elevator is slow to arrive…and all of a sudden, I find myself in what a fellow commuter calls “the red zone”

The pressure mounts.

Walking double-time to the subway helps … but I see an empty terminal. Since I board at the start/end of the #1 train…I know that nothing is leaving until something arrives.
Arriving at Chambers Street to transfer to the express is the next adventure. It’s already “T-10”… and I have a ways to go.

Remember, this is not like “normal” life … where “a few minutes late” means “a few minutes” late. Rather, if I miss this train…it’s the difference between seeing the game and not seeing the game…and kids remember that stuff.

The first express arrives…but it’s too full. The overhead announcement tells you “three minutes.”

A glace at the Blackberry tells me this is going to be close…VERY close.

The next train is just as full…but I’m in position…and I squeeze in. 14th street … then 34th street. But arriving at Penn is not the same as “catching your train”.

Detrain … get down the stairs … into the concourse … check the departure board. IT”S NOT LISTED ANYMORE. Crap! I took at guess and ran to the track where it most frequently loads. SOMETHING is there. I ran the length of the car to see the “Montclair University” sinage…and hop aboard as they doors chime and close. It’s crowded…I’m hot and stressed…but I made it.

And my daughter’s team won.

Josh Crandall is the founder of Clever Commute.