Welcome to the Fucking Yoga Blog. You may have found your way here via the title with a little hope in your heart that someone out there wouldn’t be expounding on the benefits of yoga!
Alas, I happen to think yoga is one of those activities that promote lifelong wellness. I am, indeed, a certified yoga instructor and a cough…cough thirty-year practitioner of said activity. BUT, seriously, you knew that was coming right?!
It’s sad to say a lot of us, me included, have had a terrible, scarring yoga experience.
I will admit the topic was something of a lark for me. For the most part, I’m a fiction writer. My hubby and publishing partner, affectionately known as The Beard, has been demanding a book about yoga for AGES.
After a lengthy debate and a couple of glasses of wine, I relented shouting, “FINE! I’ll write the fucking yoga book!” After a few seconds pause, I continued, “AND I’m going to call it The Fucking Yoga Book. THAT’S the title.”
The Beard looked at me. “Seriously, The Fucking Yoga Book?”
I enjoy sleeping. You know those studies the omnipotent they have published outlining all of the elements of a healthy night’s sleep. No two articles agree on the ideal ratio of hours to help keep you well, rested, and moving. Personally, I’m an eight and a half to ten-hour gal. You night owls are laughing.
I’ve learned to get less than eight hours, especially several nights in a row, ignites a murderous, blood haze in me. It’s no laughing matter. Everyone around me pays. The optimal schedule for me is turning off the lights at nine and opening my eyes around six-thirty. Oh, I can get up early. When I was a teacher, I woke at four-thirty to go workout, but doing so meant going to bed no later than eight-thirty. Sometimes it was all I could do to keep my eyes open until eight.
This prototypical agenda shifts seasonally. It’s hard for me to go to bed when the sun is up. I keep suggesting nuclear black-out shades, but The Beard doesn’t seem too excited by the prospect. In the summer, I generally turn off the lights around nine-thirty or ten. I still wake up around six. It’s not a good thing.
Weekdays are rough. I have to get up at five a.m. to get my double espresso in before I teach at six fifteen. Saturdays are a bit of a reprieve. The alarm goes off at seven a.m.
Without an alarm, I could sleep until seven, but we have dogs. Dogs who love to keep a strict timetable. Our alpha girl, Oona, monitors the shifting light of the sun with rabid attention. If I so much as roll over around alarm time, she’s up and in my face reminding me she’s one minute away from starvation.
Some mornings I would like to sleep until seven. Wah, wah, I know it’s terrible.
Those early week days are sometimes difficult for me to get motivated. Seriously, if I weren’t teaching the class, I might throw some food at the dogs and crawl back into bed.
I feel the same way about my late evening class. It’s at seven-thirty. If I weren’t teaching, I’d definitely be tempted to open a bottle of wine and practice Vino Yoga.
I don’t. In the mornings, I make a double espresso and remind myself I have clients who like my class. I also tell myself how great I’ll feel after the first hour. I joke about the coffee kicking in, but it’s really the yoga. Moving my body, breathing, and letting my mind work the mat wakes me up and gets me going like a double espresso. Okay, maybe the coffee is also kicking in.
Same thing on those evenings. I trudge out the door, but once I see my clients and pick up the vibe of the class I always feel better after the practice.
I’m not advocating waking up at an ungodly hour, especially because everyone’s ungodly is different. I would like to see you find a yoga class that not only fits your style but also fits your schedule. If that’s at 8:30 a.m. or even later, I don’t judge.
Maybe I’ll judge if it’s a Wednesday morning when I’ve barely squeaked in my eight hours.
So when you say you’re writing a yoga book, which I am, people start sending you all kinds of crazy yoga fads. Cat yoga. Metal yoga. Screaming yoga. Karaoke yoga. Facial yoga, I can’t even. Naked yoga. Are you kidding me? Yoga pants are bad enough. SNAKE yoga? Oh hell no. And yes, Stand Up Paddle Board yoga . . . I am going to earn my certification in this fad yoga in August. If I don’t drown or get hypothermia first. Hey, I need some continuing ed credits, yes even for yoga goddamn it and it was the least hippy dippy. (more…)