One gets up a little tired. The yoga mat comes out. One goes back to bed. One gets up again, one has all day, it’s a weekend, no major plans, or rather a set of plans that can all fit in together, don’t you worry. One makes breakfast instead, after taking tea to the princess. The morning is passing. After a bit, one must decide between the beckoning yoga mat and one’s daily coffee, yum. One puts the yoga mat away. After all, one has all day.
Lunch. Then into the post-prandial period. Can’t do yoga just yet. One must wait an hour or more, for the ingested to be ingested. The clock ticks.
One gets out the mat, climbs onto it, does a tadasana, and decides it’s not yet time, don’t have the energy, despite the twinges in one’s back from sitting at the motherfucking computer for a couple of hours today and for all yesterday.
One’s loins are not yet girded. What can one do?
Of course the principle is: do yoga anyway. But until one has started, and continued, one isn’t actually doing yoga, is one?
Four-thirty. Put a DVD on, let Shawnee Cornee or Rodnee Yee teach me. No, not that one. Not that one. Not that. No, not that one.
And then one is on the mat. One has framed a decision: I will do three-quarters of this class from this book. If it turns into a full class, WTF, that would be better, but I’ll make no promises.
The class finishes, I managed everything up to the last five poses and cut to the chase scene or shavasana. A minute as a corpse, then time to make dinner.
Loins still not girded, but at least I squeezed in a stretch or two. Life isn’t very tidy, is it?