>Hello world. Sorry these blog posts have become more infrequent. Maybe it’s because, like the rest of the world, I’m super busy. Or perhaps all I really do seven days a week is sit around and stare at walls, with the occasional inhale and exhale. You may never really know!
In any case, one of those “ah, these things always seem to happen to me” happened today. I tend to get myself into situations where with retrospect they are pretty amusing, but in the moment they really, really suck. I’ve gotten so used to them though that I am able to start laughing at myself in the moment, if only to make the present situation more tolerable. Let me explain.
I’ve now become a common-goer at the gym, yet I usually just stick to what I’ve been doing for the last eight or so years–run. My muscle memory has become so insane that I can just space out on a treadmill for 5 or 6 miles and not really get tired. I’m not trying to gloat–if anything, this is a bad thing. You are supposed to push yourself at the gym. For me though, I really like feeling extra comfortable, which I guess defeats the purpose. But I just love to space out.
To challenge myself a bit, I decided to try a new machine today. I went over to the stair-master. The stair-master always seemed fun; you get to be physically higher up than everyone else in the gym AND you get to walk up your own mini staircase! How cute! I got on the thing and decided to give it a twenty minute trial “climb.”
Holy bajeezus. I barely made it through the twenty minutes, and I had sweat POURING off my body. (I never understood the stories of people meeting significant others at the gym; the only thing I was attracting was fruit flies). I apparently walked up the equivalent of 50 million flights of stairs, which I guess was kinda cool. But still–so painful.
I hobbled off my mini stairs and pondered what to do next. I had only been at the gym for twenty minutes, so I didn’t feel like turning around and walking home. I saw that a yoga class was about to begin, and figured a nice session of stretching, meditation, and balancing my arms out as an extension of my heart (or whatever they say) would be a nice recovery from my climbing mayhem.
Well, woops. Turns out I walked into a Kundalini class, which at the time meant nearly nothing to me. We started off breathing and stretching, and I felt wonderful. Then we started doing some mantra chants, which were nice. I felt peaceful. All good things.
Then my teacher started to explain how Kundalini is a consolidation of the hardest physical, mental, and spiritual yoga in the hierarchy of yogas. Apparently, some people get so in the “zone” that their spirits whisk away and they die. Great.
I wasn’t too afraid of the mental thing, because my mind can nevvvver just focus on my breath (during the first meditation session I was only thinking I WANT A SANDWICH). Still, the physical part is what got me. I found myself on all fours, punching at the air, relieving toxins in my body, and quickly breathing in and out of my nose. My legs were forced in extension periods for way too long–my arms unhappily moving this way and that. It was painful. It was exhausting. Everyone in the room was sweating. I hadn’t stopped. Mantra chats were all around me and I was becoming delirious. “Inhale Peace, Exhale Love!” chanted my teacher. What? I was inhaling “hate” and exhaling “shit this sucks so much, I really want a sandwich.”
In an hour, it was over. I ran out of the studio. I went home. I ate my sandwich.