The spicey scent of incense still lingered in my hair, as I laid, sporadically writhing, staring at the hushed humming ceiling fan. This state I knew I'd reap from my vanity--even with the foreboding of the instructor before entering the studio, "Take it easy as it's your first time." Yet as soon as I walked in the 80+ degree room and surveyed the limber reeds that composed the rest of the class, I instantly forgot such a warning.
I did hold back at first, both intentionally and unintentionally as my slippery, sweaty palms slid out beneath me or gravity demanded my limbs to the earth far before I reached my third breath. The workout had been a welcomed challenge. I did take it slow, more for fear of making myself the fool--I am only accustomed to only blind eyes of digital yoga instructors and class mates via work-out dvds. I was very excited to try something new and bond with new friend.
Emma has graciously invited me to her cousin's hot yoga class. Both of us are "in between jobs" and this adventure to Shadyside's Yoga Flow was a perfect way to feel productive despite having no pay check and beat the still freezing grasp winter holds on Pittsburgh. My plan had been to start the day with some low-intensity but invigorating yoga, breakfast, then go for a short run, perhaps later blog a new running game.
Alas, my pride landed me here, dizzying myself as I traced the fan blades unremitting path about the light. Indeed, the very last pose, the final movement for the overall relaxing and centering experience: the plough.
(Compliments of ABC of Yoga)
Feeling amazing and allowing myself to get a little cocky, I decided to really go for it for this last pose. I heaved my legs up and over my smug face and allowed my feet to fall over my head like a victory wreath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale and drag my legs against gravity back over my head and "laying my spine down one vertebra at a time like strand of pearls. " Until this point, I noticed nothing amiss. Then, as my quaking heels approached within a foot of refuge on the floor, it felt as if someone had gone all Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the small of my back.
(Here would be picture of "lower back" via google image search if this hadn't resulted in lots of pictures of thongs, tramp stamps, and topless women)
At first I thought nothing of it. We went into that lay flat on your back on the floor for 5 minutes pose, and it seemed all was well. Even when I turned to the lay-on-your-side-and-try-not-to-fall-asleep-while-listening-to-soothing-music-after-a-long-work-out pose, I felt fine. It wasn't until I sat up, class finished, and tried to stand that it became apparent I had done something wrong.
Still full of adrenaline from an awesome work-out and not wanting to admit I had failed at yoga, I acted as if everything was cool. I mentioned nothing of it to my friend (sorry, Emma! I had a great time and really do want to give it another go, I promise!). I carried myself into my apartment, and collapsed on my bed to watch to unsympathetic ceiling fan.
The consent meditation that unfolded during the workout and endures now in recuperation was: I'm not doing all these things to be perfect; I'm doing it to cultivate a true quality of life. The goal is not perfection, it's a life worth living. Not Perfect, but Alive.
1 comment:
Don't knock the tramp stamp... ;-)
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