with Lynne and Leslie
Tag Archives: yoga

Non-Zen thoughts that went through my head during this morning’s yoga class

by SweetMidlife

Yoga can make you as chill as this sleeping child on a plane. Of course, he was acting afool ten minutes before he passed out from foolishness-related exhaustion. But you feel me.

This is Leslie, and I am a bad yogi, I am more Yogi Bear, Including the picnic baskets.  

Still, I have been doing more and more breathing and moving on mats in tranquil rooms with twisty, Zen people all around me like a multi-generational Pinterest board. And my body, including my problem knees and gnarly runner’s feet, seem to like it. My mind does too – I admit to checking my text messages from my mat, my iPhone hidden under my yoga blanket, when I first started back, because I was a bad person. But that was Two Months Back Leslie. Current Yoga Leslie is better than that. Most of the time. Allegedly.

This morning, during a very chill but challenging Gentle Yoga class, I tried to follow the instructor’s suggestion to being present in the class and to clear my mind of the thoughts I brought into the studio. My mind is old and watches a lot of “Law and Order” when it’s not working full time, paying bills and talking a 3-year-old down from a sleep-deprivation tsunami of nonsense, so it welcomes the clearing. The problem is, I was so chill that it was hard to block the weirdness that flowed in to fill the spaces vacated by “Bob The Builder:” I swear these are actual thoughts I had while doing a seated Warrior 1. I’m sorry.

  • “I wonder what this is under my foot…is that a peppercorn? How did I roll a peppercorn into my yoga mat? Have I been eating risotto over my yoga mat in my sleep?”
  • “Where do they buy their sconces?”
  • “I wonder if anyone here is vegan. I could eat the heck out of some curry right now.”
  • “I must ask what this essential oil she gave us is. Lavender? Maybe. Smells like cookies. Are there lavender cookies? Or does every smell remind me of cookies?”
  • “Seriously. Where can I get some curry? Who should I ask?”
  • “I really should have lotioned my feet more. I got Ashy Yoga Foot.”
  • “These yoga pants are really big. Have I lost weight or can I not properly buy yoga pants?”
  • “Why can’t I get “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” out of my head? That is not remotely what that yoga ambient noise song sounds like.”
  • “She said we didn’t have to use a pillow but I’m not too proud to use a pillow because I ain’t trying to hurt my back trying to look fly in a Gentle yoga class.”
  • “Crap. Did I fall asleep?”
  • “I’ma look for some curry on my walk home.”

Do’s, Don’t’s, and yoga pants: Sometimes you gotta

by SweetMidlife

Leslie here!

It’s been a while since you’ve heard from me in these parts, as we’ve had visitors, a shared family cough we’ve been passing around like the worst gift you never wanted, and just a lot of stressful stressful siss boom ba. Lynne’s been holding down the fort beautifully, but if you’ve missed me, that’s what I’ve been up to.

And also yoga pants.

I am a 43-year-old former hardcore runner, boot camper and all around gym rat. That iteration of myself came within the last decade, starting in my early 30s. I was never the fastest or fittest chick in the place. But what I lacked in mastery I more than made up for in consistency, until my aging body, which had been warning me to slow down with some aches, pains and strains, finally decided I couldn’t take a hint and just started sputtering. The knees ached. The shoulder ached. The sciatica in the hip developed. (That sounds like something Fred Sanford had, right?)

So I had no choice but to slow way, way down. Somewhere in there I started looking for something active that would help my back, and settled on yoga, something I used to do all the time but gave up because there was only time after a while for the pounding, hard core exercise. Dummy. I went to several classes at the gym I belong to, and then bought a two-week membership at a local warm yoga studio, which was pricey but wonderful.

I decided if I was going to restart my practice, as creaky and blocky as I was, I needed to look the part, which meant going to the local Beall’s outlet and picking up two pairs of yoga pants. These are not Lululemon pants, because they are expensive and the owners of that company don’t apparently want my fat butt in them. These are more like Lololimeade. But they’re roomy where they should be and make my hindparts region look and feel better than it should (because cheese.)

Before I ever bought a pair I had read all sorts of fashion blogs that poo-poo the wearing of yoga pants anywhere outside of a yoga class, because they’re workout gear and everyone knows that wearing them out means you’re lazy. But I’ma tell you what – I am guilty. GUILTY. Because last week, when the young lady that sometimes cleans our house was here, I had to run to the bank, and was wearing said yoga pants around the house. I thought “I could change into gym shorts or something because I’ve not yet showered and don’t want to waste cute clothing on a dirty body, or I could just leave.”

And I left. And the seas did not boil over in a sartorial rage, nor did birds plummet from the skies, not did Tim Gunn jump out the bushes at the Wells Fargo to pants shame me. Maybe I got looks. I dunno. I was just trying to get some money out the bank. I am a somewhat public person where I live so I thought for a minute that I might be seen and judged by someone who knows me. And then I felt the sweet supportive hug of the yoga pants, whispering ‘You are good enough. You look fine. You don’t smell. And no one expects you to be Heidi Klum anyway.”

It’s now Saturday and I write you from the south Florida headquarters of Sweet Midlife LLC. And I am wearing yoga pants (not the same ones. The other ones.) Already I have run errands out of the house, including to get breakfast. And you know what? I don’t care. I would not wear them to work. I would not wear them to dinner. I might wear them on a quick run to Publix (OK, I did that yesterday. But I wore a nice shirt).

I understand rules and appropriateness. I also understand a bunch of people with more money and more assistants than I have (I don’t have an assistant, FYI) in New York ladling out edicts and rules to shame women into watching their every move in fear of breaking some fashion law (and so they’ll buy more stuff.) I’m not having it. I will look great when I need to. But when I’m running around it’s me and the yoga pants.

I might even wear them to yoga.

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