balance

I went to yoga this morning for the first time in a couple of weeks and found myself literally coming face to face with the fruits of my own sloth.

As I hung there in Downward Facing Dog, quietly contemplating my Suddenly Swinging Belly and groaning my way through a Decidedly Defeated Warrior (to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, you go to war with the body you have, not the body you want) I was struck by how much I had let myself slide, and how little time it had taken to do so.

We were entertaining again this weekend ~ the house was already clean and really, how often can that be expected to happen? ~ and again the larder was full of Fabulous Forbidden Foods (herbed goat cheese...foccacia bread...tagliatelle alla Bolognese... CAKE! I never get to eat CAKE!) while I was full of...well, let's just say I was full of excuses not to cut back, work out or basically discipline myself in any way.

As can be expected, I am now sporting one magnificent Muffin Top which, though it sounds like a yummy yoga pose (yay!) is actually that soft tubular roll that billows inelegantly over low-riding jeans (booo!)

We had a new instructor today; one with whom I was not familiar but apparently everybody else was. She is a tiny Korean woman ~ no more than 5 feet tall and 80 pounds if that ~ with the body of a dancer and the manner of a marine drill sergeant. No soft-spoken hippie-child she, with the caressing tones and gentle exhortations to "listen to your body," and "just do what feels best for you today..." that I have become accustomed to and seduced by.

No. When this little Yoga Sarge yells, "Plant your feet!" you plant your feet; when she bellows "Dig deeper!" you start to burrow down and when, to the sweet background flutter of flutes and Hare Krishnas she barks, "Lift higher!" well, you damn well lift till you break something.

She, meanwhile, is twisting and contorting her own body with all the strength and agility of a Chinese acrobat. If a glittering trapeze had dropped out of the ceiling and she started to fly, I would not have been in the least surprised. As she moved with effortless grace into a standing split, her body one elegant vertical line, head tucked behind her ankle and feigning confidence that we would follow her example, I was heard to gasp out loud. And not just because I was trying to, you know, stand upright.

Later, when Zen Master Zena asked if we could feel the stretch during some sort of twisted, CIA-invented, one-armed, sideways, leg-up-in-the-air-plank/torture and we all cried out in pain, she giggled.

I love this girl.

She's only teaching the Monday class for two more weeks. If I can keep the chips out of the pantry and the cake out of my face, I may be able to get myself back into some sort of shape. And maybe my inner warrior won't feel as defeated as my outer warrior looks.

Just in time to go on vacation. Namaste.