Nama-f*kin-ste

"You'll love her. Within the first two minutes you will see just how awesome she is."

This, being said to me by my chiro on the yoga teacher that was about to teach the introductory yoga class. We were speaking about how I've tried yoga many times - three times in fact - and all three quite unsuccessfully. The first time was about 20 years ago with hubby who had enrolled both of us as an alternative to him committing murder because I was driving him crazy. My inability to still myself or my mind was throwing his very much needed tranquil world into chaos. And so I went. Reluctantly might I add. And of course the teacher was like 90 years old and so flexible and in good shape that it did nothing to inspire me but instead made me throw in the towel because I realized that my 30s were more like her 90s and her 90s more like my 30s. We had switched lives and yet did not even know each other. Amazing. I couldn't bend or do simple poses because my body had calcified to the point of no return and when the class was over I was exhausted! Hubby couldn't understand, wouldn't understand, refused to understand and so forced me to continue for the remaining three classes. I hated him and I couldn't kill him because the consequence of that act was not too appealing and I really wasn't into being anyone's bitch.

Fast forward second attempt years later. This time with my bestest and we tracked down the 90 year old who was now 150 and teaching out of her home. I told my BFF how amazing she was. She was still amazing but she was now taking care of an ailing husband and all she wanted to do was chat. We took one class and called it a day. I loved my yogini but she was seriously depressing me.

Fast forward third attempt some more years later. I enrolled with a coworker in a continuing ed yoga class being offered through the college for six weeks. I toughed it out all the while attempting unnatural poses that pressed on nerves that screamed of pain and for six weeks I drove home after each session in a state of shock that left me nonverbal and in a disabled physical state for a few days. My husband loved it because finally I was quiet and his wish had come true.

Fast forward to this week. This time I brought my daughter with me. And the session began. And yes the instructor was wonderful and great and awesome, but once again not a half hour in and I felt like I had been hit my a mac truck. This renewed interest failed to give the necessary impetus to a body that still had no interest in moving. This body was obviously made for lounging and I was ready to coddle it and support its wish and lie on my mat - which I did at one point - but my daughter then shot me an evil look and so I mustered what little reserved energy I had left to humor the fucking kid and finished my session. No solace whatsoever from the clone. Again, on my way home - and thank God she was driving - I was nonverbal and in a state of shock. It appears whenever I'm exhausted my vocal chords refuse to emanate sound and that's just dandy with me. And everyone else for that matter.

But then I hear, "Get over it. We're seeing this through." *sigh* You'd think as my creation she'd be a little more sympathetic toward the one that gave her life, but no.... at the moment, she sounded just like her father. And if I could have slapped her, I would've but I couldn't get my arm to move. It hurt too much. It's alright, one day I will die in a middle of a pose and I will finally be vindicated.

Another eight weeks of Hell. I could be wrong but I don't think this is how one is supposed to feel after yoga.

Yeah.

Nama-fucking- ste....