'Tis the Get in Shape Season

Bone tired. This is what that must mean. My body feels punished. I took a Hatha Yoga class last night figuring it would stretch me out from the Body Jam class I took the night before that had caused me to wake up hobbled.

Are all these teachers lunatics? Where did they get the idea that anyone needs to jump up on a step and “bend that knee and kick that butt” thirty-two times on one side, until the calf muscle feels like it will explode through your skin like a cherry-bomb? And Yoga, that benign form of exercise that always relaxed me in the past… how did it morph into this painful experience? I’m not a fan of ordinary push-ups but plank position on fully extended arms “and now lower yourself but don’t touch the floor and hold… and hold… and hold… “ put me into a realm of pain I had heretofore imagined coming only courtesy of a rack. “And twist!” Twist? Are you serious? I am reminded of a trip my parents took me on when I was 10 years old to Pennsylvania and the Lititz Pretzel Factory where we watched and practiced the laying out of a strip of dough in a big smile and then twisting the ends and pressing them to the outer line. “Lititz”. Pennsylvania, hands down, has the best names.

But I digress. Was the body truly meant to assume these positions? The instructor looked good. I, however, felt extreme empathy with the wishbone at Thanksgiving. And that turkey was dead! Beaded with sweat and limbs stretched to the limit, I was in agony.

BUT, that little black dress I put away two seasons ago… fits! And so it is I take my latest does of Ibuprophen and limp into another hot shower. Ah, I feel better already.