After years of taking classes here and there and eventually acknowledging that I don’t know my asana from a hole in the ground, something strange has happened: I actually caught the yoga bug, thanks to an online recommendation to try Yoga with Adriene (she’s just the coolest and most laidbackest, I swear) which I can’t believe I’m admitting, because when does somebody as angsty as I am fall in love with yoga, let alone YouTube yoga? And yet. There’re seems to be something to all this quiet strength, mind-and-body mumbo jumbo all these yogi people keep crowing (ha! Get it?! Crow! Because it’s a pose!) about.
I really hate it when I’m wrong.
But here’s the thing: when you exercise at home, or really, when you have a toddler and a dog who follow you around the house wherever you go, “time on the mat” means more wrestling than stretching. The three-year-old army-crawls under you during downward dog. The actual dog curls up to take a nap on one end of the mat while you hold mountain pose on the other. The three-year-old climbs onto your back during child’s pose. And plank. And cobra. He scales your thigh when you’re trying to hold Warrior I without shaking. The dog thinks you want to play, and gnaws at your fingers and licks your arms and climbs on top of your shoulder when you’re trying to do work on the floor. Then the two of them–my two toddlers–start playing and yapping and yelling and giggling, and right when you’re in the middle of triangle pose they barrel into you and you fall over with a yelp onto your iPad and spend the rest of your practice with a throbbing wrist and drumming desire to lock the door from now on and pretend you’ve lost the hearing in both ears.
Yoga. So calming. So invigorating. So very, very necessary.