So, what is it, we finally crack the freezing point here in the vast, snowless island of concrete, and everyone decides it’s an auspicious day to practice sleeping in?
For me, I’ve decided that it is officially YoChiYoPraMo, which translates as “Yoga Chickie Yoga Practice Month”, which means that whether rain or shine, whether happy or grumpy (or any of the other seven dwarves), whether I want to or I don’t, whether dinner the night before was five handfuls of Dal or Porterhouse for Two, I practice. It’s actually the definition of a practice. It’s what makes it a practice, as opposed to a hobby (Note to V: you were right about it not being a hobby exactly). And so I practice, and I do so at the shala, unless circumstance render that absolutely impossible.
To kick off YoChiYoPraMo, I set the alarm to 7 a.m., woke to the musical stylings of AM Disney (it’s about all I can tolerate first thing in the morning), kicked off the arctic weight duvet and hauled ass into Shala X, where I enjoyed a remarkably dismal practice. Much as I love “winter, snow and ice”, it works better for me when I’m wearing several layers of clothing and not trying to bend into a pretzel. Sure, my muscles get pretty com-pliant after a few Surya Namaskaras. However, my joints have other ideas about the cold. They scream and beg and whimper for insulation, and what do I do? I mock them with my tank top and skimpy yoga pants. And they exact their revenge by refusing to crack, refusing to release, forcing me to rely upon the more pliable muscles and tendons to get me into postures and to bear my body weight in my chatturangas. With only half of the team working for me, the more bendy postures merely scratched the surface today. Although I was able to get into everything (even Supta K), getting deep was not happening. And I literally cried out in pain when twisting my arms into reverse namaskar for Parsvotanasana. Had Sir let go of my hands in Supta K, the pose would have evaporated entirely. And now, my triceps are angry and inflamed. If they could talk, they’d be all, “Nice to let us do all the work today. Where were those rotator cuffs when we needed them?”
But it’s just another day here in YoChiYoPraMo, so I can’t take it too hard. In fact, I’d say that all in all, it was quite a GOOD practice in that after I lay down for Savasana, I fell into quite the trance. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t know if I did or didn’t. All I know is that at some point I realized that I was the only one left in the room, at which point, I packed up and left.
Later on, I went to Gap Kids to purchase new sweat pants for my kids. And while I was there, I re-discovered something that I used to know but have chosen to forget over the years: I am the size and shape of an average American 14-year-old boy. Back in those days of yore discussed yesterday, when I used to wear a blazer with my jeans and call it barwear, the jeans of choice, of my choice, that is, were Levi’s 501’s, Student Size 26. They were perfect for me. They hugged my hips without gaping at the waist, and they fell right below my navel.
Then along came Seven for All Mankind, Citizens of Humanity, Hudsons, True Religions, all of them lower in the rise than the next. All of them cut to hug the theoretical curve of the hips with a bit of lycra woven into the denim, all of them intended to land far below the natural waist in order to create the look of a lovely long torso. But most importantly, I believe, was that the advent of the low-rise stretch jean meant that girls who had previously needed to have all of their jeans taken in at the waist to accomodate the lovely curve of their hips no longer had to do so. The “new” jeans fell far below the natural waistline, the top of the pants gently hugging the hips at a point just slightly beyond their widest point so that everything above the beltline of the pants began to taper in. Well, for some girls anyway. But not for me. For girls like me, with a rather non-descript waist to hip ratio, well, it’s how the “Muffin Top” got its name.
Today, as I was looking around in the boys section of Gap Kids, I noticed a really great pair of dark-blue denim carpenter pants displayed on the wall. They looked casual, relaxed, comfy and cool. Below it was a huge selection of sizes and a size chart, which upon reading, I was startled to realize that I am nearly a perfect Size 14 Boy. I hungrily grabbed at a pair of 14’s and hurried to the dressing room where I pulled on the pants and stared at myself in the mirror in disbelief. It was as if these jeans were designed with me as the fit model. The beltline landed right at my waist, and yet there was nothing “mom jeans” about them because from the beltline to the cuffs, the fit was completely flat, not a pleat or tuck or bulge anywhere.
Of course, if I were an actual 14-year old boy, I would not want my jeans to land at my natural waistline – I would expect them to land slightly below. So, I can only surmise that a 14-year old boy would likely have a slightly longer waist and slightly shorter legs than me. But for a female, it’s a perfect fit. And MUCH less expensive than adult-size jeans.
Can I persuade anyone else to join me in shunning the muffin top? In banning the butt crack? In embracing your inner teenage boy? Anyone? Don’t make me do this alone….