One of the countless things I hate about myself (but not enough to fix) is the fact that I hate countless things. Well, "hate" is probably reductive. Perhaps "have a conflicted relationship with" is more accurate. One of these things is yoga.
I live in Juneau and therefore have many close friends who both practice and teach yoga. I gaze upon these friends in puzzled awe: their flexibility; their discipline; the Zen alignment of their chakras (whatever those are); the total absence of a muffin top and similarly-situated fat rolls bursting forth defiantly from every available egress in their spandex yoga clothes. (Somehow, the popularity of this ancient eastern spiritual art for both body and mind is now also, incongruously, a key profit margin for LuLulemon. But I digress).
The one or two times I tried yoga, something happened. Well, two things. Number one, I felt like shit (like, deep in my soul). Number two, I wound up on an e-mail list serv for future yoga classes. So now every week, I get an email reminding me of my inadequacy in not practicing yoga by telling me about all the yoga I'm missing. These e-mails are perfectly tepid and harmless. Yet, when I read the subject line, I do not see: "Next Thursday: Vinyasa Yoga with Jane." I see: "Good Morning Libby! You are Fat and Lazy and Have Thus Far Failed to Achieve Nirvana: Now Return to Eating Your Cheetos and Drinking Your Diet Coke But Do Not Unsubscribe Because We Will Know It and Hunt You Down Like the Rare White Rhinoceros that You Are."
It's usually about this time--this very time in fact--that I sit down to lunch, a picture of which I have attached here, with a spoon for scale.