Here are my current thoughts in poetic form about the thirty-one day yoga challenge I’m in the midst of attempting to complete.
Why did I decide to do yoga?
I would rather be wearing a toga
pretending to be a Greek goddess wrapped in a safety pinned sheet
and drinking beer that’s real cheap.
I’m twisting and turning through thirty-one days of a yoga challenge
when I could instead be watching The Wonder Years starring Fred Savage.
Thirty minutes daily of stretching and contorting for a month.
Am I too old for this type of stunt?
I’m on day twelve.
It’s a downward dog, tree pose, and forward fold special kind of hell.
I forced myself through day eleven yesterday after Thanksgiving dinner and drinks,
and right now my back is knotted in a quagmire of kinks.
At least my yoga pants collection is learning its name’s trade
unlike millions of pairs out there being worn and displayed.
Maybe now since I’m putting this is writing
I’ll be compelled to completion and can move on to something more exciting.
Now excuse me while I go cry and tantrum myself into happy baby.
If I’m not back in thirty minutes, someone please come save me.
And bring beer.