Yoga is important for mental health

I remember going to yoga classes with my mom at some point in my life and thinking, “This is bogus.”  The chanting. The floor mats. The aromatherapy. Finding a “center.” Bogus, I say. BOGUS!

A week or two ago I rented this Baby & Me yoga DVD from the library, and let me tell you. I am a believer.

It feels soooo good on my back and my hips and my feminine warrior spirit. I have become SO ZEN that I don’t even get mad anymore when the instructor says, “Pretend you know nothing about modern society.” I still argue that this is a lofty request as you’re trying to reach for your toes, but whatever. It’s all about me and my baby and lifting the pressure off internal organs, remember?

I’m not sure the 45 minutes of tranquility has fully transcendental-ated (!) into my lifestyle.

Last night the remote to our DVD player broke, meaning I couldn’t fast-forward to the workout section of the tape. 

GASP!

Knowing I would be forced to sit through the half-hour intro feature that explains the risks and rewards of prenatal yoga, I began to get upset. I made it two full minutes before I found myself stomping around the house, swearing and banging the remote on various objects. I think I almost broke a drawer looking for new AA batteries.

On top of this affront, a quick glance into the refrigerator revealed that we were completely out of eggs — how do you have almost 30 chickens in your yard but NO EGGS?! – and therefore, I could not bake any brownies.

So I huffed and I puffed upstairs to our bedroom, where I made a dramatic dismount onto the bed. I fell asleep before the actual yoga had began downstairs.

Poor Seth, afraid to come into the bedroom, poked his head up from the staircase.

“They’re doing yoga down here,” he said politely. “Would you like to watch it?”

I think I screamed at him to shove it or something before I closed my eyes.

“I don’t think you’re in the mood for yoga,” he offered.

Ahhhh, hormones. No form of eastern meditation can contain you.

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