Friday, November 14, 2014
I started a yoga practice though saying the phrase "yoga practice" makes me want to hurl; I don't want to be one of those Lulumon-clad expensive-blonde middle-aged estrogen-plummeting women who rush from their hair appointments to their yoga classes with their batik-print of elephants Fair Trade mat carriers and hemp 'n leather water bottle holders. Which is to say, I am fighting with myself.
I just saw this really adorable batik-print of elephants Fair Trade mat carrier. I had say, as if talking to my dog, NO! HEEL! DO NOT CHEW!
My "yoga teacher" (again, I want to hurl) is this lovely 60s round grandma-type who goes around when we are in corpse pose spritzing us with lavender water, asking us beforehand, if that's okay. I'm like, "Douse me, good woman!"
She adjusts my bolsters. She encourages me to find my sits bones, while the New Age Andean-pipe music softly flutes. She makes a point of suggesting we collectively dedicate our practice to something like world peace and in that moment while my "back body" is supposedly "finding the ceiling," I'm like, "Right on. World peace it is."