The Saga Continues

Okay, I'm not going to turn this into an exercise blog, but...

I did it. I managed to take two more group exercise classes.

I should note that my secondary goal in exercising (after getting a less-squishy pooch) is better posture. I have horrible posture. When I see myself in pictures I always think if I had just put my shoulders back I would have looked 10 pounds skinnier. But damn, that takes a lot of effort.

And I will take an “I told you so” from my dad, who constantly told me to sit up straight as a kid (and thus I defiantly slouched over whenever he wasn’t in the room). Lessons from a man that wore a back brace in high school. Maybe I’ll try reverse psychology on Morgan and Zoe.

On Sunday I took Hatha Yoga, which was different than other yoga I have done. In the past I’ve done something closer to “power” yoga which accelerates your heart rate because you move through poses repetitively and fairly quickly.

It was led by an older Frenchman named Bejan. I’m pretty sure he asked us to call him BJ, but his accent was so thick I don’t think I’ll be referring to him by name any time soon. I told Scott he looked more like somebody who just got off the Tour de France than a yogi.

I liked the class, but I definitely can’t “quiet my mind”. I tried, but all I could focus on was the woman on the other side of the room that sounded constipated.

Every time we entered a pose, “OhhUgghh.”

Every time we came back to center, “Ahhohh”

Bless her heart, she looked to be in her 70’s and I’m not holding it against her or anything, I just could not help but be distracted.

It reminded me of the ashram in “Eat, Pray, Love” where Liz would go to the meditation room to empty her mind, and all she could think about was how she should put a meditation room in her own house and how she would decorate it.

And it was 90 minutes…90 minutes of exercise…90 minutes of quieting my mind…90 minutes of not yelling at the kids. AH HA! Sign me up.

The last class I chose kicked my ass more than the other two combined.

It was called Studio Workout. “15 minutes of stretch and warm-up. 20 minutes of leg and arm strengthening at the bar. 20 minutes of aerobic dance.”

Ballet. Actually, it’s Ballet For Old People Who Should Not Be Taking Ballet. And that bar is not the bar I’m used to strengthening my arms at.

In theory, I love this class. It made me sweat, but didn’t kill my respiratory system. I got to listen to music from Phantom and Les Mis and The Nutcracker the whole time. I got to learn fancy French words to use on my yoga instructor.

And I really do like it. Really. I just have one thing I need to get over. I never have, do not currently, and never will look like this girl when she dances.

She is a AA size 2, light as a feather and graceful as a swan.

I am a foot taller, 36C top and size 6 (okay, 8) bottom, and can barely do a jumping jack without falling on my face. Don’t get me wrong…I know I am a very normal sized person…and I don’t have a completely whacked out self-image, but…

I look like a woolly mammoth next to her.

This is no joke – a frickin’ woolly mammoth.

I just couldn’t stop looking in the mirror and thinking, "Woolly Mammoth" and “I am not built to be graceful” and “Why did I wear this outfit?”

But I do think I have come up with a solution. Next Monday I am not going to wear my glasses.