Sixth day in a row today. I practiced because it was hot and muggy out. I could have (should have?) rested. But whatever. It felt AWESOME.
Husband was hanging around for the second side of Pasasana, so I asked him – could you give me a hand here? And he promptly knocked me over. Second time was the charm. I am telling you: no yoga teacher has ever given me a better Pasasana assist. He simply brought my hands together firmly and then backed off. I was like, “noooo, I’m going to fall….” but I totally did NOT fall.
How is it that my husband,the real estate lawyer, the total non-yogi except for the occasional hot yoga class, is my best Supta K and Pasasana assist-er? Tied for second best are my sons. OK, well, maybe they are tied for third after the Good Doc and Val, who are tied for Second, due to their assertive pulling of arms from under the legs using the wrists as leverage and their crossing ankles over neck in a way that no one else can really do (except for the Husband, who may have a desire to hurt me, which pays off when it comes to Ashtanga assists…).
Speaking of Supta K, after holding it for a delicious 10 breaths, I came up and then rolled over on my back and bound in Yoga Nidrasana. YUM.
I was a bit disappointed that after all that juice in the forward bends and twists, and even some really nice Second Series backbending, my Urdhva Dhanurasana was still painful in my wrists, and Kapotasana wasn’t even close. Whatever. Other than that, it’s all good. The practice keeps me fit and happy.
Had some friends over today, late afternoon through early evening. We were talking about how you adjust to a “new normal” when things happen that you never could have foreseen. Specifically, we had been talking about the fact that if one gets prostate cancer, the surgery could leave one impotent. I suggested that perhaps this would not be as tragic as it seems at this moment, standing in this place, at this time. Like, perhaps if your life is at stake, you eventually adjust to a new normal, where impotence is not a major issue. I cited myself as an example. If I were 20 years old, and you told me that as a 36 year old, I would have to have one or both breasts removed to battle an aggressive form of breast cancer, I would have been pretty damn upset. Not able to get out of bed upset. But at 36, when it was my life at stake, I was borderline cavalier about it, about everything I had to give up in order to survive – the loss of the breasts, the loss of hair, the loss of eyelashes and eyebrows, the weight gain, the loss of the illusion that I was too good for cancer.
I bring this up because the issue of my reconstruction came up. My reconstruction was a failure. The first time and the second. And by failure, I mean that I do not like the way it turned out. And I am not picky. I WANTED to like it. I would have dug deep into the depths of denial to like it. But there is not much to like except for the fact that I can manage to look okay in clothing. Last year, I sought out a third opinion, a horrible doctor who I wrote about somewhere on this blog, who was dismissive of me and told me, essentially, that I could have another go at it – using fat from my butt – which I would have to grow by gaining weight! – if I was willing to never ever do yoga again.
Never. Do. Yoga. Again.
Sorry, but no.
New normal. Me wanting function more than form. It’s mildly mind-blowing to me that I would rather live with what I’ve got, which is far from what I had when I liked what I had, than give up the activity that makes me truly content.
Time to put down the wine. When I read this tomorrow, will I delete? Time shall tell…