I’ve embarked on a yoga practice. Nothing serious, just testing how far my aging bones can still stretch. The answer? Not as much as they once could; but not as stiff as they could be. This comes in a long line of exercising I take up with enthusiasm and abandon with equal passion.
I was on a gymnastics team as a preteen and excelled at splits. The luck of the draw, I suppose, but my short lived career gave me undue confidence in the gumby-like qualities of my body. With yoga I expend enough energy not endanger myself, and still feel good about it. I insist on trying things before I reject them outright. Yoga works for me.
I have zumba’d, weight lifted, bootcamped, tread-milled, hiked, biked, swam and walked everywhere. I’ll try anything, once, especially food or exercise, though I stick to the things I like to eat, while I’ve let fun workouts fall to the wayside.
I even went skiing last week in the ridiculously picturesque mountains of Breckenridge, CO. What I mean to say is that I shared a house with my extended family, played with two adorable babies, gossiped with, and reveled in the lovely teenagers I’ve known their whole lives, and enjoyed meals prepared and cleaned by everyone, as long as they weren’t on the slopes.
I’d never had the occasion to participate in the high speed sport. After Sonny Bono and Liam Neeson’s wife, Natasha Richardson fell victim to it, I developed a healthy fear. But this branch of my husband’s family are religious skiers, tens of them converging on slopes all over the world and I’ve long wanted to enjoy the festivities.
My partner wasn’t going to bother either to ski or to feel bad about it, but my son and I booked a lesson. We were there for the week. Those of us who weren’t properly suited up in snow pants, consisted of an extraordinarily pregnant woman, the toddlers and my husband. I needed to fill the time between taking them to the playgrounds.
As fresh snow fell along the mountain, my son said, “If you’re not going to try it here, you never will.”
I heard the truth in it and not-so-secretly rejoiced that he finally integrated a philosophy of mine instead of rolling his eyes at my mostly ever present sunshine. Scared of everything, but up for most, I agreed.
Panic was a low level buzz in my ear. I “sun salutationed” my way into calm. At least for a bit. We waited in the long line for rentals. My blood pressure spiked when they put the ungodly stiff boots on me. He took it in stride, barely glancing back as the line swept forward.
We were all first timers and they pointed us to the “magic carpet” which was an airport style, conveyor belt for people. I was relieved it was not a chair lift which I’d fall off for sure. Determined, I tried to maneuver the way the sweet instructor patiently taught me. Ankles out. Pizza with fries or some shit. It was hard to hear beyond my pounding fear which loomed like the mountain. Be rational, I told myself. This was less a peek and more like a hill of melting ice cream—hardly worth the calories.
I clomped my way towards the rubber edging, waiting to board. Three times I had to abort midway and replace the skis to get back to the belt. I became more determined, promising myself credit if I could just make it downhill, upright. Once.
Who decided a person is meant to let gravity take over while on two oversized levers? I cleared my throat and hoped my goggles stayed unfogged. There are worse things to be judged over. I came crashing down again. Do it, I pleaded with myself, while trying not to meet my son’s concerned eye.
I took a deep breath. End this. No one was keeping me there, not even my son who employed the proper glide right away. Not this time, I thought. I could breathe into any pose I wanted. Couldn’t I fold my body like a pigeon? One knee tucked beneath my chest, the other leg trailing and flat behind. Using my breath and sheer force, I made it, if not gracefully, safely to the bottom for the first time.
For once, I didn’t turn my own lack of enthusiasm into an attack against myself. Instead, I accepted that striding downhill on two-by-fours isn’t for everyone. A younger version of me would have missed the win. I made my way back to the magic carpet for one more round or someone to pry the skis from my feet—whichever approached first.
That’s skiing off my bucket list, I thought as a kind girl unbound me from the hideous equipment before I happily headed home. My son graduated to the actual lift, and was on the mountain for the next three days. I was content to bask in some deferred glory while my husband “sledded” with toddlers in a playground.
Were spikes somewhere in the rented house, I wondered? Maybe a nice hike into the woods. No, a good, long, downward facing dog would do just fine. For now.
You are a better woman than I who have never tried!
As always, enjoyed every word and hated to come to the end! You’re amazing! Xxxx