My mood swings are monumental in a way that makes Liza Minnelli look stable. Yoga has helped me even them out a bit and come to terms with the ones I can't manage gracefully. Still, during slumps, I whine about going to yoga the way a 6 year old whines about going to Sunday school -- complete with shoe throwing. Or, if you were a creative kid like me, hiding in the closet and refusing to get out of your pajamas by anything other than force. At any rate, this sort of behavior is REALLY unbecoming of a 30-something.
I had decided that the only way to get myself to stop making excuses was to include practice into my daily routine. If I was to go everyday, martini lunch be damned, I would, in theory, stop whining and just do it. Actually, this worked pretty well. The result has been far fewer hours spent wandering around the house, shoulders slumped, jaw slack, kicking things in my path, complaining about the impending yoga. The irony here is that I complain like this knowing that I will emerge from class the bright, pert woman I wish I was all the time. It is the only sure-fire cure for slumps that I have ever found. Does this knowledge make me skip into class merrily waving my rolled up yoga mat like a baton? Never.
What happens now, the shortened fit I have come to accept as my daily routine, is so predictable as to be obnoxious. Both my cat and my boyfriend have memorized their lines perfectly to get me the f*ck out of the door and on my way. I wish that meant I could dispose of the theatrics, but they seem interwoven into my person.
The daily script:
The deadline approaches. I wander into my boyfriend's home office and pull him (quite literally, his chair, conveniently, has wheels) away from his work, I curl up in his lap, as close to the fetal position as a full-grown adult can manage. I throw my head back and proclaim, "It's THAT time." This is said with the same inflection that one would inform their child that the asteroid will, in fact, be colliding with the planet, snuffing out the sun, at any moment.
He informs me what I already know, "You will feel so much better when you get done."
I inform him that, although what he said is common knowledge and I accept that, it makes my march into Mordor no easier a burden.
Several large sighs escape me before I begrudgingly let The Boy get back to his computer. I grab my things and go to yoga, telling myself the whole time that if I feel like sleeping through the entire floor series today, it is okay.
*Class* (cue fairy music)
After class I am energized. I am glad I rode my bike. I contemplate on the way home how freeing bicycling is. I decide dinner should be juice today. I am turning over a new leaf. Nothing but salads for a week. I could do a double (two yoga classes) tomorrow!
I realize I do this every time. Better to think realistically. Maybe dinner tonight just won't include a starch.
Halfway home my tummy grumbles and I think of ice cream. It's okay though, there are good alternatives. I could have some Italian ice before my salad. Five minutes later, it's sorbet. Five more minutes, it's gellato. Two minutes more and it's a scoop of rocky road, a scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough and a scoop of strawberry cheesecake ice cream, all topped with fudge. Whipped cream is a must, but we can balance it out with a banana...I should have some potassium for all the work I did.
I arrive at home happy, with plans to make a seven course meal. Now that I think of it, no wonder The Boy is so encouraging of my yoga habit.