Quietude of Mind

My relationship with exercise has always been a warm one. I've pretty much stayed active my entire life, and though counter-intuitive to the degree of slapstick to which my body loans itself on a regular basis, I'm not completely unathletic.

Though my true love is tennis, I haven't had real success in finding a partner since the ninth grade (what up, T.G.!), so in the past few years, I've surrended to the allure of air-conditioned gyms.

Don't get me wrong -- I am not hard-core. And since I had Ariel, I've really done no formal exercising whatsoever, save for an intense, week-long "trial" at the gym Y belongs to (for raquetball purposes only, don't get excited) a year ago. Somehow, I never formally joined after the week expired. Instead, I got a double jogging stroller, which I adore, though I don't jog, and starting walking Elan to and from school.

Now, the walk is probably at most ten minutes long. But this is LA, and nobody walks ANYWHERE here unless they have to. So when I first started showing up at his school on foot, I got so much positive feedback in the form of "Good for you!"s and "That's why you're thin!"s that I became disillusioned into thinking it was a serious cardiovascular workout, as opposed to the stretching-my-legs-after-sitting-in-front-of-the-computer-all-day exercise in not being paralyzed that it really was.

Recently, however, I started to feel really fatigued, a little light-headed, and got daily headaches. When I reported my symptoms to the doctor (my dad, of course - why would I call a local number?) he asked if I was getting enough regular exercise. "Well, I walk to take Elan to school and back," I began. "Oh yeah, that's great honey. That's definitely enough - IF YOU'RE OVER 80!" was the response. Sarcasm is a family trait. He told me that young moms, especially, benefit immeasurably from real cardio - doubling your hearbeat for at least 30 minutes at least three times a week - and mentally, as much as physiologically. Apparently, we mommies need the endorphins, the stress-release more than most people.

For a good year, breastfeeding had been my major cardio. I burned an extra 500 calories a day without being much hungrier, and with a tiny bit of swimming and a lot of walking to supplement, I managed to lose my pregnancy weight without a whole lot of effort. But I am no longer breastfeeding, and my appetite, which has always been healthy, has resumed its reign of terror on my life. Plus, I want to be stronger. I had to step up the routine.

So I vowed to join a gym again. That was at the beginning of April. Since, on top of the other symptoms, I've been looking and feeling a little, uh, "rounder" than I prefer to keep myself of late, I went for the first time yesterday.

I did a little cardio, and then treated myself to a yoga class, which I enjoy almost as much as tennis. I've been to many yoga classes in as many different yoga centers over the years, and though it is always a slightly different experience, the general feeling I get from it -- all the frou-frou fluff aside -- is empowering.
Yoga forces you to become accutely aware of muscles you never even knew existed, to control your breathing while strengthing the core of your body.

And before you male scoffers scoff (you know who you are), answer me this: if it's so easy, and it's just stretching, how come none of you heteros ever show up to make us geriatric stretchers look bad?

Also, yoga does more for calming my mind than any forty-five minutes on a therapist's couch ever has.

That said, you meet some interesting characters. My mom taught me the names and moves to the basic yoga positions when I was very young, and I used to do it with her in the living room after she got home from work for fun. I now realize she was combining something she had to get done for herself with spending time with me, but like mother, like daughter, because Elan knew the term "Downward Facing Dog" at age two, and Ariel can currently execute a mean Warrior One. Our sessions usually end in both boys tackling my back and tickle torture retaliation, but I understand fully how the attempt is born from necessity.

So in college, when OM Yoga, in the Village, offered free classes to students at the New School, my clique and I gave it a whirl. I was the only one of us who kept it up. But that place was hard core. At OM they practiced the kind of yoga where you are in an extremely hot and stuffy and dark room, to induce sweating and cleansing of the impurities your body absorbs - or something. I'm a sweat-er to begin with, so I was drenched during those classes, and it smelled like feet, and though the class itself was remarkably challenging, the experience was too generally demoralizing to stick with for longer than a few sessions.

