Yoga, Jersey-style.

Sometimes I practice at a yoga studio in New Jersey, one not above a  “video” store. They teach hot yoga, but it’s more of an Om-oriented place.

My favorite teacher quote came from Jagadisha, who also happens to be the studio owner. We were in some posture that was pure evil, probably triangle, and he was walking around adjusting postures, empathizing with our pain. “I know,” he said. “I wish I could sit on my couch and eat cake and it would make me one with everything. But it doesn’t work that way.”

Figures.

Last week I left the house after getting the kids off to school and brought my yoga clothes with me so I could catch a class in the middle of my day. I changed clothes in the studio’s changing room. I pulled on the pants.

They felt strange.

I tugged. I looked down.

These were not my yoga pants.

I have to back up a minute and talk about laundry. Everyone participates in laundry at our house. I learned early on that I should wash my clothes separately from the kids’ clothes and also never make them fold my stuff. Otherwise they steal it.

It isn’t just me they steal from. They all steal from each other. If a sibling has somehow managed to skate out of laundry detail and another sibling is folding their shirt, the laundry-working sibling considers it well within their rights to swipe the shirt for the next wearing. In everyone’s defense, there are a damn lot of clothes in our house and we don’t always know whose is whose. If you’re not there to speak up for your clothes, it’s your own fault.

I’m not morally superior to this practice myself, in theory. It’s just that I don’t actually fit in to any of their clothes, a fact I am reminded of when random kid clothes end up in my dresser and I don’t pay attention and try to put them on.

Which is how it came to be that yoga pants, size zero and belonging to #1 ended up in my closet, in my bag, and on my size eight ass at power Vinyasa last Monday.

Had I five extra minutes, I would have bought a new pair in the appropriate size from the studio. As it was, I didn’t, so I Om’d- for the space-age-stretchiness of synthetic fabrics, and Om’d some more that the seams would hold up, and took the Divine Guidance that came as a small, still voice inside me that said to sit in the back of the room. Or, more correctly, try not to sit.

I had a pretty stressful downward facing dog when the teacher came over to adjust my posture.

But then I remembered that I was in Jersey, and if you’re a woman and don’t wear clothes that are several sizes too small for you at least twice a year, they kick you out of the state (though you can usually bribe someone to get back in).

Have you made any. . .large mistakes lately? What can get you kicked out of your state?

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Winning

CC usually has to wait for me. For everything. He’s the most efficient person I’ve ever met and he does about 90% of everything we have to do around the house, even though he mostly always has between one and five children either hanging on him or otherwise clamoring for his attention. Seriously, he’s amazing.

He’s also been dragging my ass to the gym lately. Don’t get me wrong, exercise is often the only thing that keeps my head glued on. Left to my own devices I usually get there three days a week. But some rainy or sunny or cold or hot mornings when faced with the gym or going back to bed and eating cookies, it’s a tough call.

So he’s waiting on me today so we can go to the gym. He’s ready. I have to get dressed. I have to brush my teeth. I have to check something online. I have to put on a shirt over a shirt because I feel fat. I have to put on lipgloss, and tell myself that it’s like chapstick. I have to check something else online. Finally, I’m ready.

Then he says he wants to switch the laundry. I stand on the landing watching him. He goes in the laundry room.

a small portion of the laundry

CC: Crap, this is all ours. I have to bring it all upstairs.

(The kids semi-handle their own laundry, under duress)

CC: Crap, there are no baskets.

There never are baskets (see the above parenthetical element). He passes me with an armful of laundry. Unlike me, he doesn’t drop any of it. He does nine others things in like a minute and a half and gets another load started and I tell him he’s amazing.

Me: You’re amazing.

CC: I’m not as amazing as you think. I should have done this while I was waiting on you.

He passes me again. Comes back downstairs. He’s finally ready. He smirks at me, and laughs because I’m waiting on him for a change.

CC: How’s it feel?

Me: Watching you do all the work? Fantastic.

Winning.