At least once a week, I attend a yoga class. Though I never thought of myself as the type of person who could ever really achieve a zen-like state, I have to admit that yoga does wonders for me.
When I really focus in on the practice, I can feel the stress and frustrations of the day, or week, melt away….and I get my best night’s sleep post Savasana. At least I did until yesterday, when I discovered that my face is falling off my head.
If you’ve ever been to a gym before, you might have noticed that the regulars tend to have a favored spot, or bike, or other piece of equipment they gravitate toward. My gym is no different, but no one is a bitch about it. So, when I arrived for yoga last night and found a new person in my typical spot, I just chose another, settled into Lotus pose and waited for class to begin.
My usual spot is near a half wall, that’s kind of like a long, narrow shelf. I like it there, because I can use the wall to cheat during some of the balance poses.
My new location was directly beside a wall of mirrors that runs the entire length of one side of the gym. I didn’t think much of it until I found myself in Prasarita Padottansana, which is a wide-legged forward bend.
We can pretend this is me….she’s OK….I guess.
Typically, I keep my eyes closed during my practice, unless otherwise instructed to open them. It helps me to block out the activity around me so that I can fully concentrate.
For some reason though, I decided to open them while bent over with the mirror at my back. The first thing I noticed was that the position made my ass look like a billboard and I wondered for a moment if it would be possible to write supercalifragilisticexpialidocious across my rear.
The second thing I noticed was that my cheeks (face cheeks) appeared to be on my forehead. It was legit frightening and after I gasped in horror, I did what women have been doing for centuries….I took a look around the room and compared myself to the other women.
This was only moderately helpful, since I was flanked by two, fresh faced twenty-somethings. But, I did notice that a few other ladies had pools of skin dangling from their hairlines as well, so I was at least relieved to know that the only thing dying was my youth.
Yes, I am aware that things change as we age, it’s just that I would prefer to defy nature….I like to set goals that are high and largely unattainable.
Having lost all ability to focus on the original intention of my practice that evening, I settled on a new one. Trying to force my skin back into its original location by making a series of faces. This did not work.
Then, I was reminded of the Golden Girls and that episode where Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia are discussing how long each woman waited to have sex with someone new, after their husbands were no longer in the picture.
Dorothy says, “You know, when you’re twenty, everything stays where it’s supposed to. Now, when you lean over, it looks like somebody’s let the air out of your face.”
Dorothy then challenges an incredulous Blanche to look over a mirror and see the effect for herself, which she does with comical results.
Anyway, I’m not sure what to do about this. I’ve seen too many seasons of The Real Housewives of (insert any city) and the evolution of Kim Kardashian’s face, to go anywhere near Botox.
So, is there some kind of fruit, or plant, or cream I can use that will magically turn back time? I’m looking for a relatively inexpensive, quick fix. I’ll even accept a potion brewed by the devil, whatever is going to work.
But if there is nothing that can be done that does not involve a scalpel, or a needle….if I am to accept that this is just the natural order of things….then I guess I’ll have to accept it.
But you can bet your ass I’ll bitch slap the new girl at yoga for my spot back.
“Want to come to my sex toy party?” ~Kelsey
A little over a year ago, I joined a local women’s only fitness studio where I’ve been working out regularly ever since. I love the atmosphere at the gym and all the women I’ve met, many of whom I now count as friends and enjoy spending time with outside of the studio.
Kelsey is a 23 years young woman who has just moved into her first apartment with her first serious boyfriend. They are presently in that stage of life where their entry level jobs haven’t begun to infiltrate their free time. They grocery shop together and cook together while enjoying glasses of wine and engaging in deep conversations about life. They have sex all the time and nowhere in the background is a child yelling out, “I’m done pooping, can you help me wipe my butt!?”
It’s a young romance. The kind that I think only exists for the very young….when the world is still viewed through rose colored glasses and grown-up life hasn’t yet made you weary. When you love with a heart that hasn’t yet been broken, in a relationship that hasn’t yet been tested.
When you swear that it will always be this way….that you will always be just as flexible and creative at 40 as you are at 23….and that you will never be one of those couples who forego sexy lingerie and various other props for a half-hearted romp in the sack, because adulting, or parenting, or both, has run you the fuck over.
“It’ll be fun!” Kelsey insisted to those of us who didn’t jump at the offer. “You don’t have to buy anything, but maybe you’ll find something fun to add even more spice to your sex life!”
Personally, I think adding “spice” might mean different things to different people. For example, my idea of a spicy night, may sometimes include a rare dinner out, alone, to the local wing joint where we’ll eat our weight in spicy wings and then go home and go promptly to bed.
Or, a late afternoon quickie on those rare occasions a doctor’s appointment, or something of the like, brings my husband home from work before the kids get out of school. We get it out of the way early and then I don’t have to feel bad about wanting to go to bed at 8:00pm to binge watch Netflix.
It might not sound very romantic and you might assume this means our sex life has run out of gas, but that’s not the case. It’s just that our day-to-day reality is very different from the early days of our marriage when we had far more energy and far more time.
Of course, I believe that romance and passionate love can exist at all stages of life, I just think time, age and life’s various experiences alter the way it looks. You begin to learn that intimacy isn’t only found between the sheets, but in a variety of milestones and moments as you build a life together. You work harder to stay connected and you find new ways to connect.
These days, spontaneity requires careful planning and romance goes beyond bouquets, candlelit dinners and a riding crop. My husband is almost sure to get laid if I come home and find he’s done a few loads of laundry, or made an unrequested run to the grocery store for the essentials, or suggested I take an afternoon for myself.
And yes, we do still put in the effort to spice it up in the way the magazines and these parties suggest we should, but I won’t elaborate on that….it’s private. Also, the people who read this and know us, don’t deserve the visual.
What I will say though, is that if I’m being honest, I’m far more likely to use a tub of Creme Brûlée Body Soufflé as a topping on my Ben & Jerry’s, than on a nipple. For one, it’s got to be messy and sticky and I barely have the time to take one shower a day, let alone two. Secondly, the prospect of adding more laundry to the pile has a way of killing the mood.
So, I politely declined the invitation, explaining that I wasn’t likely to buy anything. That I would just end up drinking her wine, eating all of her good cheese and saying things like, “Hey, do you happen to have a non-habit forming, mild sedative in that latex bag of toys that I could occasionally slip my husband when he’s feeling frisky and I’m feeling like a Southern Charm marathon?”
She understood. Probably because she remembered a recent conversation between myself and another woman at the gym regarding a Dutch Oven. Let’s just say this woman and I had very different opinions regarding the definition of a Dutch Oven.
Anyway, I will not be telling my husband about the invitation. Because, he’s a man. Which means he will passionately encourage me to go and spend with abandon. Then, he’ll want to try it all out the moment I get home. I, on the other hand, will be sleepy from too much wine and stopped up from too much cheese…. and I’d hate to be a tease.