Breakfast is the first thing I do in the morning. I get out of bed, I find my glasses, I pull on leggings and a sweatshirt, and immediately I go downstairs to eat. I wake for food. But when I went downstairs this morning and turned on the kitchen light I heard a moan and discovered a boy on the floor and a boy on the couch. Dustin and his homies watched LOTR until late last night and so we had some—rather uncomfortable, I’d say—overnight guests. I turned off the lights, whispered an apology, grabbed my diet soda, and retreated back upstairs. If they don’t have to get up yet, why wake them? So instead of toasting an English muffin downstairs, I’m in my office, little heater humming at my feet, blogging about this week.
This week just feels so full. It is full, actually. It’s my out of town week for work, so today I’m driving to Fallon, Yerington, and Hawthorne. I’ve got a meeting in Vegas next week that I’ve got to prep for. My final written exam for yoga school is due this weekend. On Sunday we teach a full vinyasa class for our “final” exam on teaching skills. (And then graduate!) On top of that I’m driving to SF tomorrow night, ‘cause on Friday I’m attending Yoga Journal Live!
The YJ event lasts all weekend, but because of yoga school/yoga school graduation I could only attend on Friday. It will, nevertheless, rock. I’m signed up to take an all-day intensive with Kathryn Budig. File me under Thrilled. If you’re a vinyasa-ing yogi and know anything about anything you know who she is: a badass yogini goddess without the standard suffocating ego.
I was supposed to be in Chicago for work this week, but when I found out about the meeting I emailed my boss and told her that I already had a nonrefundable reservation for a yoga conference. She and said that instead I could attend the meeting in Vegas the following week and, Wait a minute, a yoga conference? That's a thing? Do you, like, wear yoga clothes and do poses? (I forget sometimes that not everyone does what I do.) Why yes of course. It’s a blast. The last time I went to a Yoga Journal event was eight years ago. I’m overdue for more.
I never expected yoga to be such an enormous part of my life. (But I don’t do things in a small way, so I should have seen this coming.) It sort of just happened. And it wouldn’t have worked without an incredibly supportive husband. Jim has always loved that I do yoga and now he loves that I teach. He wasn’t able to make it to my class on Monday and, quite honestly, ended up fretting some about what he missed. In the lobby before class he likes to tell new students, “This teacher is my favorite in the whole world.” They nod and smile. He continues, “That’s why I married her.” Uh-dorable. Duh.
He gets more ‘dorable every day. Last night Cameron was over so we could do yoga shit and Jim just kept feeding him. Here, try this cheese. Have a bowl of edamame. Drink this smoothie. “I keep telling you he’s perfect,” I said.
Jim and I have lots of I-may-have-marrried-you-fors. “I may have married you for your legs,” I’ll tell him. “I may have married you for your fried rice.” For your perfectly-shaped head. For your awesome mom. For your delight in constantly surprising me. For your love of pie that almost equals my own. One of Jim’s I-may-have-marrried-you-fors for me is that I don’t have kids.
It was a foregone conclusion that Jim would remarry. He wanted to be with someone. And he expected to end up with a perfectly passable lady in his age range who liked Jim because he’s hilarious and generous and most especially because he is financially solvent and could support her and her kids. After all, what other options on the market were there? (Turns out: Me! Surprise!) The family blending with a whole other set of children could be dramatic and painful. Maybe even a nightmare. It is a complication we’re grateful not to have to deal with and a thing he thanks me for often.
As soon as we even started thinking about thinking about dating Jim told me that he wasn’t down for more kids. Four is plenty, you know. “Good news,” I told him, “We couldn’t possibly be more on the same page there. I don’t want to get pregnant. Ever.” After we got married Jim's friends who obviously don’t know me all that well started betting on how long until I got pregnant. (She is 32, you know, and time's a-wastin'.) Nuh-no. Four is plenty. And those four are completely great. I couldn't ask for better.
The other day, however, one of my dear yogi friends asked me after class if she should wish me congratulations. Baffled, I asked why. “Well, I saw you were modifying postures in class, and I know you recently got married . . . ” Oh my stars, she was asking if I’m pregnant.
See, in Bikram yoga we practice the beginner series every day. The same 26 postures again and again. Some of those poses aren’t right for those with child, so there are specific modifications that you switch to just as soon as you know you’re pregnant. Actually, it's usually how we find out that one of our yoginis is expecting. My right knee is so completely effed up right now that I can’t do Rabbit pose without shooting pain that I’ll pay for later. So my teacher showed me how to modify the pose, and that modification happens to be part of the pregnancy series.
“Oh, no, no!” I told my sweet yogi pal, “I’m injured, so I’m modifying so I don't have to sit out the pose!” She was, as you’d expect, mortified. Because I know I don’t look pregnant even a little bit I wasn’t offended at all, and I told her, “Actually your congratulations is appropriate. You’re congratulating me that what I’m dealing with is an injury and not a pregnancy. That’s not in our plans.”
It’s a whole new way to look at my awful knees. Pain over pregnancy, please.