Date: 14 September
Location: home, couch, far too scared to watch The Sunday night movie Prometheus.
I’ve just returned from supervised nap time. Or, as One Hot Yoga calls it on the timetable ‘yin yoga’. I’m convinced that every muscle between my waist and knee has been lengthened by at least an inch.
But my mind couldn’t settle into tonight’s long holds quite so well as my body.
Sunday yin classes are packed. There’s something about a Sunday evening that just begs for nourishment: comfort food dinner with lots of veggies, TV on the couch under a blanket, a warm stretch class, a good night’s sleep. (But they also call out loudly for raucous beers at the College Lawn pub so it all gets a bit confusing.) A lot of footballers seem to make the One Hot Yoga Sunday classes. While I don’t like the sport, and, as a species, I don’t love the players, I’m not blind. A sweaty shirtless centreback (is that a position?) is going to put a hitch in my yogic breathing same as the next girl with 20/20 vision. Model and ‘Dancing With The Stars’ contestant Ashley Hart is often there too, goddess-like in a Lululemon bra and diaphanous silk yoga pants. What is more envy-inspiring than a midriff-baring model with hair mere mortals can only dream of? A midriff-baring model with hair mere mortals can only dream of in full splits wearing the serene expression of a graceful mermaid. I can do full splits too, but the expression on my face is more grimace. Less mermaid, more orc.
Tonight, between a congested mouth breather and a brawny athlete of some persuasion, drafting Monday’s To-Do list in my head, thinking too keenly about dinner (would it be ok to get Crust pizza, maybe? — it’s on the way home, and they have that seafood one and we all know how important those omega-3s are for the health and happiness of our nervous systems), the teacher’s pleas to “return to the breath” and “set a mantra for your inhales and exhales” (‘pizza…. or not pizza’, probably not what she had in mind) fell on deaf, hungry orc ears.