Day 42 Whose Idea Was This, Anyway?
42 days of Bikram yoga. Forty-two. In a row. Day after day. 90 minutes each time. That’s 63 HOURS of yoga. SIXTY-THREE HOURS. (Unless my math is wrong. I calculated it first in my head at 21 hours and then 84 hours, before getting out the calculator. But now we’re just quibbling about details. No matter how you slice the numbers, it’s a freakin’ long time in the hot room.)
And I’m tired again. Is it worth it? Is there any reason not to take a day off, besides the mental challenge? I don’t know. But I’m going to keep going. My stick-to-it-iveness needs a shot in the arm, and if anyone out there in the blogosphere wants to hit that tiny “like” button at the bottom of this post, or drop me a comment, I’d appreciate it.
My goal now is 60. It’s a nice, round number. May it not kill me.
Day 41 Baby Got Back(bone)
From the start, one of the most difficult parts of the Bikram yoga workout for me was the spine-strengthening series. Four exercises done in a prone (stomach-down) position: Cobra, Locust arms-down, Full-Locust and Bow. All involve backward bending, lifting the body up using back strength, lifting the legs up using back strength or (yes it gets better) lifting both body and legs up, using back strength.
These are rough for me. I’m a slumper, a huncher, a natural slouch. Back strength? I have plenty, for lifting and general grunt work. But for standing up straight? Holding my head up and looking people in the eye? Not so much.
“Lift your arms and legs together, like a 747 taking off,” urges the instructor. “Only your hip bones on the ground. Higher! Higher! Eyes on the ceiling!”
I look into the mirror, happy to meet my own eyes. Forget about the ceiling.
“Squeeze your hips, thighs and buttocks! Keep your feet, knees and heels together! Arms up, chest up, chin up.”
Seriously? I’d love to bring my feet, knees and heels together, but my hips, thighs and buttocks are in the way. My arms shake, my chest sinks, my chin quivers.
My 747 is crashing.
Because this one is really hard for me, I know it’s addressing an area of weakness. My spine needs strengthening, literally and metaphorically.
I’ll do it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Day 40 Endorphin Junkie
Several years ago, before a trip to Mexico, I decided to have my legs professionally waxed. I have nothing against shaving, but I’ve got a raised pigmented mole on my left shin that I tend to forget about. I’ve cut the top off that thing so many times, it now looks like a little brown target, which you’d think might help me remember, but doesn’t. I figured it would be nice to vacation without a bloody scab.
Well, that was a deeply enlightening spa experience I’m in no hurry to repeat, thank you very much. Lovely result, but that poor esthetician was dodging random kicks to the head and I’m pretty sure I was offering to sign a confession, any confession, by the end. Turns out I need to be in control of the pain myself.
So I do my own waxing. Now that I’ve reached the age when, as Janette Barber’s famous quote goes, “they’re not chin hairs, they’re stray eyebrows,” it’s a top-to-toe deal. “Your face feels so smooth and woman-like,” my husband tells me afterwards, with all sincerity.
And you know what hurts the most? (No, it’s not what you’re thinking. Hello, natural childbirth times three.) It’s the top of the feet. Oh, come on. I’m not the only one with periodic bouts of hobbit-foot. You know what I’m talking about. Or if you don’t you either should, or you will. Somehow the skin over the feet and ankles is so thin, it produces a spectacularly bright sort of pain when the hairs rip free.
But afterwards? It’s not just the smooth, exfoliated skin. It’s an endorphin rush, the body celebrating “I suffered, and I survived!”
I wonder if that’s not part of the draw of Bikram yoga, for me. I’ve never been one to do anything the easy way. Ten years of pregnancy and/or lactation. 14 years of homeschooling. 23 years, coming up, of marriage. In fact, if there’s a hard way, a long way, or a wrong way, I’ve probably taken it. (I chose to be a writer, after all. And not just any writer – for years, I wrote for pet magazines and church magazines. The two lowest-paying segments of the freelance market. Good job.)
But there is satisfaction in doing something really, really difficult. (I once wrote a piece on how to deal with masturbation in cats. It’s true. I’m not saying it was a good story, but it was assigned, I got the information, the interviews, and met my deadline. Thank goodness the editors saw reason and killed it before the issue went to print.)
There’s nothing like the sensation at the end of class, when I’m lying in Savasana – Corpse Pose – drenched with sweat, swimming in endorphins, limp, limber and loose.
I’ve suffered, I’ve pushed through, and I’ve survived. And I’m stronger for it.