Tuesday, July 20, 2010

when in doubt, sing a happy tune & pedal fast!

The Accidental Goddess

--Gina Marie
A little playa dust, a little humor. Tales from the burn.....a story from last year's Burning Man festival.

The hard, cold truth is, I’m not the goddess type. I drink my coffee black and my whiskey straight. I like fast cars and bad boys. I did yoga once. It was accidental and involved sex. So when a sun-dried old yogi walked up to me at Center Camp early one morning and told me he sensed that my energy was off and asked if he could give me a “goddess adjustment,” it was hard not to giggle. “Me? Surely you jest, Gandhi!”

But I kept my mirth to myself. I just smiled sweetly, gritted my gritty teeth and said, “OK.” He worked his hands up and down my spine and twisted my shoulders while my husband looked on, amused as hell.

Then he instructed me to put my head between my knees while he tapped on my back and kneaded my skull with his boney, enlightened fingers.

After he finally instructed me to sit up, he grinned broadly, incredibly pleased with himself. “Just look at you glow!” Blood rushing to one’s head tends to have that effect, but that’s modern medicine for you.

On another day, a similar type of guru-ish character gripped me in a hug just a little too long, then warned me to “Let go and live! Let your energy free! Hug like you mean it.” How could I explain to him that it wasn’t my warped goddess energy or my weak inner chakra that ruined the embrace? The hippie smelled like a motherfucker! I couldn’t dismantle myself from him fast enough.

The big test of my goddess tolerance, however, came on the day of the massively popular all-female “Critical Tits” ride. At least a thousand gloriously naked and semi-naked women turned out on bikes in full regalia. My husband had transformed my skin with body paint into a colorful Salvador Dali sort of canvas. It was a beautiful day. I was excited to venture out on my own, a Playa Virgin on the loose! The dust storm settled just before the ride and the air was filled with the sound of laughing women, jangling beads and silver bells, bike tires on cracked earth, and the thud of ever-present music on the playa. I joined in with the throng and was quickly sucked into the vortex of joy, not to mention the fun of being cheered on by an equally large group of enthusiastic men gathered on both sides of the route.

Some of the drama and flashiness of the Burn can feel a little affected at times, but not here, not today, not on this ride. At this moment, baking under the big, hot desert sun, showing off all my parts for Gandhi, Guru, God and anyone else who wanted to look, I cruised along across the dusty playa with a smile on my well-adjusted face and a screaming guitar solo in my heart. Freedom, ladies! Freedom, even from the goddess!

As the ride came to an end though, male “goddess greeters” all in white appeared. The well-intentioned boys sang out, “Welcome goddesses!” as we entered the goddess zone. They directed us to leave our bikes and enter “the goddess area” for special “goddess treatments,” a group hug, chanting, drums, and other mysteries of womanly playa love. Uh oh.

I waved to the greeter boys and said, “thank you!” in my cheeriest non-goddess voice before flipping my little red bike around and racing away quickly in the opposite direction. That was close. Gleefully free once again, but hot & sweaty and thirsty as hell, I rode alone back across the desert to camp where a bad boy was waiting -- and a cooler of cold beer had my name on it.


Erobintica said...


BadAssKona said...


Gina Marie said...

Hippy, dippy do-da! Are we having fun yet? Yesssssss!