After a week on the new job (as the editor of this fine and funky lil’ newspaper), I arrived at the weekend with a resounding slump onto my sofa.
My body was wrecked. I’d stared at a computer screen for at least 60 hours in the previous seven days. Yeah, that count goes back into the previous weekend — it was all official the Friday before, and I felt compelled to bury my brain into my laptop that very first weekend. Now, my muscles and joints were punishing me for my inactivity.
But it’s OK! I thought. My stoke for the job kept my spirit intact during these long hours, even when my body complained.
So I thought.
Saturday morning, I was planning to go to a yoga class. But I’d become so fully engaged in that aforementioned sofa slumping that I was starting to look like candle wax that had melted onto it and hardened — not a living, whining human being. My husband sat down at the other end of our couch and declared that I was going to a yoga class.
No choice, he said. You’re going.
Yeah, I’ll go, I said. “I guess.”
He gave me the look — the you-know-better look.
I realized the seriousness of my sofa slumping. It wasn’t just my body. My spirit was in a slump. But I knew what to do about it: hide.
I dove my head into the space between him and our sofa. “I want to be in a cave!” I declared. “Can’t I just hide out here today?”
Then he told me that I knew better, rather than just implying it with that look of his.
“You need to go to yoga,” he said. “You’ll feel better if you go.”
Sometimes, even if you know yourself well and know what you need in certain moments or even in life in general — breath, movement, yog-aaaah — it’s still hard to exhale and stand up and move, because being stuck — on your couch, in an imaginary cave you’ve created out of a person or dog or whatever — actually feels good.
In those times, you need a crowbar to pry your slumping mass and ass off the sofa.
I peered out of the cave. “I’ll go.”
And I did, and I felt like a human who wants to live out in the light again.
Thank Buddha I had a crowbar.