First I had to double-check the price of two tickets to Puerto Rico. Which led me to wondering about cute sun hats for babies with tiny heads. Which led me to wondering about sunscreen and babies. Which led me to an Airbnb hunt for a non-gross beachfront apartment anywhere with an approximate price tag of zero dollars per night and maybe a fantastic cabana to boot. Which got me to thinking about how much I love margaritas.
And that’s not saying anything about the paths I went down while looking for airfare to Hawaii, or Marfa, or San Francisco.
Hi, February. Lovely to see you again.
I’ll cut to the chase: Exercising has just never really been my bag. Sure, I played sports. Play being the operative word. My dad was my soccer coach from age 8-ish to 14-ish. But when I wasn’t getting bowled over by my own teammates, I was doing arabesques on the sidelines. Then there was a brief stint with lacrosse, which I mostly remember because I got to mold a hot plastic mouthguard onto my teeth and I could never find matching spandex to wear underneath my skirt. In high school I joined the track team, but was sorely dissappointed to learn that it meant having to run.
In my adult life, I’ve dabbled in sportiness. There was even a period a few years ago when I went to yoga regularly. But that was back when my friend Carrie lived in Brooklyn and we’d go together with the promise of stopping for a grilled cheese from the Court Street Diner afterward. Savasana was my favorite pose.
Suffice to say that when my yoga mat got lost in our move almost a year ago, it was not replaced.
But this week has been rough. I’ve been all kinds of cranky. Out of sorts and moody and just….February. It should really be an adjective.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Ugh, I don’t know. Kinda February.”
This is a very roundabout way of saying that I did something wacky and exercised voluntarily. (And I don’t mean just taking a long moody walk around the neighborhood, though I did plently of that too.)
Toward the end of my workday, I slipped out of my “work” leggings and into my “play” leggings and set my laptop on the floor and spent thirty minutes working on those arabesques under the gentle dictatorship of Ms. Mary Helen Bowers. And after I got my thigh muscles to stop quivering and my back to stop spasming, I felt amazing. And then I did it again the next day. And again after that.
I realize this isn’t revelatory. But it’s feeling that way for me. To be honest, in the almost nine months since Faye was born, I’ve had to constantly measure my days in chunks of hours. There are play hours. And work hours. And the work hours have a number attached to them, usually in the sum of the babysitter’s hourly rate. And so those hours are supposed to really count. And lately I’ve been counting words and chapters and posts and leaving out things like breaths. So. I had myself a little intervention. And now I’m counting port de bras, and tendus, and breaths too. And I’m feeling much better.
RESOLUTION #14,379: Move. More.
PS. I bought the Ballet Beautiful intro bundle.
PPS. The photo above shows my “exercise” set-up. Faye’s quilt where I actually do my new routine, not pictured…
PPPS. Now I really want a leotard. And maybe ballet slippers.