I Broke Up With Yoga

I guess it’s official: Yoga and I broke up.  It was a long time coming, and it is perfectly amicable, but to call a spade a spade – it’s over.  The axe has fallen.

We were together a long time.  Childhood sweethearts, we survived those tough college years, and our relationship got even stronger throughout that post-college decade.  We had good times, plenty of them.  Our physical relationship was amazing.  I’ve never had better.  Yoga was kind but firm with me, guiding my body into shapes and sizes previously unknown.  My arms and back looked like a rock climber’s.  I had permanent four-pack abs, and when I wasn’t suffering from PMS bloat, a six-pack.  I reveled in our physical relationship, equating all that body-ecstasy with real depth of connection.  I became a teacher, training for a year with magical Yoga orgies of 8-hour days on the mat.  We had a deep, passionate connection, neither one of us could deny that.

But things changed.

There were irreconcilable differences.  I wanted to go outside; I wanted to go fast; I wanted to be competitive.  Yoga wanted me to slow down, to breathe, and meditate.  I itched to get my workout outside; the studio smelled of Nag Champa incense and other people’s feet.  I wanted an aerobic component to my workout, and I wanted to bring my dogs.  Yoga just couldn’t keep up with all my demands.

Cheating starts with a thought.  A belief, perhaps, that you aren’t doing anything wrong, or that you won’t get caught. I started running after class, and hiking on the weekends.  Of course my body betrayed me: leg muscles ever tighter, it became increasingly clear I was taking my workouts outside, without Yoga.

From that point on, I was critical of Yoga.  It was too commercialized: back in the 1980’s, I don’t think I owned even one mat, and don’t remember needing one.  At the time of our split, I think I owned three, plus a set of blocks, a strap, a blanket, a bolster, and so on.  I still have a few pair of Yoga’s pants; I gave away the last of her tops with the last bag of clothes headed for Goodwill.

So we broke up.  We still catch up, every few months or so, for an hour or so.  “Just checking in, how are you?”  “Fine, fine; all good.”  Maybe it isn’t really a formal break up, but just forging a new relationship – an open relationship – in which we can see other ‘people’ and not get all bent out of shape about it.  We shall see;  like everything else it is a work in progress.

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