Stupid, Too

I went to a yoga class last night for the first time in many, many years.  I had worked out in the morning and felt like yoga in the evening as I work my way back in time, as I try to get back to the womb.  I went eagerly to a new studio, a place I'd never been before to practice with a new instructor.  Oh. . . thank god he was a gentle man.  It was Astanga, the same as I practiced before, so I had a vague memory of how things went.  You wouldn't have known it, though.  The studio was hot and muggy and a bit stale from the summer air.  A storm was just rolling through as we began our session.  I was sweating at the first position, just standing and raising my chest and pushing my feet into the mat and breathing.  I knew I was in trouble.  Just standing tall seemed an effort.  By the time we got to the mat for the first vinyasa, my forearms were running sweat.  My hands were sliding all over the mat.  Again, I was thankful that the class was slow and gentle.  My back and neck and hips and knees and shoulders hurt viciously.  My pores were bleeding the toxins I've been storing up in the fat of my belly, arms, and back.  I was embarrassed, of course, which is not the way to be in yoga.  At the end of the session, the instructor told me, "Make sure you drink some water."

Ha!

I had thought to stop at the market to pick up dinner after yoga, but I was soaked so badly through and through that it wasn't an option.  Home for a shower, I looked in the mirror.  Yes, I was definitely starving the little animal attached to my back.  I could almost stand to look at myself there.  Almost.  Just a quick peek, enough for an impression.

I felt beautiful walking through the market.  Surely everyone was marveling at my glow.  I was walking straight and true, my gimpy knee feeling stronger, my eyes crystal clear.  I began to remember how this used to feel.  I was one with my one true self.

Lobster bisque, spicy tuna roll, an expensive sake. . . maybe a little whiskey.  I wrote an email.  It was pretty awful.  I had to confess that the healthy life is not as good for the creative life as alcohol.  Water and air do not a writer make.  I knew I would have to strike a balance.  In all this healthy living, I am losing my creative desire.  There are no good vegan yoga novels.  Nope.  Good writing comes from a different place.

My house repair guy stopped by this morning.  I hadn't seen him for six months or so.  He had left some tools here that he needed for another job.  Last time he was here, his wife had left him, moved to Texas, and had sued him for divorce.  He was living alone and was preparing for his new life.  He had quit smoking, quit drinking cokes, and was walking every night.  He had lost weight and was looking better, fresher.  Today he told me that his wife had come back.  She had moved back in, he said, but it wasn't going so well.

"No shit.  There's a surprise."

He's smoking again, drinking cokes, not walking, and he looks beat.  His belly is hanging over the front of his pants so that the top of them folds over.  His laugh had a mean edge to it.

I have to go now.  It is time to clean up before my maids get here.  And then on to spinning class.  Yes, I think it is stupid, too.  I know it is.  But so is the other.