Due to the hard work and generosity of my dear husband and the relative absence of my school-aged children, I have the time to schedule my life a bit like a summer camp session. Under the guise of “improving” myself, I spend quite a lot of time in exercise classes and other sundry activities.
I could just go to the gym, jump on a treadmill and figure out some plan for lifting weights, but I need a little more structure than that. So I rely on the expertise and encouragement of instructors to keep motivated. It’s just that some of their catch phrases irk me a bit.
I’m not a huge fan of yoga although I am coming to appreciate it more and more. Part of my issue is that you are supposed to be undergoing something deep and meaningful. These are “experiences” I try to avoid.
Yoga instructors always have a sing-songy quality to their delivery that I find neither relaxing nor calming. I’m particularly put off by the phrase, “If that’s available to you today.” It’s supposed to make you feel better when you can’t wrap your arm through your leg, up around your neck and pick your own nose. How should I know if it’s available? Is there a particular season? Is there a list I have to get on? Was I supposed to sign up? Are you just being a dick and keeping it from me?
My spinning instructor has a couple of doozeys. My second to least favorite is, “find the mountain you need, not the mountain you want.” Let me be clear, mountains are not on my wish list. And I’m not going to have some magical emotional breakthrough because I turned the dial on the STATIONERY bike so far to the right that my quads snap. Did I mention the bike is standing still?
His other go-to is, ”good morning!” It’s not an initial greeting. He repeats it no less than 5 times during the hour. What he really means is, “Haha, that sequence fucked you up. You cannot moderate your competitiveness and you followed all my instructions. You’re in pain and dangerously close to myocardial infarction. “
It also triggers a Groundhog Day type loop if Groundhog Day had been a horror flick. I imagine his bleach bond pixie punim, accentuated by lash extensions, repeatedly rolling over next to me and waking me up from a deep sleep. I try to scream but my mouth is covered with duct tape.
My horse trainer likes to tell me, “ride the horse to the jump”. This instruction usually follows an instance where my horse has decided to be a total asshole and has refused said jump. Look, I’ve pointed a 1500 pound animal towards a fixed object. My expectations are that I’m going to hang on for dear life and that fucker’s gonna jump. If I’m still on his back, one point for me, I’m riding.
I’ve also been giving meditation a go. I’m not going to deny that there are some noticeable benefits, however sitting quietly while trying to quash the deluge of random thoughts I have at a rate of 10,000 per second is, well, let’s just call it an opportunity for growth. This one guru always begins with, “sit and know that you are sitting.” My ass is touching the ground, what the fuck else would I be doing? Maybe this meditation shit isn’t working.
This post originally appeared on Kimby Not Kim.
Kimberly Samson is a SAHM being held hostage in suburban Los Angeles. She started her blog to give the voices in her head someone to talk to. When she’s not taking care of her three sons, you’ll find her listening to country music, riding a horse or sampling bourbons. She’s either going to be a cowboy or a freelance writer when she grows up.