PopTart Yoga

hst040.jpgFor the rest of my life, when the subject of PopTarts comes up, I’ll either have to tell shifty-eyed lies or I’ll have to tell the truth. I’ll start with the truth right now.

I’ve been away all week at a theatre festival.  This means hotel beds, hotel roommates, late nights, and crazy food–meat or soy balls covered in sweet sauces, served on toothpicks that really add up on your plate. More cheese and crackers than you’ve eaten in your life, and the kinds of sweet squares we all serve at weddings, funerals, board meetings–you know these things.

Day One.
I begin the week like an angel.  An hour of yoga at 5:30 am in the hotel gym.  I grab a corner of the room, squeeze myself between two treadmills and a wall-to-wall mirror, and do my best on a concrete floor covered in stained indoor-outdoor carpet.  It isn’t class, but it’s okay.

Day Two.
At 5:30 am, I do 45 minutes of yoga, which is pretty great given four hours of sleep and a really puffy face. (Is it the salt?  The meat/soyballs?)

It’s no fun staring at a bloated version of your own face in a mirror the size of Canada.  And all those people thumping on treadmills, jeez.  Not to mention CNN on the TV. Om.

Day Three.
At 5:15 am, because my roommate is snoring and I can’t sleep anyway, I do 30 minutes of yoga in the hallway outside my room on the 10th floor of the hotel.  The carpet is thicker here, and I’m not up to the social thing with the weightlifters, the runners, and the mirror. My face is the puffiest yet.  I’ve been eating sauce balls at midnight for three days.  Why don’t I stop eating them?  I have no idea.

This was a good morning of yoga.  I prepare for a wee Savasana at the end.  I lie down. Suddenly a man emerges–naked–from the room across the hall to retrieve his newspaper from the floor outside his door.   He yells.  I yell.  Then he screams: “I’m sorry!” and flees back into his room. I am too rattled for Savasana.

Day Four.
I don’t do any yoga this morning. Instead, I sit in the hallway at 5am and read bad news from the newspaper outside my door.  I open and eat the first PopTart of my life.  (It was in a goodie bag we were given on arrival.  I laughed at the absurdity of PopTarts then.  I’m not laughing now.)  It is not my finest moment.  Not my finest day.

Day Five.
At Home.Here’s the lesson for me:
I’m human.  I do well on some days, and some days I forget everything I’ve learned about yoga, decent food, and kindness to myself. I can hardly wait for class tomorrow.

What reminds you to get back to your practice?

Thanks to PopTarts, naked men, and meat/soyballs, which help me understand, again, how beautiful yoga is. And thanks to you for the conversation.

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