Yoga

The other day, I was wondering why I can't enjoy not working as much as my dear husband did when he retired. He had one bad dream about his legs falling off the first night, then completely adjusted to the unstructured space of life-at-the-house. He's that kind of person -- someone who takes two hours to read the beloved NY Times whether at the table or on the toilet. He just never worries about the day's undone chores. "Everything in its own time," he instructed me. If I try doing that, it won't work. For one thing, my butt and elbows will get sore. For another, I will get bored. One friend says I have Attention Deficit Disorder of the mind. Others just call me a Type A. There is something in my personality that creates this barbed barrier that I can't seem to cut through to reach a relaxed state of stay-at-home bliss. In frustration, I did a little research on my condition to discover this in Wikipedia:

"The Type A Behavior ... is a set of characteristics that includes being impatient, excessively time-conscious, insecure about one's status, highly competitive, hostile and aggressive, and incapable of relaxation. Type A individuals are often highly achieving workaholics who multi-task, drive themselves with deadlines, and are unhappy about the smallest of delays."

Well, that explains it. If I don't find a way to slow down and quit obsessing over trying to relax, I'll stress out over not having anything to stress out about. So what to do? Exercise to relax? I run about 1.5 miles four times a week. It takes less time than walking and its aerobic intensity builds endurance fast. Oops, I see that running is a Type A exercise. Maybe I just don't realize how insanely stressed I'd be if I didn't run. I tried taking our Springer, Fred, out for leisurely walks, but ended up frustrated as he wants to sniff and retrace his steps while I want to keep moving forward. We changed to playing chase with the ball. It's better for both of us. Finally, I tried reading in a big comfy chair, but I picked a book that's so academic that I have to make margin notes and look up words. So much for the relaxation of reading.

So what does a workaholic like me do? Well, find some work, of course. Just envision me, the determined little, aging dumpling, searching the house for work. To my relief I found it -- unpacking boxes, painting rooms, changing sink fixtures, hanging pictures, removing our old furniture and shopping for new, managing the creation of my office out of the garage, the installation of a new pergola between the house and garage, and the renovation of the master bath. But, I know, sooner or later, I'll have no more house fixing and will be faced, once again, with my obsessive personality and the prospect of laundry as work!

I am not doomed. Hope presented itself one dark and stormy night...no, not really. It was not stormy. However, it was one evening, when leaving our usual dinner seats at Spindini's bar and cocktails and dinner, I met Sarla, the owner of Mid-town Yoga, and her husband. Am I saved?

Before embracing this brilliant idea, I thought back to the last time I tried Yoga and almost cried. For a week in the spring of 1984 in upstate New York at an old 1950's Jewish Catskill resort transformed into a nondenominational spa, I did yoga along with Tai Chi, chilly five mile hikes at dawn in the hills, night courses on crystals and auras; stayed is a room with no phone or TV, but plenty of thin, abrasive towels guaranteed to stimulate the skin; and ate a restricted diet that only a mouse could love. Needless to say, on the fourth day when I yelled at the lunch room server to "Bring me another piece of cheese -- now!", I knew it was a lost cause. Shaking that memory out of my head, I decided that maybe, just maybe after 20 years, I should try yoga again. Perhaps, without all the trimmings, I could find a new attitude about work or, more precisely, the lack of it.

Yoga requires comfortable clothes. What a great idea! So I bought four outfits with matching tops and bottoms in four different colors that would allow me to stretch and bend in style. Guess that was a little bit Type A behavior, but I forgave myself. I showed up for my first class 20 minutes late -- but they welcomed me to join in with the other beginners anyway. After scrambling for a mat, two blocks, two blankets and a cotton belt, I thought, smiling to myself, "This could get kinky!" It didn't, but I felt that I could handle the work out. After class, I didn't buy a set of coupons for 10 sessions. It was a better bargain to buy an "unlimited" coupon for a whole month. However, to make the deal work, I'd have to come at least three times a week. Oops, there's that Type A behavior again.

I have now persevered through six classes over the past two weeks. The good news is that I'm starting to like it. The bad news is that every muscle in my 60 something body aches as it learns new yoga tricks. I had no idea how tired I would get just sitting up straight and stretching my back. I thought I was doing okay until I had to do this forward lunge, stretch up, balance on one leg as the other leg is extended behind parallel to the floor as my arms stretch out and up to the ceiling while pushing my hips toward the ground to straighten my back and soften my shoulders. And, that's an easier pose.

I am totally humbled. It's like being a small kid again. I find myself sitting on a mat, following the teacher's instructions carefully, raising my hand to get help, getting praise for coming anywhere near where I'm supposed to be, and quietly being corrected for mistakes. We even take naps which they euphemistically call meditative states.

Yoga folk see themselves as mellow souls, asking you only to do "a little more". But I'm not fooled by their gentle ways. I think Yoga training is military training without yelling. They softly break you down so you forget everything that was comfortable and easy, then gradually rebuild you into a lean, mean Yoga machine.

As a Type A, I'm optimistic it will work. Why just today, I'm able to sit to write for several hours at a time without getting antsy. I call that progress.