Sunday funday has such a nice ring to it. Why is there no similarly catchy phrase for what comes after Sunday funday?
- On the 7th night she wept-ed
- I’m weepy like Sunday evening
- Fright night
- Lo, the death of freedom approaches on a fast horse
- Don’t look at the Blackberry don’t look at the Blackberry don’t look at the Blackberry…fuck.
- Extra wine to try and feel fine
What I’m saying is, I’m dreading the work week. I need to be practicing positive visualization or voodoo or something but even with that…I just don’t know. Things are not going well and I’m starting to get a bad feeling that the eventual resolution may not be “everything gets magically better.”
I have gone to four yoga classes in the past week. That brings my lifetime total up to six, and in the second one, a few years ago, I basically curled into a ball and prayed for death after about ten minutes, so. In this week’s fourth class I finally learned what a sun salutation is. I mean, I’d been doing them (or rather “doing them”) but I had no idea the sequence was, like, a thing. A thing that I had heard of. (And doesn’t “sun salutation” sound like something those fit moms with the shiny hair do before they pick up their cleverly named children from Montessori? Or alternatively, the kind of thing women who have sex do? I would like to be one of those kinds of women.)
Anyway, the a-ha moment I had with the sun salutation was a lot like my surprise as a child when I finally realized that the days of the week came in the same order every time. The world lost a little magic that day. Remember when you were little and had no sense of time? That was a good phase.
In yoga, I have also learned that:
- My knees really hurt.
- My muscles do not twist/bend/stretch etc, despite the fact that I have been carefully preserving them in their original packaging for years now.
- Yoga feels like church/I may actually have a previously undiscovered bent toward New Age things/I am having a spiritual crisis- slash-awakening that is messing with my ironic shell
- The word “chataranga” is the best word ever. I don’t actually like to do the chataranga–a kind of planky push-up thing that hurts me all over — but I really like to say it. I think it’s my new all-purpose euphemism for genitals, among other things. For example: “Man, this bicycle seat is hurting my chataranga.”
- I always thought this was a dirty lie perpetrated by my natural enemies, The Fit, but it’s actually true that second-day muscle soreness is greatly alleviated by exercise. What next? “Exercise improves your mood?” If The Fit turn out to be right…well, you are not going to want to see the existential crisis that will provoke. Or the ass-kicking.
- I am TERRIBLE at yoga. Terrible. The worst student in the class by a factor of ten. I like it anyway. Namaste, haters.
- Shavasana –the deep relaxation pose at the end of yoga where you commune with your breath or something — makes me cry, every single time
On a COMPLETELY UNRELATED NOTE I have been keeping track of what I eat in an app and you guys. The most surprising things have lots of calories. One day I rode my bike to yoga–you know how I do–and then, after class (the one where I learned that I was doing the child’s pose wrong) (that’s the resting pose, the one any child could do) I went to Whole Foods because I thought my evening of masquerading as one of The Fit wasn’t quite complete. Also, frankly, the idea of walking through Whole Foods wearing yoga pants, carrying a yoga mat, and exuding a glow of inner peace (or sweat, whatevs) excited my chataranga. Anyway, I bought some vegan General Tso’s chicken because that stuff is delicious for some reason* and then I sprinted home up the 16th St.hill** and after I ate my snooty overpriced dinner I entered it into my calorie app and it turns out that shit had, like, 1100 calories. ELEVEN HUNDRED. WTF. It’s barely even real food. “Seitan” indeed…could it be….SATAN?
*I like steak too.
**This is a lie.
Maybe when this all goes to shit I can get a job as a yoga teacher.***
***This is, hands down on the floor with your fingers making contact with mother earth as you gaze upward to elongate your spine, THE funniest sentence that has ever appeared on this blog. Or perhaps on the entire internet.
A list of things that make me cry in spite of what has been called my “tough exterior” and “intimidating demeanor” by men who are too scared to date me even though I am actually incredibly warm, nurturing, and good in bed. That’s not a joke–I really am
- That mix pop radio stations play during fireworks displays with patriotic songs like “Proud to be an American”
- The gay pride parade
- The death of Dr. Mark Green on ER
- Dead/wounded/sad/lonely dogs
- The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
- Newborn babies, especially those produced by people I love
- My boss (this one too!)
- Heartbreak and its long tail (not lately though, thank god)
In closing, what if I quit my job, sublet my apartment, and left on a year-long yoga retreat — co-ed, with internet access — and came back all thin and centered and bendy AND THEN had a baby with someone who could put his feet behind his head (and had a trust fund) AND THEN wrote a book about the experience that was tender, yet tough, yet wise, and according to A.O. Scott had “emotional clarity” and a “provokes tears of empathy only paragraphs after tears of laughter”? Maybe “a universal story for everyone who has been looking for their place and worrying they would never find it”?
I would so read that.