So here’s something you may not know about me: I am totally drawn to spiritual, tranquil, serene people.
I get goose bumps when I’m around them.
One of my best friends is a very deep thinker and our conversations can get so introspective and thought-provoking, that by the time she’s done speaking, I’m almost in a trance-like state….for about 30 seconds.
Then I bounce out of her house, drop the ‘f’ bomb a few times as I step out into the cold, and speed home with my Glee cd blaring, all the while singing “Don’t Stop Believing” at the top of my voice.
I have often given thought to changing the direction of not only myself, but also my blog.
I figure if I change the tone of my writing, I’ll be forced into changing the tone of my thoughts.
I want to be that girl who mesmerizes people with her ethereal presence.
I want to speak in a soft, slow, sing-song voice.
I want to acknowledge the universe and the energy that flows within us all.
I want to wear long flowery frocks and Birkenstocks.
…ok, not really that last part. ‘Cause then I’d have to make sure I always had polish on my toes, and I don’t have time for regular pedicures.
So tonight I decided it was time to return to my hot yoga class.
I had not been in a few weeks.
I figured at least there, in the heat of the room, struggling to control my breathing and hold the poses, I would be forced into a state of serenity.
The problem is though, hot yoga has never been about that for me.
As per everything in my life, I can’t just sit there.
I flit into the room.
I roll my yoga mat out with a flourish.
I drop down on my back with a thud.
I’m tapping my feet.
I’m looking around at the other still bodies next to me, as we await our instructor.
Finally we start.
I’m lunging as deeply as I can.
I’m pushing every pose to its limit.
I’m like, “Look at me doing the splits! I haven’t done them since I was 17, and now…well, I’m not 17, and I can still do them!”
The instructor gives us the option to walk our feet to the top of the mat or jump.
You know I’m fucken jumping.
I land with a thump.
We are given the option of laying on our stomach or doing an extra vinyasa, which is sort of like a push-up, and of course, I chose…you guessed it! The vinyasa.
Only I don’t do just one.
I do about seven power vinyasas in a row.
I swear if I knew the instructor wouldn’t kick me out, I’d be doing jumping jacks and the running man.
I cannot slow down.
The nausea hits.
Suddenly, thirteen minutes into my practice, I’m laying on my back, wondering where I should barf.
I finish the class.
I come home.
And sit on the floor by the toilet, laying my face on the cold porcelain, burping up the chicken pot pie I had for supper.
My husband Wayne comes in.
I’ve been mean to him this week as he’s battled
the sniffles an awful, debilitating flu bug.
He sees me and says, “Tried to show off again?”
I reply, “Yup.”
He stares at me and says, “That’s karma for ya.”
Hugging the toilet bowl tightly, I reply, “Fuck off.”