Day 39 I’ll Take It
My practice today was strong. Even Standing Western union fees Head-to-Knee! My right hip is still stiffer than my left, but I can tell I’m making progress. One millimeter at a time, perhaps, but I’ll take it.
I’ve been told that in the first 30 days, you notice changes in your body, but they’re subtle. Deep, even cellular-level adjustments that might not be obvious to anyone else. You’re doin’ the work, you’re smokin’ Bikram’s Torture Chamber, but is there anything to show for it? Not really. Your ass is still your ass, even if you’re now aware that there are muscles in it.
In the second 30 days, the changes continue, becoming more evident as muscles grow accustomed to being longer, stronger. In the second 30 days, as the changes turn from temporary to permanent, others might start noticing. Your ass becomes ever-so-slightly unrecognizable. In a good way.
But we’re talking 40, 50, 60 days.
That’s a lot of days, is what I think. But then, on my way out this morning, my daughter told me today that my legs were looking good.
You bet I’ll take that! 40 days, here I come!
Day 38 Recovery Cocktail
There comes a point in each Bikram yoga class when, in the words of my favourite blogger-commedienne Allie, of Hyperbole-and-a-Half, I’m so thirsty I’d “shank an infant for juice.” I’ve read her post on her experience running a marathon in Texas several times, and each time it makes me laugh more. I love the way this woman’s mind works.
But anyway. Yoga. I always make sure I’m well-hydrated before the class, and I usually drink a full bottle during, but still. By the time we’ve finished the balancing series and move on to the floor exercises, I’m feeling the heat, like a living thing, pressing down on me. My clothing feels like those warmed blankets they put on you in the hospital after surgery. Except hotter, really, really hot. And all I want is a breeze. Cool water. Ice. A meat-locker.
This past January, about a half-hour after my husband and arrived in Maui, I came down with a virus. I’d been fighting it valiantly in the weeks leading up to the trip, pounding down Vitamin C, guzzling water and green tea, doing yoga like mad. But I still spent the first few days in paradise alternately sleeping, resting, napping, dozing or, if I was feeling particularly energetic, reading. All the while coughing like a walrus.
And thirsty, so thirsty.
The first night, Ray trotted on down to the resort store, in search of something that might, if not cure me, at least cut down on the whinging. He came back armed with juice of several varieties, an array of Vitamin water flavours, various exorbitantly over-priced over-the-counter remedies, and ice. Then he started mixing and matching. My special vacation cocktail: OJ and Vit C water on the rocks, mmm, better than mai tais.
I kind of got hooked on the combo. Now I throw in some coconut water, which is said to be loaded with potassium — and has the flavour of dirty socks. Mixed with the others, however, it’s palatable enough.
Is my special recovery cocktail any more nutritious than plain old OJ? Don’t know.
Don’t really care, either. Honestly, sometimes the only thing that gets me through the last couple of postures is the knowledge that it’s waiting for me in my car.
Maybe it’s the association. Ray served me like my own personal cabana boy, while I languished on the couch, upset that I was sick on our vacation. And he reassured me that it didn’t matter if we did nothing the whole time, the main thing is that we were together. So I guzzled my recovery cocktails, rested, and a couple of days later, was back to normal.
Our Visa bill was a little higher on incidentals. But that feeling of being cared for? Priceless.
Day 36 Who’s the Handsomest Prince?
Randee of Bikram Yoga Abbotsford has just returned to teaching after having her second child, and lucky for me, she taught the 3:30 class today. She was nervous, she said, coming back, but she did a great job.
And I so needed it today!
You see, it’s grooming day for my dog and I do it myself. It’s a bit of a job. He’s a poodle, very masculine, self-aware and has more important things on his mind than superficialities like ear-wax, cling-ons and eye-goobers. Important as in squeaky toys and Western union money transfer squash balls.
I’m not a professional groomer, nor have I had any training, but I groom him myself because a) it’s an unpleasant job that can make groomers justifiably impatient, b) he’s an unpleasant subject and c) professional groomers have injured him worse than I ever have, probably because of a) and b).
I have to be in the right mood to tackle the job. I must remain in a Zen-like state, using my best deep breathing, perfectly aware of his incredibly fantastic personality off the grooming table, or I’m liable to bean him in the head with a brush.
Big-Poo (to differentiate him from Little-Poo, who as you might have gathered, is smaller) is a twitchy sort, very responsive to the vibes around him. If he looks out of sorts, and I express concern about it, he immediately adopts an air of deathly illness.
“What?” his look implores. “I look sick? Am I dying?? SAVE ME!!”
He plasters himself against my knees, quaking, until I feel him over and pronounce him well. Then he leaps up, shakes off his terminal terror and goes off to hunt down his squeaky.
For him, the grooming table might as well be a guillotine. He’s tense, uncooperative, resistant, jumpy, everything you really don’t want when you’ve got sharp instruments at hand. I’m sympathetic: after all, imagine someone scissoring around your short curlies. Well, he’s all short curlies.
I go slowly and he tolerates it, trusting me not to hurt him. This is the main reason I can’t let anyone else groom him: I know where all his scars and tender bits are. His flanks, where he’s been clipper-burned and cut, his shoulders where the coyote grabbed him, the side where he ran into a sharp stick, opening up a three-inch gash, chasing a ball of course.
He trusts me, but he still hates grooming.
Once the job’s done, he’s gorgeous, sweet-smelling — and I feel like I’ve spent the day shoeing Belgian draft-horses.
So 90 minutes in the hot room was exactly what I needed to get the kinks out.
But he’s so worth it!