As you may know, I've started taking Capoeira classes. This is a bad idea on many levels, given that I have no rhythm, no reflexes, and no musical ability, and it requires upper body strength. But it's a challenge, and hey, there are worse things to do on a Monday night than look deep in the eyes of hot men. (No, that's not my motivation. I'm just trying out jokes for my new chick lit novel.) (Yes, that's also a joke. An enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a pun, that's me.) Our instructors came back from a workshop in Denver full of new ways to torture us, and even before class was over my back and shoulders ached. (The answer to the question of "How many cartwheels can you do?" is "More than I thought." But none of them well.)
Yesterday afternoon I spent a couple of hours helping a friend move. Her third-floor apartment sans elevator sustained some ceiling damage in the flood, and she was moving to a place without a gaping hole. Honestly, the effort was, in the immortal words of Kenny Wayne Shepherd, "a whisper on a scream." But then I went to ashtanga class.
I mean, look, I do ashtanga. I can get through the ten sun saluations without crying. But last night, I went into the first one and discovered I couldn't even do up dog. My triceps just wouldn't hold me up. (Those of you who don't do yoga - and can't be bothered to follow the link - it's not an advanced pose. Maybe not first-time material, but pretty standard stuff.) I had to step back instead instead of jumping back. And forget arm balances.
(Not to mention back somersaults and shoulderstand were out because I had whacked my head on the floor Monday night. But let's not talk about that. I wouldn't want my mom to worry about brain damage.)
My yoga teacher sees the upside, though. "You'll only hurt for a few weeks of doing this!"