Recently, in an effort to be kind to my body, I decided to try Restorative Yoga. From the description on the website it seemed like the perfect opportunity to focus my mind and open my chakras while strengthening and stretching the meatbag that holds my bones. I don’t know what part of “quiet your nerves and rest your body” made me envision a dreamy, androgynous yogi draped in loosely fitted white clothes. I pictured us standing on a sun-drenched, windswept bluff overlooking the ocean, the instructor’s dulcet tones encouraging us to deepen our pose and also our consciousness.
Yes I knew the class was in a studio. Yes I knew it was Portland and December and 7:30pm (AKA 3+ hours after sunset).
My notions of restorative yoga as exercise were crushed when I settled myself in the dark studio and the instructor encouraged us to build a cozy nest out of blankets and bolsters. At least three bolsters per person, and as many blankets as we could lug back to our mats. Duly equipped we proceeded to drape our limp bodies over padded bolsters in various positions for a full hour. During this hour, the instructor approached me no less than three times. Encouraging me to release the tension in my back. The tension in my shoulders. Reminding me to breathe. Letting me know it was ok to close my eyes; I didn’t need to ogle the other adults also draping their bodies over padded bolsters.
Anyways. Here’s a brief and incomplete list of thoughts that passed through my brain while I napped. I mean “meditated”:
Alright, yoga, here we go. I’ve never liked you before but maybe things are different now. I’m a grown ass lady. I feel so capable of existing mindfully for an hour. What is an hour anyways? Nothing. Practically nothing. One episode of Shameless… Ok, more than one episode of Shameless, especially since I skip through the opening credits and theme song. 1.37 episodes of Shameless. It’s a good song though. I wonder what my pals the Gallaghers are up to right now…
I wonder if my little toe is supposed to feel all cold and dead like that. Probably. That’s probably completely normal. Try not to think about it.
Alright, next pose! Things are getting real. I wonder if relaxing every muscle in my body counts as “exercise”. I’m not sure it does. I’ll probably still eat potato chips for dinner. Wellness is all about achieving balance. This is potentially the hardest easy thing I’ve ever done.
I am relaxed, goddammit! Oh. No, you’re right. I wasn’t. That feels better. Thank you.
Oh, there goes the right arm. Things are going to be so uncomfortable when blood starts pumping into my fingers again.
No, I cannot focus on my breathing without controlling it. You make it sound so easy, like people just casually observe their own basic functions all the time. Now I’m deep breathing and I don’t think I usually do that. Maybe I don’t breathe at all, actually. I don’t know how to stop controlling my breathing now. I’ll be hypervigilant forever. Literally everything I do will be multi-tasking. I’ll never get into grad school when over half of my brain power is wasted thinking about breathing and burritos.
Mmm, burritos… god bless burritos.
Joss Whedon, you asshat. Things didn’t have to end that way. Completely unnecessary. Maybe if the series had in fact ended at Normal Again, Anya would still be alive and nobody would wake up in the middle of the night sweating and cursing your name. It would have been a good series finale.
Am I asleep right now? Do I still have a body or have I actually become this bolster? When was the last time I opened my eyes? Oh, they do still open. Oh my god, there are still 45 minutes left.
Maybe I’ll eat chicken salad with my potato chips. A chicken salad-potato chip burrito. With a fried egg on top. And some bacon.
Maybe I’m living a real life version of Normal Again, and everything I assume to be real is just a projection of my psychosis. There is no Portland. There might not even be an Earth. Nothing matters. I wish my psychosis were a little more creative. It could have made me a vampire slayer, instead of a sleepy and very hungry adult in a restorative yoga class.
These shorts were a foolish choice. Sorry, everybody in this room. I hope you’ve all become bolsters also.
Alright, this isn’t so bad. I can no longer feel my limbs, and I don’t know if I’m awake or sleeping, and I’ve been consciously willing myself to breathe for at least 40 minutes, but things could be a lot worse. I’m definitely probably asleep. Or meditating so hard. Except if you’re thinking about how well you’re meditating, maybe you’re not meditating very well at all.
I should do this every week. I’ve never felt so relaxed in my whole life.
Oh thank god, it’s over. Namaste, beezies. I’m out.
Summarily, it was an hour of intensive introspection and many important lessons were learned. 1) I still hate yoga, 2) nothing is real and 3) burritos. I hope you carry this newfound peace and clarity into your daily practices, sweet babies.
-b
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