Last night I was invited to attend a hot yoga class. Exactly what I needed, it had been two months since my last class, spring may have finally arrived, (although that doesn’t explain my warm snifter, pipe and roaring fire) a reminder it will soon be moo-moo on the beach weather.
The kids had convinced me to bake a strawberry/rhubarb pie with them in the afternoon which fuelled the light and flaky fire to get me to the gym. If I ate a piece of this pie, there wouldn’t be a bathing skirt big enough to fit around my beach moo-moo and once again I’d be knocking on my mother’s door to sew something “tasteful” so off I went. I considered instead starting an anti-cellulite drive, collecting from neighbours, the timing would coincide with the annual Girl Guide cookie-a-thon but I ran out of time and my clipboard was nowhere to be found.
This former friend hadn’t mentioned it was an Advanced “Hot” Power Yoga class but glancing around the room, when you’re the only person not wearing a top-hat and tails from lululemon you know you’re in trouble. Anyone so heavily invested in their gym wardrobe has been around a sweat-lodge or two.
When it came time for “wheel” I didn’t even attempt it. Partially because “wheel” to me is “bridge” from gymnastics but “bridge” in yoga is something considerably easier. My wrists are a mess so I opted for the sane person’s version of a hamstring stretch. From the wheel on the bridge, people were then bending at the elbows and doing reverse, upside down, push-ups, the contortionist special with a triple jointed kicker. I was now eight moves behind still holding strong as an angry cat, very close to collapsing into child’s pose, knowing that’s exactly what this “non-competitive, compassionate” group of Gladiators would have wanted and I wasn’t going to cave.
Today, my body feels slightly worse than when I gave birth without drugs the first time. The overall ache of the flu, any effort to move my head more than an inch causes puss to ooze from my arm pits. I’m passing blood, my vision is blurred, my sense of smell no longer exists and it feels as though small fire ants are chewing at my finger nails from the inside out.
My five year old wanted to go for a bike ride, play tennis on the driveway, race each other to the apple tree and teach the baby “Head and Shoulders, Knees & Toes,” but somewhere in our sprinting intervals, my head popped off.
See you on the beach.
