Yesterday I was feeling slightly blah, so after I wrote my blog, I decided to partake in the lunch hour Bikram yoga class at the studio I occasionally visit. I used to go regularly, and somewhere in the middle of the class I thought to myself “Why don’t I do this more often?” Because of the $20 drop in fee? Perhaps, but mostly it’s because I often feel like that ballerina hippo from Disney‘s “Fantasia” in a roomful of beautiful swans.
Of course, that’s not the point of yoga; the point is breathing and stretching and pushing your body to the limit, all while quieting your mind. I’d like to meet the lucky bastard in the room who has a clear head and limber body, because I’d like to shake their hand, and immediately karate chop them. Especially those women who are head to toe in Lulu Lemon, with elegant topknots exposing graceful necks. While I’m sweating like a hooker in a Baptist Church, they are simply glowing as they extend limbs with perfect straightness.
Yes, that’s Audrey Hepburn practicing yoga…what a fun, serendipitous find on today of all days. But this is the kind of gal I am dealing with.
At the exact moment you are trying to twist your torso, breathe deeply and quiet your thoughts; you are simultaneously dissatisfied with yourself while coveting the body types, abilities and outfits of others. I’m pretty sure that’s also not the point of yoga.
This is my kind of gal–just take a big ole nap in stripes a la Child’s Pose.
In reality, I hold my own in class and enjoy the exercise. The yoga instructor was a robust woman, extremely curvaceous, but relaxed and smiling. She looked happy, why shouldn’t I? Why should my life be less fabulous because I feel more like a cartoon hippo than a movie star. In one breath I think: “I need to come here more, I want to look better, feel better”. In another breath I think: I want to be at peace with myself, but have skinnier thighs”. Then, “but I really need to be at peace with my body”. Because in reality, I look perfectly fine–Victoria’s Secret would not hire me to model lingerie…
I also don’t look like Honey Boo Boo‘s mama.
I’m somewhere in the middle, and I need to remember that the middle is perfectly fine. And another breath; the inhalations and exhalations like the ocean lapping the shore.
After class, while changing in the cramped change room, I overheard a variety of conversations. Children, husbands, careers, renovations, travels, and weekend plans. One woman was struggling with energy levels after a series of immunization shots, as she’s off to Germany before zipping off to Zimbabwe. As for me, I’ve nothing planned other than going home to make the scrambled egg wrap that I started thinking about mid-way through class. Then I will write, and accidentally mash hot sauce onto the keyboard. It’s not Zimbabwe, but it was delicious nonetheless.
Courtesy of Etsy/Google &Disney