Surprisingly, one aspect of my life that has actually improved during unemployment is my physical well-being. Instead of going to work, I actually have time to go running (er, and by “running,” I mean “walking fast and occasionally jogging for a block until I get out of breath and wheezy”) and to plan healthy meals. I’ve already lost all of the weight I gained during the Disgusting Bingefest Month of December and am feeling pretty fit and good about myself. (This doesn’t mean I don’t want a job, though. Hire me, please.)
I attended a yoga class the other day. I have a complicated relationship with yoga. I like it, but I think I always think I like it more than I actually like it because 90% of the time I either find that the classes a) make me want to die because I just CANNOT MAKE MY BODY DO THAT, or b) are too touchy-feely and boring.
I don’t think that I am that acquainted with my inner, spiritual life. I cannot meditate. When I try to meditate, I end up pondering the plot of LOST, which is a subject well worth pondering, but I don’t think it’s exactly the point. I hate saying “Namaste” when the class ends. It makes me feel sort of phony, like I am pretending to be all, like, down with Eastern culture in sort of a shallow way, like that annoying woman who wrote Eat, Pray, Love.
The super yoga-intense people kind of freak me out, too. They always seem serene in a way I admire, but also … sort of uppity as if they think that they are better than me just because they weigh 100 pounds and have expensive yoga clothes while I am wearing a shirt with Strawberry Shortcake on it. Before class starts, the hardcore yoga-istas contort their bodies in bizarre positions while I try to touch my toes. I get a little closer every day!
I do like yoga, though. I like the stretching and I like the way I feel after class is over. I finally found a class filled with mostly 70 year olds who have undergone hip replacement surgery and I think it just may be the class for me.
Namaste.
