Namaste, bitches

Every once in a while, I get on a health kick. I swear off Diet Coke, I cut back on carbs, and I join a fitness class. These short lived phases provide just enough self delusion to make me feel productive without having to actually accomplish anything, while giving the appearance to those around me that I’m not an anxiety ridden basket case. Crazy people aren’t health conscious.

So after eating an entire sleeve of Thin Mints on Sunday morning, I set off to what I was sure would be the most enlightening of a series of enlightening yoga classes. I’ve been feeling a need for a little meditation in my life, and I’m ready to embrace all things yin and yang, feng shui, kung pao, and kama sutra. I’m not entirely sure what those words mean, but they’re not English and therefore exotic and spiritual sounding, and much more impressive than telling people I’m taking a kickboxing class.

One begins a yoga class by sitting asani on a staph infected mat, criss cross applesauce. This is ten times harder than I remember it being when I was a kid and we called it Indian Style, before Indians got really pissed off about that and demanded kindergarten teachers use a different term for sitting uncomfortably on the floor. Five minutes into simply sitting cross legged and I feel like there are knives digging into my hips. Our instructor is Heather, or Haley, or something with an H, and she’s everything you’d hope for in a yoga master. Pretty and peaceful, she has a soothing voice which she uses to constantly remind me to breathe, because I don’t. I catch myself holding my breath in concentration. My ujjayi, or ocean breath, needs some work.

The yoga master occasionally walks by me and adjusts my hips into the proper position, and each and every time I’m terrified of passing gas. My mind starts racing, which is the opposite of what they tell you your mind is supposed to do in yoga. Heather/Haley notices my face screwed up in agitation. “Silence your thoughts,” she says. “Be in the present." My little brain is yapping away about the lady who yelled at me in Target in front of my kids for accidentally bumping into her cart, the annoying coworker who is constantly complaining about her overactive thyroid while she eats KFC, and the fact that I have such a hard time writing lately. Worries and random thoughts are all swimming around in my head while I Downward Dog and Happy Baby my way through class. I’m starting to doubt that I’ll find any shanti here, the same way I doubt people who tell me about the “runner’s high” they get during marathons. All lies.

Then I do something I almost never do. I tell myself to shut the hell up, and I actually listen. Instead of hearing the committee in my head argue and debate my worth and existence, I listen to the instructor tell me to let go. She literally says “let go of whatever it is that brought you here,” like she’s reading my mind.  I focus on my breathing and what happened after that, I can’t really explain. The next thirty minutes were sort of a blur. I know I started to speak a little kinder to myself every time an angry, sad, or irritating thought bubbled up to the surface while I planked and pretzeled my body. I would parent myself through said thought, then go back to breathing. Before I knew it, my new best friend Heather/Haley was rubbing something that smelled like lavender on my forehead and I was lying limp as a noodle. My head was blissfully quiet.

I was feeling good. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay in that dimly lit studio all day on my ebola covered mat with Hagrid whispering positive affirmations into my ear. After class, I waited in line to gather my things from my cubby feeling more patient and peaceful than I have in a while. But it wasn’t long before my yoga high was interrupted by real life. On my way out, a woman scoffed loudly at me when I dropped my purse and had to stop in front of her to pick up my belongings. Another woman parked her car behind mine to chat with another yoga mom, so that I couldn’t pull out of the parking lot until they were done talking about how hard it is to parent gifted children. But it was all ok. I didn’t let it spoil the morning. I whispered, “Namaste, bitches,” and drove off feeling giddy.

I can’t wait for my next class.

Facebook memories make me weepy

So proud of Ms. Tay for getting 1st for her district wide Reflections photo.

Fun day at Dland thanks to their best employee, Uncle Jimmy!

Bringing home As in just about everything along with her crazy softball schedule. Proud of her for not inheriting my math block.

Smarty pants