In what may come as a total and complete surprise, television and Country Boy are not the only loves in my life.
I’m also having a torrid love affair with both running and yoga.
I know. I KNOW. I am one of THOSE people who rearranges her entire schedule to fit in a workout and who actually looks forward to it.
Please don’t hate me. I still eat cake. Lots and lots of cake.
About two months ago, I started training for a marathon. I’ve never run that far before since I’m more of a 5K hit-em-and-quit-em kind of girl, but I decided it was about time I gave a long-term relationship a shot.
Up until a week ago, my training had been going really well. I had worked up to running over 30 miles per week, I was still excited to go out and run almost every night, and I was remarkably injury free.
But, last Monday, I found myself with a gnarly blood blister on the bottom of my right big toe. It was so mortifying and disgusting that I started referring to it as Miley Cyrus.
The next day, Miley and I decided to go to a yoga class.
I realize that is an obviously bad decision. I knew that I should rest my blister so that it would heal quickly. But, I’ve never been one to make good decisions, and I really needed to feed my yoga addiction. So, off Miley and I went to the gym — a place where bad things often happen to me involving live television — with me swearing that I was going to take it easy and just focus on getting a good stretch.
By the time I walked into the studio, the room was bursting full of yogis and the only open spot was, of course, front and center. I sighed, reminded myself to take it easy even though everyone would be looking at me, and took the dreaded center spot
For the first half of class, I stayed on message. I modified whenever necessary so that I wouldn’t put too much weight on my toe, I kept my eyes on my own mat, and I almost forgot that I had a lot of people behind me while I was wearing very tight pants.
But then Jay-Z came on over the stereo. My breath locked in with Hov and we were grooving together.
I couldn’t suppress my inner Beyonce any longer.
The teacher called out crow pose and, with Jay on my side, I popped right up into the arm balance. I was feeling awesome! I was flying! And I was doing it in front of all the other yogis!
I was Sasha Fiercing the hell out of that yoga class.
The next directive was to move into a chatarunga, which is a low tricep push-up.
Instead of carefully coming out of the arm balance and stepping back to a push-up to keep my toe safe, I decided to jump back because that’s what Beyonce would do.
I did it! I flew through the air! I didn’t smash my face of the floor! Maybe the class would give me a slow clap? For sure someone would come up to me afterwards and give me a knowing namaste. I’ve always wanted to be in the inner knowing namaste circle!
But that giant smile on my face disappeared the instant my right foot hit the ground.
There was a large pop. I felt a searing pain as the right side of my body collapsed onto my mat. And then I heard a gasp next to me.
Oh Miley, what have you done now? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
Miley had exploded upon impact, and she went EVERYWHERE.
There was blood on my mat, on the studio floor, and on my neighbor’s mat. All that was missing was some bright yellow police tape and David Caruso.
I tried to play it cool and just casually slide my towel around on the floor to wipe up the blood spatter, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. There was nothing cool and casual about what I was doing, and, because it was a veritable crime scene, EVERYONE was transfixed and could not look away.
After what felt like an eternity, the class finally ended. At that moment, everyone in the room fled from me like the pariah that I am. No one made eye contact and no one said a word. The way these yogis were acting, you would have thought that I had just twerked all over their stash of kale and quinoa.
So much for my dreams of a knowing namaste.
Thanks, Miley. You really know how to win friends and impress people.