It’s funny how happiness works. Not funny, really, but tragic. Two great things happened to me today: I found out that I’m going to London this summer (cheerio!) and I participated in a 90 minute session of body torture, also known as “bikram yoga.” The torture may not sound like it warrants a “great,” but just Google bikram and you’ll see all the health benefits I’m reaping.
Relief washed over me when I read “accepted” at 5:38 this morning. It was quickly joined by fear. Will I be able to save enough money to do everything I want over there? Will I be able to be away from my beau for that long? Will I live to see tomorrow/when exactly does the world end this year?
Yoga didn’t really help. While contorting my body into various animal forms (and intermittently collapsing in nausea and fatigue on my mat) I wondered when I’d be able to return to this glorious Hell hole. Can I afford buying a monthly yoga pass? What about yoga gear? How much does a mat cost? Cute little spandex shorts and colorful bikram tanks? How often do I need to come to actually get fit?
Rather than being happy, I’m concerned, dehydrated and no less scared than I ever am which is to say: terrified. But I have a story. And those yogis, looking at me like a mother may look at her untalented, but “sweet” child, said: “Keep coming, it gets better.” Maybe I’ll take a mat to London with me. Or maybe I’ll be more concerned with pub crawls. I think I’d be okay with either one.
what i know for sure 