Until yesterday, I hadn’t been to yoga in [insert really long amount of time here]. Sometime before January. I kept saying I’d go while I was in Nicaragua, which is all well and good but did I? Nope. Neither did I all summer, when I continued to claim to myself, my mother, my friends, and basically everyone else that I was going to go “on Saturday.” Surprise: that Saturday never came.
For the most part, I’m using yoga as a metaphor for all areas of my life. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the room guilty of procrastination. Essay due at midnight? Let me finish this episode on Netflix, first. Have to clean my room? After I make myself a five course lunch. The to-do list goes on and on, getting longer while our attention spans grow shorter. I’m with you. My to-do lists are like gremlins, multiplying in the dead of night to wreak havoc on all areas of my life.
What’s one of the things I do to combat those gremlins? Yoga. And, of course, of my own volition, I’d turned even that into a gremlin.
I’m not one of those white girls that’s super into yoga and knows the sanskrit word for everything. I’m a bit woo-woo, I admit, but I’m not going to pretend I’m Hindu when I was raised Catholic in an NY suburb. Another thing I won’t pretend to be is athletic. I hate exercising. This combination of just a bit woo-woo and un-athletic has led me to yoga, which is your fat aunt’s (me) preferred means of working out. Exercise is good for you, yes, I know, but I’m not going to run around in a circle. Sitting on the floor and stretching is much more my speed.
And yesterday, my first yoga class in almost a year, felt fantastic. I was stiff in a lot of places I used to be limber, which serves as motivation to keep going. To paraphrase what the teacher said at the end of the class, “No one else can come and do this for you.”
So Namaste, or whatever.