This morning I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to a friend’s yoga/tai chi/pilates class. She teaches the class. I haven’t taken yoga in about a year and I pretty much sucked at it to begin with. I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t psyched to go. But I had to go. She would not take no for an answer.
Emma was happy to hear that she’d spend an hour doing something different (they have child care at this gym – and in French, no less) so she was pretty agreeable. I, on the other hand, spent most of the hour watching (1) the clock, (2) my rear end in the mirror during downward dog – wondering if that was *really* my rear end or if it was some evil illusion (3) my friend the instructor as she practically wrapped her leg around her neck, from behind, WHILE STANDING UP and (4) my twitching and quivering legs that were on the verge of completely giving out. I’m surprised I made it. Did I mention the class was an hour long? It was a loooooong hour.
I shouldn’t be such a grouse about it. It was fairly enjoyable. By the end I could feel my stress melting away into the yoga mat. But now my neck is sore and my motivation on The Scale of Motivation is about minus five hundred.
I have an interview with a potential client tomorrow, and honestly, I don’t really care. Sure, I’m nervous. And anxious. And wondering what gem is going to pop out of my mouth, the calibre of which will make me regret the fact that I even bothered to get out of bed. But am I doing anything about it? Making notes? Practicing in the mirror? Noooooooo! I’m sitting here drinking tea in my Party of Five mug. Doing… well, what am I doing? Pretty much nothing. Gah!
