Saturday, June 4, 2016

YOGAtta Be Kidding Me

I love you guys, I know you are trying to help, but if you want to help, bring me an almond brioche from Cassis bakery. Treat me to a month of unlimited Netflix, or better yet Amazon Prime with unlimited video streaming. Take me to get a crunchy tuna bowl at Fresh Kitchen, but...when I tell you I am stressed out, STOP TELLING ME TO DO YOGA!

Now, I was born stressed out. I was on a tranquilizer at the age of two because of the fact that I had to stay up all night trying to solve the world's problems. My poor young parents were like, "Please GOd just let her shut the fuck up and go to sleep, PLEASE!" When that didn't work, they took me to the pediatrician and back then, before there was an FDA I guess, pediatricians were allowed to prescribe little baby ambiens for infants. So, I was okay for a few years until Kindergarten hit, but that's another story...one that I haven't quite gotten to the bottom of yet, though my therapist thinks we are getting really close. Really, really close. So...that's good.

Anyway,  when I say I'm stressed out, it can be for a myriad of reasons, anything from they are out of Belgian Endive at Publix, to my 24 year old daughter is holding open houses by herself in domiciles that look like the Breaking Bad motor home, or I just noticed a weird mole on my back that looks like a Skittle. In other words, I am always stressed about something.

When I was REALLY stressed, during my divorce, I read book after book on how to deal with it and you know, take it down a notch. "Try Yoga," they said. "It really works," they said. Okay, I tried it. I put on some yoga pants and one of those braless mini tops and went to my first yoga class. No one told me you had to bring your own mat, so I ended up using one that someone had left behind weeks ago, after they came to the realization that a Cosmo and a sushi roll would be a lot more calming then sitting on the floor next to a bunch of people with sweaty feet.

So, we begin. We begin by breathing in, breathing out. Okay, I think...I can do this. And then we do our first pose, which I don't remember the name of it but I do remember trying to put my foot up by my ear. It was then I noticed my toenail cuticles looked like old, peeling bathroom caulk. I thought back to when I last had a pedicure. It was before the whole divorce thing began. I then thought about my alimony, and wondered how much money I would have to put aside each month to afford the pedicure with the hot wax treatment and what could I do without, in order to afford this luxury. Generic coffee beans? Frozen mini chicken pot pies? Has it come to this now?

Then I thought, maybe I could get my daughter to paint my toenails since no one is really touching my feet anyway, but this is Florida and they still need to  look nice in my Target flip flops and it's really hard for me to reach them. And then I thought, my poor children. It will be up to them to care for me, take me out for ice cream once a week, reset my iPad password every other day when I forget it. The years will pass and eventually I will fall getting out of the bathtub...it's bound to happen, these Florida tile floors are so slippery.

And then, before I knew it the class was over and I was so worked up and panic stricken, I left the mat on the floor with my big sweaty butt print on it and nearly ran to my car, so anxious was I to get home and see what could be done with my toenails after I stopped at Walmart for a big rubber bathmat.

So, please, yoga may work for you but for me? I will take puff pastry filled with marizpan and powdered sugar during a House of Cards binge every time. Now THAT is Zen.



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2 comments:

  1. I have tried yoga not once, not twice, but three times, and it's just not for me. Instead of relaxing, I find myself fidgeting and thinking. And the whole barefoot thing is most definitely not for me!

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