I'm not naturally flexible. This is me, giving it my best effort to touch my toes. I'm not joking.
After I had Lillian, I took a Mommy-and-Me yoga class. It was fun but I was so totally not as flexible as the other women in the class. I asked the instructor how long I would have to do yoga before I would be able to do a simple down dog pose with my heels on the ground.
Ten years is what she guessed.
Ten. Years. We're coming up on 8 years, and still I'm nowhere close. She underestimated the power of my hamstrings.
The thing is- I hate yoga. The whole time I'm doing it, I think, "I hate this. I'm so uncomfortable. I don't want to breathe. I'm so bored." Plus, I now have a peanut gallery that says stuff like, "Mom, she said you're supposed to put your forehead on the ground." "Mom, she said that you're supposed to be on one leg." "Mom, she said to grab your toes."
Yet I do it. Because I fear that if I don't, I soon won't be able to bend over to put my own pants on. Which... actually... might not be a problem.
1 comment:
My peanut gallery likes to add helpful things like, "Wow, Mom, your but is so humongous. I mean, just really really big." Thanks for the moral support while I'm trying to do the right thing here, kids.
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