I’m not wearing any makeup. It’s a perk of my new job. I also run errands, soaking up the glorious freedom of self-employment, with my hair un-did and in yoga pants. But that doesn’t make me any less beautiful. (gasp) Anyone else feeling awkward that I just called myself beautiful?
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Shhh! Don’t tell me. I haven’t seen the finale of The Biggest Loser yet. Week after week, I enjoy the workouts (last chance workout!), cringe at the product placements, fast forward through the yapping and weigh-in suspense, and tear up during the heartfelt stories and pounds shed. With 13.4 million viewers, this show has struck a chord.
That chord sounds to me like a lot of hurting people whom the church has failed.
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It would have been a nice day for a run, if I hadn’t had a dog attached to me.
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In my head
Thank God I wore spandex and not cotton, so my sweat won’t be as visible. That’s what I get for doing a spin class before yoga — a whole lotta sweat. Nothing worse than someone behind me staring at a sweaty rump. I’m not down dog with that.
Thank God for working out. And endorphins. And water. And stretching.
And my yoga mat has dog hair on it. How embarrassing. Time to size up the rest of the class. I definitely fit in better than the girl with soccer shorts and her socks still on. But the yogi in bamboo pants next to her can probably tell I’m an imposter. Can probably smell my non-organic, full-dairy latte out of the disposable cup from earlier.
Is that a big Buddha at the front of the room? And we’re all facing it? What are those beads for? And the incense?
Ahh, yoga. So relaxing. I’m so hip and cultured right now. My quads are tight. My butt is feeling the burn. I hope my arms don’t tremble uncontrollably and reveal how weak I am. Time to engage my core.
Did she say third eye? Heart center? What the hell is a lower chakra?
Her voice is so soothing. She wants me to invite air in and welcome new breaths. What a fluffy way to tell us to breathe.
Connect with the divine? Feel an inner calm and know that my true nature is loving and good? Experience union with the universe? Blah, blah, blah. Just release us from the plank pose before my arms melt.
Jesus is what connects us with the Divine. Not yoga. I’m a sinner, and without Jesus there’s nothing good in me. God created the universe, but the universe isn’t God.
I can go to yoga classes and not believe what the instructor says. My practice can just be physical and not spiritual. It’s good to experience other people’s beliefs and learn about their faith.
Yoga means “union” and was created to unite people with their divine consciousness, their transcendent selves. That’s not rooted in Truth. I can’t separate the foundation of yoga from the physical practice. I can’t make yoga mean something different to me — it’s not all relative.
What kind of Christian would I be if I warded off yoga because I didn’t agree with parts of it? A close-minded, judgmental one. Plus, I already paid for six weeks of classes. I can decide to not do yoga after that.
What’s next? A little Buddha for our house? Meditation instead of prayer to connect with the universe instead of God? It’s a slippery slope.
My faith in and relationship with Christ should be strong enough to stand against conflicting beliefs. If a little yoga affects my Christianity, that’s a problem with my faith, not yoga.
Why would I invite something into my life that conflicts with what the Spirit is telling me?
Shut up. This is dead pose. Time to wipe all thoughts from my mind. Then a namaste, a bow, and time to go.
Dead pose. Interesting. You do realize you’re bowing to an idol? Buddha. Literally.
Bootcamp ended last Thursday. Perfect timing, because we spent the weekend eating fast food and enriched white bread paired with various meats for every meal. (We drove for eight hours to camp for three days).
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I spoke (typed) too soon. If you see a short girl hobbling around and grimacing in discomfort, give her some extra time to get where she’s going. And a pat on the back for the discipline of a hard workout. And some chocolate.
Well, bootcamp is half over. I’d call it a success in progress. My body has adjusted to the torment, since day #3. I’m not too sore anymore, and today, I busted out 50 push-ups (still girly-style), 100 squats and 100 lunges per leg without breaking a sweat.
Yep, my sweat didn’t break — it was intact and running down my face, dripping off my nose.
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My body hurts. Everything from my muscles to my jaw to my hair. Yes, my hair hurts.
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My mom doesn’t understand blogs. She said, of course, that she would read mine religiously, but she doesn’t know why anyone who’s not my mom would. She didn’t say it in so many words. But, she asked, why does anyone care what anyone else is blogging about?
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I was so 21st century the other day. I went running with my iPod attached to a strap clutching my left arm and my right hand clutching my Treo. I was waiting for an important call. And I may have responded to a few texts as well. Multi-tasking.
Somewhere between "Hey Jealousy" and "Hey, ya!" (part of my On-the-Go playlist) my thoughts went from my skepticism toward the emerging stylishness of shorts to what I know about the emerging church — which, in short, isn’t a whole lot. And then I wondered if Justin is really supporting Britney and there for her, or if it’s just a publicity stunt, which might be what a lot of relationships are, even outside of the celebrity world. Which is really an Inconvenient Truth, so I congratulated myself for running and not driving around and emitting toxins into the air.
If this had been a page in a future history book, maybe the subhead would have said Postmodern Times. And then if you flipped the book back a few pages, there would be a picture of me typing in a side ponytail and swooping bangs, on one of those old-school computers with the green turtles on the screen. And the subhead would say The Information Age Begins.
Because we information agers sure love to see pictures of ourselves. Just look at our Facebook.