I tried a women's gym closer to home in Brooklyn. At the Sunday morning yoga class there were at least thirty attendees, leaving little physical space for each to do her thang. But the worst part was the commentary. These were middle-aged, slightly-overweight, Jewish yentes, trying to feel virtuous after a shabbos of stuffing themselves. It was not uncommon to hear, in a heavy Flatbush accent, hands on hips and gum smacking: "MY GAWD. She wants me to do that? Ha! Do I look like a teenager? Do I look like a gymnast?! I don't THINK so? What-EVAH! I'll be standing this one out, ha ha! Did I tell you about the gefilte fish recipe they all went crazy for yestahday? Grab a pen..."

Needless to say, it was hard to feel my breath in such surroundings, much less control whether it wandered through my diaphragm or lungs.

Then there was Irvine, where Y and I lived before moving down here. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Orange County, Irvine is the safest, and cleanest city in America. Literally. They brag about it on the local news all the time. Y always said, even the homeless there dressed well and were polite. The country-club style apartment complex where we lived offered $3 yoga classes twice a week, with the only male instructor I've ever had: a tiny, Hindu man, with a high voice and strong opinions. He insisted on calling every position by its proper name, and since they all sound equally like "Chicka-runga," I was perpetually lost.

I'm not Madonna, but I've never been the worst in a yoga class, either. For some reason, this little man hated me. He informed me that I was the least flexible person in the class, and stood nose-to-nose with me to make sure that he could hear the necessary whistle that indicates you are breathing deeply enough. I towered over him. I also never came back.

After two years' abstinence, yesterday's class was completely wonderful. I worked my ass off, yet felt such a total sense of calm and inner peace when I left that I shut off the radio in the car on the way home. I just wanted to hold on to that feeling as long as possible, knowing that a hectic evening of feeding and bathing little bodies, getting them to sleep at a reasonable hour, and putting together a dinner for Y and me lay ahead.

At the end of most yoga classes, the teacher kind of puts you to sleep. After an hour, and sometimes an hour and a half, of bringing your shoulder blades together while pulling your abs into your tailbone while altogether folded into a triangle and consciously breathing alternatively through your belly and your chest, you get to lie on your back, relax every muscle in your body, and listen to soothing music for five minutes. It's marvelous. At the class at Body Rush, yesterday, Stephanie murmered things like, "Empty your mind...when thoughts come, let them pass through you like clouds...don't connect with your thoughts..." during our nap.

And even though I was practically asleep, I couldn't do that. My thought process went like this:

"I am so relaxed...I am so happy I finally did this...let that thought go, dammit! Is this working? Am I really not thinking? Are my thoughts just passing through me like clouds? They are! I am so not connecting with the fact that I am thinking about thinking. Ho.ly. Shit. I am starving. No, the thought has passed. I'm light. No, I am ravenous. Is anyone else in this room thinking about food right now? Oh my G-d, I might not make it home without eating something. When was the last time I ate? Hours ago? Yesterday, probably! A bowl of Multi-Grain Cheerios? That's hardly called eating...SHUT UP! SHUT UP THOSE THOUGHTS! SWEET G-D, LET THEM PASS THROUGH LIKE CLOUDS ALREADY!"

Then, we were slowly brought back to life. The teacher told me I had done really well, and she was glad I hadn't pushed it too hard. Um...ok. I mean, it was the hardest I had worked in two years, but thanks for making me feel like I'm one of the elderly women doing aqua aerobics with two-pound waterproof weights, in their swim caps, in the POOL.

Them fighting words. I will be back to that class. I will show Stephanie how hard I can push it. But today my goal is try out Cardio Barre, the ultra-trendy LA workout of choice that just happens to take place a couple of blocks away, and a few friends of mine swear by.

And maybe a good massage will help me better achieve quietude of mind? Because my shoulders feel like I've been in a train wreck...