It’s yoga week.
The week I’m supposed to do yoga for seven days. In a row. I didn’t start Yoga week until Tuesday because, well, Sunday and Monday I just flat didn’t feel like it. I did make it out to a new studio that opened in town on Tuesday, and they offer your first week free. I figured this would be a great way to get going on the first yoga week of training since I love feeling like I snuck into a fancy wedding reception every time I saunter into the glossy new building, swagger beneath the soothing dimness of expertly hung origami light fixtures, change into my Target Brand for Target designer yoga gear in the ochre and orchid swathed locker room (are they still “lockers” if they’re made of reclaimed bamboo?), and take my place in the even more dimly lit half-glass half-ochre and orchid swathed studio.
I missed last night. I planned to attend the very last class of the day, and a dear friend finally snagged me to end a 4-day game of epic phone tag. I felt a little guilty having slacked on even starting yoga week until Tuesday and then bailing out on the very next night. But I decided some things are more important that checking boxes. And really, there’s nothing more yoga than that.
I have a new strategy: The Yoga Date.
While the benefits of training partners are widely touted, I typically avoid the buddy system becuase my second grade teacher said it best when she reported that this blob “does not play well with others.” I mean I enjoy the company of others, and I like to talk about training with similarly inclined folks, but when it comes to actually meeting up and working out together, I usually clam right up. It’s inherently competitive, isn’t it? And since I’ve never beaten anyone at anything physical, training partners just isn’t my best look. You’re supposed to train to feel good about yourself, and for me the idea of feeling good working out under someone’s watchful eye is as fundamentally flawed and my form.
I’m under the gun now to – seriously, no really – not miss any more yoga during yoga week. This means that I have to put my spread-toed foot down and say no to offers to hangout with friends when I should be getting my zen on . . . unless . . . I could do that thing with the two birds and the one stone. I’m lucky that several of my non-blob friends are just enough into yoga to be up for some down dog, but not so into it that they’re zealous zenemies. (Zenemy: (n) Yogi on the mat next to you self-righteously exhaling louder than a 747 while graciously swinging both legs from a death-defying side crow to a deeper-than-thou chaturanga pushup, peeking sidelong at you from under lids fluttering with the euphoria of a cleansed seventh chakra to confirm that they are keeping up with the ohmses; (2) The enemy of you; (3) the enemy of Zen. (syn) One-upper.) I’m luckier still to live in a town where so many yoga classes back up to so many happy hours. As long as I can get a non-blob friend to agree that getting a glass of malbec in your yoga pants is totes the new black, I may get three birds, yet.
Friend time, yoga time, wine time = win, win, win.