S-T-R-E-T-C-H

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Four years of yoga down the drain. That's what I feel like. For four years I attended a local yoga class 2-3x/week and loved it. I would not describe myself as a naturally flexible person but I made real headway, able to twist myself into some pretzel like shapes, hold some challenging balance poses, and head-to-knee pose with hands flat on the floor was pretty much a no-brainer. 

Then I got serious about running. 

And added weight training. 

And because I was exercising two hours a day, most days, I could not see clear to find a way to keep yoga in my life more than once a week, at best. Now I'm paying the price. 

Even a moderate bend at the waist produces screaming in my super tight hamstrings. I dangle my fingers toward the floor and am amazed I was once able to touch it. I did a yoga tape the other day--my easy "old lady" one--and was instantly frustrated (and embarrassed) at how the "easy" poses had now become challenging. Even a seated head-to-knee pose isn't happening. I fling my arms out and grasp my toes and hang on for dear life, grimacing against the pain as I fight to keep my legs straight. Lowering my head to my knees? Fuggedaboutit!

Aside from that, I just don't feel good. My body hurts, everything is sore. I find myself bending my knees to reach down and pick something up versus just swooping down and grabbing it. I feel like I've lost an important connection with myself.

So there's nothing for it but to dive back in. I've started doing the "old lady" 30-minute yoga tapes at least once a day, and am dragging my mat around the house, stretching in 5-10 minute increments as my schedule allows. It's only been a couple of days and already I'm feeling better. Looser.

Hear that floor? I'm coming for ya! 

Blair's Secret Stash

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Blair spent almost all of Saturday upstairs at his desk, working. When he finally came downstairs, he announced he was walking to the corner store to buy some cereal. 

"Can I get you anything?" he asked. 

"Yes, M&M's. No, wait. Nothing."

"You're sure?"

"I don't need them. I'm sure."

Of course the minute he left the house, I regretted my decision. When I heard him come in the door I called out, "I decided I did want M&M's. You didn't by any chance read my mind?"

He set the grocery bag on the table. "No," he said. Then he disappeared into another part of the house and came back with M&M's. "But I can give you these."

"Secret stash!" I said. "You've been holding out on me, you excellent man."

But it didn't end there. The next day we went to the grocery store and I had my hand on some peanut-butter granola trail bars. 

"I shouldn't," I said, hesitating. "I eat these like candy. Oh, what the heck." I started to throw them in the cart, but Blair stopped me. 

"We've got some already," he said.

"Secret stash?"

He nodded. 

"Oat and honey or peanut butter bars?"

"Both."

"What is going on?" I exclaimed. "Just where the heck are you hiding all this food and why?"

"Why?" said Blair. "I have to think of my own well-being, that's why. It's safer to have treats on hand."

So now I sit in this house, typing this, knowing that somewhere--somewhere--in the vicinity there is likely a whole stashed horde of my favorite treats. Blair has begged me not to look for it.

I'll try not to, but I'm really not in control here. We'll just have to wait and see how bad the chocolate cravings get.