I have had a day. Nothing terrible happened, it's just me. For instance, I cleaned the fridge today, thereby perpetuating a great good upon the world. Except then, as I firmly shut the doors in triumph, I realized that my stupid great good was INSIDE MY STUPID FRIDGE, and therefore could not matter less to 99.9999% of the world. And the few souls it does affect? Are almost guaranteed not to notice. *I* will not, in fact notice, because no one notices a clean fridge. You only notice a fridge that reaches out and punches you with its odor when you innocently open it, looking for butter. This managed to irritate me even more than the filthy fridge had.
Also, my parenting style today has been "flailingly shrill."
So tonight I went to yoga, not because I wisely thought that I could use some namaste in my world, but because it's Tuesday, and yoga is nonnegotiable on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. So I scooped up my mat, scraped Sophia off my leg (somehow the only time she ever gets clingy and "don't leave me, Mommy" is when I'm going to yoga), and stomped off to yoga.
Because that's how all the real yogis do it.
Plus, I ate pork before I left.
Anyhow, I got there in time to elbow my way in as the Zumba crowd bounced out (dang bouncy Zumba crowd), so I could floop my mat out front and center. I like to be up front because I am always lost. Since I got there early, I got to spend a few minutes before class, judging where the other people lay their mats. Again, totally yogini-ish.
THERE ARE ROWS, PEOPLE. Potentially, I mean. As long as you all don't have to GET RANDOM about your MAT PLACEMENT.
Now, I've only been back at yoga for a few months. And before that, I have mostly only done yoga when I was pregnant with Max. So. A few years ago. And it's not like I was the star of my yoga class back then, either. Don't give me that "no comparisons" line either. We all know there are yoga stars. And I'm not one of them. This is how I feel in my yoga class: All the other people there are like the very best Apple designs. Their bodies are sleek, and fit into the poses elegantly. I, on the other hand, have been put together by a ham-fisted toddler. Out of battered wooden blocks.
I don't care, though. I love yoga. I love it even though my body does not bend like that, and I'm pretty sure the teacher is mistaken when she suggests some of the poses. Even though there are wild claims thrown around about things like a third eye and energy lines and other things that don't seem to exist in my own, non-Apple designed body. Even when I'm surly, I love yoga. I clears away space inside my chest and lets me breathe. Yoga is good.
Tonight we did pigeon pose, and I cannot tell you how much I hate pigeon. Wait, let me find a picture. There you go. Be sure to scroll down so you can see that lovely, deceptive young woman fold over her leg like THAT is a THING you can DO. I love how that article is titled "Proper Pigeon Pose" - implying that the author KNOWS you are doing it wrong.
I do it wrong, because my hip does not work like that because that's not a thing hips do. Shut up. No.
And unlike other poses I regularly fail at, I hate pigeon the whole time we do it. And you're supposed to stay there for a good long time. Tonight, during our one hour and fifteen minute class, we spent seventeen years in pigeon.
"Relax into it," the teacher urged, "exhale and release deeper into the stretch."
I exhaled and released swear words in my inside-the-head voice.
"The hips hold frustration and anger, so if you're having difficulty with this pose, it is probably exactly what you need," she went on. "Embrace it. Accept it. RELAX into it."
I swore so vehemently in my head that I'm almost certain some of it was in Sanskrit.
"Now bend the leg behind you and reach back grab your foot," she purred, because she is a brutal meanie pants. I tried that, and promptly died of tightness and ouch.
Eventually our seventeen years were over, and we moved onto other, less horrible poses. By the time class was over, I was all sweaty and limp and ready to ROCK the final pose, which is corpse. You lie there. Motionless. I am a corpse STAR.
And then I rolled up my mat and toddled home, passably calm and content.
Now, the only reason I'm telling you all this is because if yoga can even work for me, for flailing, failing, swearing-in-my-head me, and take me from full-on grumpiness all the way to pretty much okay, well.
You know it's magic.