Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Yoga is hard

On Tuesday evening, I went to my first yoga class. The instructor is a new friend, the kind of person I aspire to be: fit, strong, smart, organized, a farm-to-table eater.
This was Tuesday evening. Here it is Thursday afternoon, and I am JUST NOW able to ascend stairs without a fast reminder that yoga kicked my butt two days ago.
Had I known how hard yoga is, especially for the beginner, I most assuredly would not have gone.
I am telling you: that 45 minutes spent pushing and pulling my body around on a thin foam mat was grueling. I literally had sweat dropping onto the purple mat. There was a time thirty minutes in when I thought I might die, even.
I persevered, however, and figured that my body would hurt the next day. I was wrong. By 2 a.m., only six hours later, my wrists, which were throbbing, awoke me. My inner thighs felt tight and untethered at the same time. Weird feeling. By the time I got out of bed at 4:45, my arms were encased in concrete. Lifting my arm to brush my teeth hurt.
So I figure that I need to return to that mat next Tuesday, too, only this time I am going to go more at my own pace and not try to follow every move the instructor gives.
If I end up in Child's Pose for 75 percent of the routine, so be it.

What my instructor looks like:
What I look like:

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