Today was a just-get-through it kind of day, and I’m almost embarrassed about how light and momentary all my little trials really were. I could make excuses about monstrous PMS or the first time swimming this summer with Both Things, or about the rain waking One up from his nap or about monstrous PMS (did I mention that already?), but all this pales in comparison to things some of my friends are going through: months-long bed rest diagnoses, major anxiety, new babies, marriage tribulation. If I really wanted to discover the meaning of just-get-through it, I should walk a mile in their Manolos. Except none of us can afford Manolos and none of my friends exercise.
Honestly, my biggest problem tonight is debilitating angst over whether or not I will look bloated and horrible in my yoga class tomorrow. That’s right. Deep hatred for me is what you just experienced. I decided last week that yoga is just the thing to do this summer because if you live around the corner from a studio and don’t take advantage, it’s bad karma. (I think I have to say things like “karma” when talking about yoga, and if I can work in “my bliss” or “soy” somewhere later in this blog, the word feng shui will be complete.) You see, I am aware of this thing called swimsuit season — which sounds like a second cousin to “hurricane season” or “tornado season.” My dad likes to point out, with great relish, that tornado season and hurricane season don’t actually become seasons until a tornado or hurricane actually happens, and then a regular repetition must follow for the term “season” not to be ludicrous. He hates all the tornado/hurricane propaganda in general, and feels inventing whole seasons dedicated to them — before the storms have even presented themselves — is like declaring it meatball season or some other meaningless tripe. I like to think it’s that way with swimsuit season. If I don’t participate, the season doesn’t really get to happen. Swimsuits, unlike summer, are optional.
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But being the sucker for marketing I am, off to yoga I go. I went to buy some yoga wear yesterday and was impressed with the range of selection in spandex fashion. Spandex has had a bleak history involving seedy characters in 80s workout videos, but just try to walk down the street nowadays without tripping over some soccer mom wearing it from head to toe. The lady working at the store asked me where I was “practicing,” and what kind of clothes I like to “practice” in and if I had “practiced” yoga very long. She tried to sell me a $60 yoga mat because all that practicing requires some top-notch rubber. I told her I was just trying it out and that I better go with the on-sale mat, the one for $19, which might as well have been the flattened husk of a burned out spare tire by the way she looked at it.
She asked if I was looking for something specific clothes-wise, and when I told her I was considering some yoga shorts, she promptly eyeballed me and guessed me at a size up from what I usually wear. Fail, sales lady. Big fat fail. Except she was right about the size. This only made me more determined to get down to the Wellness Center to start feeling — and looking — well-er.
The yoga instructor herself was actually quite a bit more down to earth, even though her name was “Nina.” I was the youngest participant and was just one of four so I really felt the pressure to perform. I didn’t do half bad, but there was a point where I almost curled up in a fetal position and took a nap. Did you know they have a 15-minute “relaxation” time in yoga classes? That’s something I could get used to practicing.
I guess when it all boils down, I’m grateful for just-get-through-it days if the worst I have to get through is a barricade of bully hormones and a bevy of delightful, if unfamiliar terms. Like “soy.”
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