This morning was a Fuck This Fucking Shit morning. You know those mornings. The ones when you can’t remember a single viable reason why you do any of the shit you usually do. Like, holy crap, who cares, right???
For example, “I’m not doing yoga,” I announced to no one. “Fuck yoga. Yoga sucks. Nobody cares if I knock myself out on the mat every day, why do I work so hard at this, anyway? I should give it up. It wouldn’t change a damn thing. I’m just going to flake out on the couch.” Oh, yeah, I was a real pleasure to be around this morning.
Honestly, yoga has been hard lately. My wrists have been aching and kind of burning—as a result, clearly, of a resurgence of interest in improving my jumpback. So I’ve been doing more jumpbacks, on blocks, and more forcefully—well, not forcefully, but just, you know, pushing myself. STUPID. I always get hurt whenever I decide I’m going to try harder on any aspect of the Primary. I really should have learned by now to cut that out.
Anyway, this morning, in addition to pining for coffee, being short with Paul, and hating my novel, I hated yoga too. Go me.
But then Sophie says, “Mom, you should do your yoga so that you that when you’re old you don’t walk like this,” and she demonstrates a hunchbacked posture and takes a few mincing steps. “If you give up yoga then you’re backbend will look like this,” she strains to get a glimpse of the ceiling from a face that is pointed down-ish over hunched shoulders, “and you won’t be able to play with me. You should do your yoga because I want to play with you even when you’re old.”
Okay, yeah, I’m tearing up a little bit. Piss off.
Sigh. So, anyway, I did yoga. A lame-ass, grumbling yoga practice, true, but still.
Good to remember that somebody does care, after all.