Dear Piyo instructor,
Including ‘yoga’ in your demented, fast paced, jumpy-upy-downy class does not make it yoga. At least, not the kind we had two weeks ago, with the nice incense and soothing music. SHE didn’t yell at us over Bad to the Bone.
Aching butt muscles.
I’ve never been a skinny person. I’ve always been the one who couldn’t buy certain clothes because, at the very least, my boobs were too big. The lowest my weight has been in years was when I had my melt down two years ago. And it’s insane how many people told me how much better I looked. Stress and depression looked good on me, and paradoxically, I finally felt a little better about the way I looked.
But happy me has Never been thin. Hence, my willingness to attempt angry-yoga, taught by someone so lithe and lovely I could gladly have punched her. More than once.
I’m trying to figure out where my body and I stand right now. Because I know from experience that when I start to loathe it, it has larger psychological and relationship consequences. But not loathing it doesn’t seem like an option, really. I look around and see plenty of people probably around my size. But that still doesn’t make me feel like less of a jelly donut wrapped in streaky bacon.
For now, I’ll call concentrate on the upcoming book launch and other stuff going on. Let my butt jiggle as it will.