Tonight I went to yoga with Innocent Husband.
You could call it a Date Night.
I work nights.
I write and scribble late into the dark and silent morning, then crawl into bed about two or three. I try not to work weekends, but I do usually end up working some on Saturday, and for sure late Sunday night I’m writing again, working through the story that is laid out like a movie in my head.
Hence, we don’t have a lot of time together in the late evenings.
So, when Innocent Husband asked me to go to yoga with him, which I have only been to one time before, I went. I wanted to be a sport.
The yoga instructor is tiny. She is so small I could probably put her in my pocket. Next to her I am the jolly green giant.
She is perky and chipper as she tells us to do this type of thing:
Down dog. She says this repeatedly during the whole class. Down dog.
Honestly, why on earth would a yoga master think of this term? Down dog? I used to say that to our naughty dogs when I was a kid. As in, “Down, dog! Down Frisky! Why did you have to bite that kid on the bike?”
Or, to our dog, Alphy, who attacked every other dog within eye sight, “Down Alphy! Let go of his neck!”
Why don’t they call it The Spritzer? Or Daffodil petal? Or wind blowing? But down dog?
She later tells me to do the “cat” and the “cow.”
When she tells me to do “the cat,” I feel like meowing. When she says to do “the cow,” I feel like a cow. Everyone in yoga is skinny, so I curse them.
Then perky yoga teacher talks about the “angry cat.” Ah. Now I can relate to angry cat. I am an angry Cat – hy sometimes. I look at Innocent Husband. He is about to crack up at the “angry cat,” comment. He knows exactly why. I glare at him.
I am told to stand on one leg in a lunge, then the other, and put an ankle over a knee for long periods with my hands in the prayer position.
The instructor keeps telling me to get my body into a triangle. She even wanders over to show me exactly how to do that. Honestly, God did not build me with angles. How am I supposed to get myself into a triangle? Why would I want to?
I am told to breathe. To listen to my breathing.
I am told to be “in the quiet.”
I am told to relax my face, my breathing, my body.
I am irritated.
I am supposed to listen to my breathing? What the heck for? As long as I am upright, there isn’t a problem. I am told to feel my breathing. Again, what for? If I can fog a mirror I’m still alive. Why feel it?
I am lost.
Currently I am in a gym. When I am in a gym I want sweat to drip off my body. I want to lift weights. I want to be up and down off a step with dumbells. I want to exercise until I can’t move. I want my muscles to quiver and I want to kick some butt.
That’s just me.
Yoga is not like that. My heart rate does not rise. I do not sweat.
Now I am going to say something very unpopular: I don’t like yoga.
Trying to be quiet, settle down, turn off my thoughts, and sit with my palms up is not for me. I do not like to relax unless I’m going to sleep or drinking coffee. Other than that, let’s get a move on with life.
But I did it for Innocent Husband.
He gives me a hug later, at home, and says, “You don’t like yoga.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks for going, Cathy.”
He smiles at me. He has a nice smile.
See, I tell myself? The yoga twisting was worth it.
Innocent Husband and I needed a date night. We had one. He smiled at me.
Next time, I’m choosing the venue for date night and it’s not going to involve any down dogs, angry cats, or twisting my body into a triangle.
It’s going to involve pretty food that I don’t cook and candles.
And I’m not going to listen to my breathing and no one can force me to, so there.