Yoga Pain

As part of my 2010 resolutions, I promised to get some yoga into my life. So I did just that on Wednesday, 11 AM, at Invivo Wellness, a local upscale gym. The yoga studio was really nice - two floor-to-ceiling walls of windows overlooking the Milwaukee River, frozen, snowcovered and tranquil. I set myself up on a mat and prepared for the class. Which immediately started out with the woman next to me loudly passing gas.

I told Jon later that day and he started cackling, asking if I laughed out loud. I did not, though I congratulated myself on being more in shape than my gassy neighbor. Until we were about 1/3 of the way through our poses and reality set in. "For those of you who would like to, feel free to use the bricks as support." Feeling free had nothing to do with it. My hands wouldn't have made it past my hips without the assistance of the damn strap, bricks and the large column I conveniently placed myself next to. Holy Christ, was I in pain. At one point, I was supposed to wrap both arms around a twisted knee, one leg in the air, my waist turned in the opposite direction, and lock my arms behind my back. I'm still confused as I write this.

Result? I've been in head to toe pain for a full day now. Every. Muscle. Hurts. I wish I was kidding. This reminds me of the first time I did yoga, the day before my friend Sass's wedding. 'Hah, I can do this.' I thought, 'Yoga is just stretching'. And then competition set in - must do every pose exactly as the instructor does. 24 hours later? I could barely lift my own drink (simply tragic, at a wedding).

Swap the sun of Newport with the freezing snow of Milwaukee and that day is today. Parts of my body that I thought were bone ache. Hello, ribs. 'The plan' was to take a class Thursday, Friday and possibly this weekend, jet-setting me off into a new health routine. Oh, HELL no. Yesterday didn't happen, today's off and I'm pretty sure Saturday and Sunday will involve sweatpants and a mat-tress. With pillows and a decidedly less flexible person sitting beside me (though I am sure he will rival and surpass her on the gas front).

Since I'm not quite back to the stage where changing my own pants brings me near tears, I'm going to assume this is a move in the right, albeit painful, direction. Beauty is pain. I must remember this.

Though chunky and comfortable is sounding pret-ty sweet right now.