I can't remember the last time I went to yoga class. I think it was over a month ago. It was a good morning. I left one kid with my mom, and the other was in nursery school. I schlepped downtown reluctantly, turning the car around to go home at least twice. But, I finally did make it to yoga class, half crying.
Why was I THAT reluctant to go? Why was I half crying? I was half crying because, I'm embarrassed to say, I would have SO preferred to sit on my arse and tweet with my internet pals, research new diet plans (an unfortunate pastime of mine) and just play on my macbook. I wanted to get work done so I wouldn't have to stay up until 2am answering emails, again. I wanted to read my novel, cuddle my cats, watch MTV, or even to peruse the giant bookstore (another favourite pastime) possibly for new diet books, WHILE sipping the bane of my existence -- a soy chai latte (DON'T try it). Sigh.
I wanted to do anything BUT actively work on myself. Going to yoga meant I'd have to BE with myself, sit with myself and be forced to take a good hard look at what's REALLY going on, instead of escaping into work, into dreams of some ideal me, into a novel, or a yummy gourmet beverage.