This weekend I had planned on gushing enthusiastically about my renewed embrace of a regular yoga practice. I was probably going to be sanctimonious, waxing on about the peace of mind and sense of self it instills in me, how it helps me arrange my priorities in a way that helps me achieve a more balanced life. Blah blah blah. I've said it before and I'll probably say it again. I have an awful habit of falling in and out of my yoga practice. I would say that the entire past year that I lived with my parents I went to yoga only very occasionally, and that self-definition as a yogi was entirely absent. So yeah, it's always exciting to rediscover something that you love, especially if that thing also happens to be really good for you.
But, God damn, does my body ever hurt. Between gym dates with law girls and my own stubborn commitment to yoga (motivated in no small part by a desire to get my money's worth of a month unlimited pass), I am virtually incapacitated. I'm trying to read my text on the law of contracts, but all I can think about are my hip flexors! And my shoulders. Triceps. Low back too.
Yoga; I love you so much, and all you do is hurt me. I think I'll stick it out though. Unlike an abusive boyfriend, our relationship will actually change.
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