Yoga: A Story Of Jealousy

This used to be way too true in my life. I bought yoga pants with zest and wore them when I felt spunky, lazy, and for every school drop off from September through May. I never wore them to a yoga class. When I worked out at home, I traded yoga pants for shorty shorts that I had banned myself from wearing in public until I figured out how to treat the condition that had caused pubic hair to grow down my thigh. Yoga pants were always a part of my go-to ensemble. I would pair them with a loose fitting tank, some cheap flip flops, a beer stained hoodie or my Jesus tee shirt. I could take on the world. Or hide on my couch with a book and my 17th cup of coffee. The options were endless. Then I stopped running. I also stopped working out at home. Every pair of yoga pants I owned suddenly became two sizes too small and I was forced to consider buying sweatpants. The kind with the elastic ankle and a tie cord waistband. It was a low point, I'll admit. I had so many wonderful pairs of yoga pants, many that I had paid way too much for (I'm looking at you Athleta), and I wasn't going into sweats without a fight.

I went to a yoga class with my sister one month ago, and similar to the way you would stuff sausage into a casing, I stuffed my midsection/midlife crisis into my Athleta yoga pants and held my head high. The class was beyond my wildest dreams. The man who taught it looked to weigh as much as a third grader and the way he was able to fold forward, from a standing position, and lick his spine was really quite inspiring. I also enjoyed the moments when the extra skin from my belly gave itself over to gravity, my tank top inching it's way up and I spotted my mommy bagel. My prayer was that everyone else attending the class enjoyed those free carbs as well. I woke up the next day feeling as though I had been living in the stone age when people were pulled apart by their appendages and yes, it was awesome as it sounds. My yoga pants were going back, with or without me.

The next class was called Ashtung and after a Google search regarding the relaxing quality of this type of yoga, I was informed that it was great for athletes, marathon runners and Type A personalities with rock hard abs. I had almost made the list. When I crept in the door, I found the instructor to be the spitten image of what I had hoped I would look like when I grew up. She was very tall and very beautiful with long dark hair and bright red lips. She could lick her toes in a back bend and float into a perfectly straight head stand at a moments notice. Which is why I wanted to hate her. Then I realized, to my horror, that she was friendly and clearly not aware of how she could easily use her great looks to threaten and intimidate others. She must of missed that meeting. It was the best class I have ever taken and to top it off, this perfect human has a double first name. I wouldn't expect anything less from from you, Sarah Jane.

I'm Not An Expert, Just Ask My Husband.

I haven't always been fit. I'm not sure I would really consider myself fit now, but I am a hell of a lot closer to it than I have ever been. While making better food choices and starting to work out,  I have attempted to share tidbits of this information with my husband. Being diabetic and a few extra pounds overweight, I assumed he would be interested in my helpful hints. That's why we never assume, because it makes an ass out of you and then I want to hit you with my car. I think that's how the saying goes?

Me: "Wheat bread without all the additives is really great for you. White bread is the devil".
My husband: "Bread is bread."
Me: "Did you know that echinacea helps you get over colds and builds your immune system?"
My husband: "Did you know I like Nyquil and it actually works?"
Me: "Diet soda is white bread's evil cousin. Yeah, worse than the devil. Think about that."
My husband: "You just drank your weight in coffee, but thanks of the update Miss Health." Included eye roll.

I don't have a degree in nutrition and it is true that I have smoked for over fifteen years. While I never claimed to be an expert, I felt that 97% of what I was putting in my body was better than what my husband was shoveling down his throat. He ate fast food every day and washed it down with a gallon of diet soda. He believed that he was never going to get old and that he possessed the same metabolism that kept him fit in high school. Plus he was married, why did he need to look good? (He really said that.) Thanks, dick. While the scale continued on a regular incline, he wasn't planning to let his uneducated wife give him tips on nutrition. Clearly, I knew nothing.
Fast forward to this year and my husband's realization that he was 40 pounds overweight. Due to my deep love for him and the understanding that he was never going to listen to a damn thing I said, I bought him some sessions with a personal trainer. During his first week he joyfully skipped home with information that was interesting only to him.

"I am giving up diet soda. Do you know how bad it is for me? Empty calories, my trainer tells me."
"I am not eating fast food all the time. The calorie count in that stuff is crazy, like 2,000 calories for one meal."
"I need to eat smaller meals all day and focus more on healthy grains, vegetables and lean meats. Can we buy that stuff?" (FYI-That's all I have bought for the last decade.)
"My trainer suggested I take garlic and echinacea for my cold. Were you aware of the health benefits of garlic?"

I wanted to punch a watermelon and his trainer.  Was I aware? Yes, Tweedle Dee, that's what I have been telling you for years. This is not news to me, but I am curious how you have conveniently missed the hundreds of conversations we have had about these exact same issues. Here is where the disconnect comes in for my husband...I am not an expert. I am just a thirty something mom with a massage therapy license and a history of shitty jobs. In his mind, taking nutrition advice from me would be similar to allowing me to pick his line up for this year's fantasy football team. I have only unreliable information. There may be a list of things that I could give him advice on, but I admit to never wanting to find out what those would be. I imagine his list would consist of; scrubbing toilets, refilling dog bowls, shaving legs, wiping baby butts and picking up dog shit in the back yard. Funny, I don't have a degree in any of those either.