I’ve had an extremely emotional and stress full couple of weeks, well months really. The culmination of which are stirring up all kinds of terrible things in side. Like actually you know what I really wanna be when I grow up? A princess or a goat farmer. A princess-goat-farmer-cheese-monger-philanthropist. Any thing else just won’t do. *If you know a feasible way to make my dreams a reality please, please, please get in contact with me*
Things are shitty, they’ve been shitty and they aren’t getting easier. Flailing in career upheaval, relationship woe’s, school conundrums and general distaste for hateful people, life feels hopeless.
Waaawwwwww. I know, cry me a river.
So what cha gonna do about it? Huh.
-Take a mental health day, check. At least I didn’t wake up to a screaming alarm and didn’t immediately start counting all of the ways that I hated my lot in life for once.
-Watch gif’s of puppies playing in a pile of leaves… thanks for the recommendation.
-Wallow in a puddle of self-loathing and finger pointing…. turns out that’s not particularly productive.
-Try to change my shitty God damned attitude and be grateful for all of the beauty and ease in my life. I’m working on it.
Last week J and I went to the Santa Fe Community Yoga Center for the first time. I’ve been to many a yoga studio, pretty ones, smelly ones, ones that cost a billion dollars, ones that I couldn’t stand and ones that I didn’t want to leave.
This place is different, sweet and humble. Nothing elegant, pushy or uptight about it. You can tell that the center was a realization of someone/s dream to have a legitimately affordable (they have a ton of donation only classes every week) house of yoga and love (plus they do a bunch of community out reach to public school students). Which is perfect because I need to stretch my self physically and emotionally on a dime. I honor the light in you, amen.
We had a lovely vinyasa session full of sun salutations. It is so nice to move your body like that. I get a little squeamish around all of the hippy dippy declarations that yoga changes your life. Come see the light. Namaste. But, it does do something spiritual to you plus makes you high on endorphins and lactic acid release. Here’s the catch unless you’re way more dedicated to the cause than I you have to go somewhere and pay someone. It’s just not the same in your living room.
Between not trying to explode in laughter from the faces that J was making I was evaporating so much emotional crap. By the poetry reading at the end tears were streaming down my face. Ohh, I’ll be back.
So today, on my mental recovery day, I went back. To something called Rest & Restore Yoga.
Given the description I decide that this is a glorified version of bed yoga. Not to toot my own horn too much but if bed yoga was an actual practice and there were belts I would be a 4th degree black belt. I make stretching and yawning in my own bed my bitch.
So I go.
Turns out I was the only one there under the age of 65. I’ve got news for you, rest and restore might be the perfect yoga for ‘old people’ but it treated me pretty well. I involuntarily cried nearly the whole time. Released some seriously deep emotions and felt like a million bucks afterward.
Feeling restored, well at least not completely destitute, reacquainted with my soul. Spilling over in gratitude for the incredible little human that belongs to me. Savoring every breath. Awh, good to go, take on the world, but first let me stop by the bathroom.
Washed the cup I borrowed. Peed. Went to wash my hands, and AHHHHHH!
“FUCK, GOD DAMN, FUCK, SHIT THAT HURTS, WHAT THE FUCK!!!!”
I’m sure my stream of the least zen words that I could conjure radiated through that beautiful little space. I’m so very sorry grandma.
You see I went to wash my hands. Depressed the soap dispenser and wham. It jetted out at the perfect angle with great velocity under my glasses (which are notoriously called safety goggles for their hugeness) and into my unsuspecting eye.
Per chemistry class protocol I stuck my whole head under the sink, muttered every other profanity in the book and attempted to flush my eye out. My face is still puffy, my eye still blood shot and honestly still too stingy for an hour post incident.
That’s my life— well that’s life. Just when you’ve found your place in the universe. Fixed all of the internal dialogue the corrosive, un-washable, sting of life takes another shot at you. If you’re me it wins for a little bit, you may say some things that you regret and then you wipe away the tears, dry your hands, and walk out of the bathroom and smile,
“Sorry, I got soap in my eye, see you next week”.
And you leave. I will actually see them next week and again this week. I’ve learned not to scare easy, but I’ll be damned if I ever wash my hands at that sink again. At least I learn.
*ohhh wee, for a good time google sexy men doing yoga, here’s a sampling you’re welcome.*