Bringing It Home: Shit Yogis Say

I come home from yoga and ask if anyone wants to go out to Panera for breakfast. It’s my way of alleviating what can only be described as Mom Guilt –a nagging sense that a perfect mother would have been there on a Saturday morning making pancakes for everyone, spreading a batter of love throughout the kitchen and household for a Norman Rockwell version of the first meal of the day.

As we’re leaving, the husband and daughter both ask if maybe we can stop by Macy’s on the way. Apparently, they are annoyed by my yoga pants.

While I think my yoga pants are pretty cool, they’re not to other people. They’re probably more appropriate to a Hare Krishna gathering in Honolulu than to a breakfast in a conservative middle class town.  I like how they flop, but admit, they might be the yoga version of a Halloween costume. Just add a black top, a pointed hat, I could be the yoga witch. Sometimes we are so into our groove, we forget the yoga world can veer off into spaced-out in one breath.

Needless to say, I assume the role of “Mother, Teen Age Tormenter.” I’m going to wear my pants because they bug my teenage daughter. So I suggest that we take a few moments to breathe, channeling some good energy before we eat. It’s good for digestion I add. They frown, but I can’t resist asking the cashier,  “Do you have goji berries?”

The conversation rolls over to my husband’s command ceremony. He’s stepping in as the point dog at a Forward Surgical Team at Fort Bliss. There will be a formal ceremony. Believe me, I had been wondering what kind of Army-Wifey dress I should scare up. But then it seems more natural to pull on a pair of yoga pants. I ask my military husband if his company would want to do any stretches beforehand –a simple forward fold, maybe a downward dog, then in for some breath exercises and a few nice long Oms. He gives me a military look that says, “Just be normal.” As if I knew what that was. As if it were desirable, even possible.

I’m enjoying my role as Yogi-Tormenter, when my daughter says, “My goal for the new year is to get mom to quit talking about yoga…. and the military!”

Point taken, kid. From now on I’ll change clothes before barreling out the door.

Enjoy this! And have a very happy new year!

2 thoughts on “Bringing It Home: Shit Yogis Say”

  1. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to even type, let alone say, Namaste ever again without laughing… mutha f*cka.

    My favorite line, new eyeshadow for her 3rd eye. Awe. Some.

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