Namaste

 “Can I go to a level 2 & 3 class even though I suck?” I asked my friends. They assured me I could but depending on the Open Doors location, I might get my ass kicked. Apparently the Norwell yogis are a lot more intense than those of East Bridgewater; perhaps their proximity to Lululemon makes a difference. After gentle nudging from my friend and a lot of internal motivation, I signed up for my yoga ass whooping and said a few mantras on my way. “Move forward into growth. Move forward into growth. Move forward into growth.” Yes. That is my new mantra. So far, it’s working for me. 

The intimidation I feel in any kind of exercise environment has kept me away from things like yoga for far too long. No Lululemons in my drawers, inner ear/balance issues, and a tendency to laugh at myself just a little too loudly have been the trifecta of yoga avoidance for me. This Saturday, however, I decided that enough was enough. Practicing yoga at home is great and all but a class is a touch more committed. After a heart attack and four stents for my almost 88-year-old Dad over the last two weeks (from which he has bounced back beautifully) my chakras are scampering in 46 different directions and I think my third eye has conjunctivitis. There is simply no better time in my life to embrace yoga with open arms.

The power class started with six students and soon dwindled to four. I felt a sense of accomplishment for just being able to stand the heat. I guess living with my always cold octogenarian parents is paying off—I could probably run a hot yoga class in our living room. Sweat dripped from my reddened face onto the mat turning it into a veritable slip n’ slide for my toes. All went well until I attempted crow pose which is basically a tripod minus the head acting as the third stabilizing factor. I held that sucker for at least 15 seconds before face planting onto the floor. Namaste.

Despite crashing into the linoleum, I left that class feeling like a million bucks. With only four of us there, the teacher came around during shavasana, rubbed our shoulders, and lightly touched our foreheads. Wow. All I wanted to do was curl up into the fetal position and go to sleep. I felt so good that I signed up for an 8:30 am class the next morning. I think I might be hooked.

17 hours later, I poured myself a bowl of Cocoa Krispies and a hot cup of coffee, lit a stick of nag champa incense, and began my morning by watching the smoke greet the rising sun. Yes, that’s right. Cocoa Krispies, coffee, and incense. Why? Because I am a walking paradox; an enigma that will never be capable of fitting into any one box. I like most things woo-woo and Little Debbie Zebra Cakes too. Acai bowls are great and all but experience has taught me that when you want a bowl of Cocoa Krispies with milk, there are very few substitutes that will suffice so you might as well cave. Caffeine and sugar hitting my bloodstream, I squeezed into my yoga gear and set out.

With bodies packed from left to right in the studio, the instructor addressed all the negative energy that has been floating around lately and how reacquainting ourselves with our inner child helps us transcend that negativity. I nodded with enthusiasm as I reminisced about my delicious breakfast that morning and looked forward to ending the evening with a grown up glass of wine. I think my inner child and outer adult know one another very well and I have learned to like them both. I turned 42 last week. Big whoop. I don’t care about getting older like some people do. The number goes up and up and there’s really no big surprise there. Neither young nor old, I’m still the same person I was at age 12 and that most certainly includes my continued passion for certain junky foods.

As you begin this week with whatever it is that’s on your plate, think about how you can indulge your inner child as you flow into and embrace the adult that you have become. If that means Cocoa Krispies before power yoga then so be it. For so long I thought I had to squelch my woo-woo side because I like sugar, beer, and swearing like a sailor. You know what that is? A bunch of malarkey. I can enjoy an IPA at night and do yoga in the morning. I can eat a box of Good n’ Plenty and not think myself ruined for the week. I can write my warped truth and present as “normal” to the outside world. What I cannot do is adhere to one thing, one way, one self—I don’t think any of us can. And that’s OK. So meet me on the mat, at the bar, or in the nearest candy shop. As I “move forward into growth”, I will have my cake, eat it, and try to burn it off too.