I have a problem. I have a physical issue that pops up from time to time that can cause nerve pain. My latest little flare-up started two or three weeks ago. But that’s not my problem. I can deal with that. Here’s my problem. The most likely way to treat the pain is yoga. Yoga. I could cry.
I know. Yoga has been around for centuries, it has helped lots of people, it’s a great way to relax. Blah, blah, blah. What’s the big deal? Please. I am about to turn the big 4-0. Tell me I have to go to a yoga class, and you might as well slap a soccer decal on the back of my mini-van and sign me up for carpool. Remember me? I fight the cliche. Correction. I fight the cliches that bore me.
Currently, my muscles are so tight that my limbs may snap off at any moment. If I could loosen up even a little bit, I would imagine I’d get some relief. It seems like a no-brainer. I’ll be the first to tell you that when it comes to admitting that there is something actually wrong with me, I have no brain. It’s not that I’m trying to be Superman, here. Heck, most days right now I’d be satisfied to be Clark Kent. He didn’t walk like a duck. But acknowledging that I have a problem feels like caving. And I don’t cave. I mentioned I am stubborn, right?
The even bigger obstacle to signing up for a class is that I am about as fond as being told what to do as your average two-year-old. You can’t make me. You can’t make me. You are not the boss of me. Or in this case, I am not the boss of me. Think that’s weird? Tell yourself you have to start a diet tomorrow and see how your inner tantrum-tosser reacts.
So where does that leave me? In the end, I am sure that logic and yoga will win the day. But I refuse to go to an actual class. I draw the line at public humiliation. I will buck up and go to my beloved library and borrow a DVD. Reservation? Check! Library card? Check! Fake mustache? Check!