The countdown has officially begun: seven days until I begin
yoga teacher training. Entries from my journal include such phrases as “I feel
in a way that yoga has given me back my voice” and “I feel very powerful.”
Until last evening, when I became paralyzed with anxiety and doubt. I CAN’T
EVEN DO A HEADSTAND. Those kind of thoughts are invading what was my calm,
tranquil, ready mind. WHAT AM I THINKING!!!!! I feel like I just graduated from
sixth grade and am getting ready to enter a masters’ program in physics. I’M NOT READY!
Part of it is a dirty little secret: Envy, which has been my
companion for more years than I like to think about. He’s always by my side, bitch-slapping
me, whispering in my ear, insisting that I compare myself to that long drink of
hot water standing there with the hot guy and perfect children getting ready to
board their yacht for a quick trip around the world.
They don’t call him one of the seven deadly sins for
nothing. He’s nipping at my heels even before my training begins, but I’m on to
that green-eyed bastard. I’ve forgotten more of Dante than I ever knew, but he
also had Envy’s number: envious people
had to totter along (probably in stilettos and with one arm tied behind their
backs) with their eyes sewn shut with wire. Ouch – that would really smart.
I know that the hot babe might also be eyeing me with envy.
Her husband might be a controlling jerk (yes, I know you’re thinking of the
sick fuck who murdered Cecil the Lion), one of her kids might be really sick and
she might be dreading the trip. She
might want to trade places with me in that moment because I obviously don’t live
on kale and mineral water, I’m laughing with friends and I don’t have to worry
that pirates are going to overtake me on the high seas.
I work hard not to compare myself to others – it’s
soul-sucking and can be especially hard during yoga practice when I feel
envious of the young, thin, lovely lasses who flow so gracefully through class,
as if they were faeries dancing on my lawn. Then the double-whammy hits: envy
makes me a bad yogi! Shame on me! And
then the triple play: if only I’d been more athletic when I was younger, if
only I had pursued gymnastics or dancing or running instead of wine and vodka. My running career consisted of two events
years ago:
- I occasionally worked out at a gym with a humorless
woman who relentlessly walked the Stairmaster. She was desperate for a fourth
person in a relay race, thought I was being modest when I said I didn’t run and
browbeat me until I agreed. So my friend
Krissy and I showed up at the race, each wearing shorts and one half of a pair
of tights, a la Flo Jo. We thought we were hilarious. Not so the Stairmistress,
who was pissed when she saw us and even more so when I took 72 minutes to run a
quarter of a mile and then laughed and said, “I told you I couldn’t run!”
The beautiful Florence Joyner.
- My friend Mitzi and I decided to compete in a mile race at work. For exercise, we ran to Taco Bell and stuffed ourselves, then plodded back to work, complaining bitterly the whole way about how full we were. We also thought we were hilarious when we didn’t have enough money to pay for our feast and tried to bargain with the cashier; the guy behind us finally threw the difference on the counter. He was not amused.
But I digress. Just one more reason I’m not ready: my mind
doesn’t travel in logical circles and I haven’t had to study or memorize things
since the flower children were in power.
However, I’m moving forward. I’m reading a book called The
Gifts of Imperfection, where the author says, “If we want to know why we’re all
so afraid to let our true selves be seen and known, we have to understand the
power of fear and shame. If we can’t stand up to the never good enough and who
do you think you are? we can’t move forward.
Yeah, baby - I'm moving on.
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