Day 73 The 80-20 Life
“I’ve been doing yoga for seven years,” our instructor, Randee, told us today. “And it took me three years before I could do Fixed Firm.”
As this is a pose that only took me a week or two to master, I suddenly felt pretty darn good about my practice. (Again, not me in the photo, but I think my alignment is more or less the same. At least, no one corrects me, so it must be close.)
After 73 days straight, it’s gotten to be something of a habit now. I’ve even had a few classes where I’ve sort of zoned out and suddenly, it’s over and everyone’s packing up.
My nemesis posture, Standing-Head-to-Knee, is coming along nicely. I can now get each knee straight, toes pointed backwards, Achilles flexed. For just a moment or two, but still. Next step, bending my head down to my knee, but I’m in no hurry. If it takes years, it takes years. I need to stop thinking of this as a quick fix, a 90-day boot camp, after which I’ll be able to go back to my sloth-like ways. I may take a few days off eventually, but I aim to continue four-five times per week. I like the way I feel, and I don’t want to lose that.
It’s not about perfection, or deprivation. It’s about making healthy choices 80% of the time.
I got another motivator recently, with the results of some routine bloodwork. My cholesterol – wow, this makes me feel old – has been edging upwards for some time now, a genetic albatross passed down from my mother’s side. (Strokes to the left of me, cancer to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you.)
In April 2010, my total number was 6.9, at which point I pretty much put my fingers in my ears and went la-la-la-la. As of February 2011, before I began my challenge, it was 7.1. I’d like to emphasize here that I’d just returned from Maui, where I freely admit my lifestyle was probably 80% mai tais, 20% lying around, but this forced me to take my fingers out and pay attention.
My HDLs – the good fats – are also high, which means my HDL:LDL ratio is still within normal range. Which is probably why I haven’t had a heart attack – yet.
I don’t know if Bikram yoga, without dieting, has a documented effect on cholesterol. My diet is fairly good anyway, pie notwithstanding, and I get really crabby when I’m hungry, so I’m not inclined to anything drastic here. But I will get my blood chemistry rechecked in a few months, and report back. If my cholesterol has gotten worse, despite my yoga challenge, then – and only then – I will reconsider giving up cutting down on pie.
Day 72 Crack Me Up
So as I continue my education in all things yoga, my reading has extended to a book called Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude, by Neal Pollack.
Very, ahem, different from my other recent readings. His catch-phrase is “Namaste, mother&*%$ers!” How can ya resist?
Here’s the bit I’ve been making everyone read, with full attribution to NEAL POLLACK. (I do not want this guy mad at me.) (Also, don’t judge me. Farts are just funny.)
“… One night,” writes NEAL POLLACK, “finally, I went to Tanya’s class. She had a degree in yoga therapy from the excellent program at Loyola Marymount. Her alignments were precise and invigorating. I could feel my warrior two improving markedly under her watch. We held our poses for a long time and it hurt; if your teacher makes your quadriceps hurt, you’re in good hands. Oh, how my yoga was evolving! My body and my mind were changing, becoming something grander and higher!
During the cool down, Tanya told us to draw our knees by our ears. We grabbed our feet with our hands and rocked gently from side to side. This was happy baby pose. My body felt free and loose, totally relaxed in every way.
A murmur emanated from my guts, and an airy whoosh moved through my intestines.
I then uncorked the sloppiest, wettest fart of my life, a desperate five-second bleat of sweet relief. The sound seemed to bounce around the walls of the studio like a rubber ball thrown at maximum velocity. I followed this with a series of three little toots, duckling farts chasing after their mother. It was like the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles except that, instead of cowboys, hot chicks in Spandex surrounded me, and I was the only one farting.
“Oh, yeah,” Tanya said. “That’s it.”
My fart had been so strong that even my teacher felt relief. I quaked with humiliation and self-hatred.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m such a Jew.”
The class roared in appreciative laughter, which made me even more nervous. Really, what did Judaism have to do with farting? My coment could be explained away by self-loathing, but what was their excuse? Were all yogis secret anti-Semites?
Regardless, from then on, whenever I went to Tanya’s class I couldn’t contain my flatulence. I ripped and hissed and tooted. There were silent deadlies and noisy, odorless farts. I farted while standing, sitting, and lying down. The sorrowful people next to me tried to stare stoically ahead and focus on their practice, but I knew they were thinking: Who is this hairy, ass-blowing Heeb next to me, and how can I prevent him from ever coming to class again?”
Day 71 Don’t Be an “I’m-Sorry-Butt”
The Vancouver Sun ran a piece by columnist Susan Schwartz this morning with the header “Apologies Often Remedy the Situation but Timing is Crucial.” A thought-provoking story as I’ve often mourned the demise of apology, blaming it on our increasingly-litigious culture. Politicians and CEOs are famous for this strategy: “Don’t apologize, don’t explain,” in order to avoid an expensive ruling against them. (Now maybe this makes good business and/or political sense. I wouldn’t know. Maybe it’s a male thing. Again, out of my experience pool.)
And thus what should be a simple “I’m sorry” gets mangled into the weasely “Mistakes were made,” or the pompous “I regret that such-and-such occurred” sort of dodging.
Translation: “Mistakes were made… but not by me,” and “I regret that such-and-such didn’t occur on your head sooner… and from the cloaca of a low-flying gull.”
People screw up, it’s a fact. And, except for the sociopaths among us, we feel uncomfortable when we screw up. Lower on the totem-pole of worthiness. Naturally, we want to get rid of the discomfort asap, so our immediate reaction is to pull up the defenses and pour on the effort to deny, deny, deny, as if “I didn’t do it” could magically turn back time.
Of course, if you’re Mennonite, or a woman, or worst of all, a Mennonite woman, you might be prone to saying “I’m sorry” as a matter of course, whether you’ve done a bad thing or not, which swings the pendulum of accountability in the opposite direction, but with no better results.
An insightful therapist once pointed out to me that that phrase “I’m sorry” is completely focused on the offender. Taken to the full Menno-Monty, it goes something like this: “I’m sorry, I’m such a loser, I’m the worst person ever, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I try and I try but I …” (dissolve into racking, mucous-filled tears).
In this Menno-Monty martyrdom scenario, the offender slyly regains power by making themselves appear long-suffering victims of their own baseness and how mean are you to point this out! When in fact they’ve learned to rather enjoy the toasty flames tickling their toes.
In fact, Mennos aside, all the offended parties need is some recognition of their own experience. E.g. “It must have been unpleasant for you when I farted into the oscillating fan just as it swung your way. I’m sorry. I’ll aim away next time.” The offender accepts responsibility, while acknowledging the offended party’s feelings and thereby if he/she is very lucky, avoids being booted out of bed.
Maintaining relationship equilibrium is about balance. Party A takes, Party B gives. Next time around Party B takes and Party A gives. One person offends, acknowledges, apologizes. The other calls foul, accepts apology, forgives. No “you owe me,” or tucking it away in that secret bad-deeds bank account we all have.
It’s the golden rule of screw-ups: apologize unto others as you’d have them apologize unto you, because sooner or later, what hits the fan will originate with you. Politicos and CEOs who can apologize? Gems among men. (Okay, or women, but let’s be real.)
Admitting and forgiving, that’s grown-up work.
No need for lawyers at all.