Class Four of the 40 Day Challenge, or Sometimes You Gotta Let Go

So, today is the start of a busy weekend. Company coming, a big party, cooking, cleaning, I have a book I have to get to editing NOW. But I'm not tense.

Or stressed.

Or bitchy.

In I come to yoga this morning, doodley-doo, not tense. (Sore, OMG sore. Stupid massaged muscles. Stupid hamstrings.)

I find a place to sit and realize, dude, I'm in a mood.

Huh.

Go figure.

So, Angela says, "Do you have any issues" and, instead of going, "TENSE AND BITCHY WITH ALL THIS CRAP GOING ON OMG THE STRESS AND IF I HAVE TO BEND OVER EVEN ONCE I MIGHT DIE!" I said, "I'm good."

Good, you see, is a comparative term. I was good, if compared to a being a recently run-over armadillo. I was fabulous, if you compared me to someone who is being, say, drawn and quartered or boiled in oil.

I mean, my earlobes didn't hurt, I don't have any stalkers (that I've met in person, at any rate), and Lorna had given me a cup of coffee.

Still, compared to my normal, I was less than good.

We all did our thing -- breathing and stretching and bending and arching and folding. Angela, who is eagle-eyed and whoa-sensitive to my poor stupid shoulder, helps me prop up in the side stretch of death.

I'm still bitchy, but I'm not scowling.

Life is improving.

Then we do the cat and cow poses seated and this sound happens.

I'm sure to the rest of the class it wasn't a sound, but in my body, it was giant Russian rifle shooting down a bad guy during the quiet time in the tense music during the movie.

POP!

My rib went in.

I could BREATHE!

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Oh, wow.

Breathing is. Yeah, y'all. Breathing.

I didn't even know I couldn't breathe until I could breathe again.

My bad mood disappeared, because I was breathing, damn it. (I'm working on a theory that negative internal garbage is anaerobic and thereby chased off by breath. I could be wrong.)

So, I'm good. Full stop.

Namaste, y'all.

S.

 

Class info:

Location: The Yoga Room

Class type: Gentle

Teacher: Angela