Captain Me Planet

I’m 35, right? Don’t have a lot of time. Metabolism isn’t quite what she used to be, but then, neither am I. I need to lose this last 8 pounds I’ve been trying to lose since the last baby, 5.5 years ago. Been walking. Already lost 5 pounds. Watching what I eat. Tried a yoga tape this morning. Oh, the agony. And I don’t mean the exercise.

Breeeeathe (in a near whisper). Feeeeeel your center. Open from the hips. Lengthen your croownnnnn. Doesn’t that feel gooooooood. Feeeeel the yoga. Looooove the yoga. Feeeeeeeeeeeeel your inner self opening. Now lie down on your mat. Thaaat’s right. Feel your feet anchored, they’re rocks. Rest your head lightly. Oh God. Is that a pack of chicken nuggets under the sofa? Just Breeeeeeathe. When was the last time I vacuumed under that chair? Shift your hips to the right. OUCH. The coffee table. There is no room in here for this. The dog is licking my hair. Now, move fluidly and effortlessley into the dancer’s pose. The children are laughing at me. Shut up. At least I’m trying. At lot of 35 year olds are in muu-muus by now. Reeeach for your toes. Gack. Just look at my feet! My nails. The huge hunks of callouses. Oh this is awful. Maybe I’ll just stop and peel that off right there…Don’t you feel wooonderfullll? No. I. do. not. Center yourself at the core. It’s all about the core. Feeeeel your abs tightening. Strengthening. I feel my belly flopping over the top of these yoga pants. I can suck in all I want, and there it is. Just hanging there. What the hell is she talking about. Now, we’re aaaaalmost done, breeeeathe in and out your nose. There’s a dust bunny in my nose. Sit up right, assume the lotus position. Streeeeetch through your crown. What is my crown? How does she get her legs all twisted up and together like that? Now, aren’t you glad you spent 20 minutes of your day on just you, centering, aligning, oooopening for the day? Nope. Pretty much feel like a hippo. A big, tight, uncoordinated, awkward hippo.

I pretty much don’t think I’ll be doing that again.

a la Ellen. Over at her kingdom, she’s discussing what super human ability we each have, and what would our name be in light of this amazing ability.

I am Super Sphincter. I will not fart. Unless I am aaaaallllll alone, and no one will be entering the room any time soon. And even then, I try not to. I may drop menstrual pads out the leg of my pants in grocery stores, but farting? Not me. Very Mom’s recent post on the 9th about farting in yoga class. A lot. Horrifies me. I now know I will never be a yoga master. If all the reeeelaaaaaax and breeeeathe and twisting the innards causing one to fart. Outload. In public. I’m not going there. Ever. And for the first 4 years of our marriage, I wouldn’t poo if my husband was home. I waited. Till he was gone. Didn’t want any trace of ever having pooed to even be in the house. I told him I never went. I was superhuman. I had no need. Imagine his glee when during the birth or our second, and the mystery of marriage being anilhilated by the birth and c-section of our first (I mean, come on, he saw my stomach, the organ, on the table beside me), he actually saw me poo during the pushing. It was a great moment for him. But I’ve pretended in the last 8 years it. never. happened. No. It did not. He just thinks it did. Because I am Super Sphincter. I can hold it. Forever if necessary.

My husband says that if one holds gaseous matter inside, the laws of nature and physics just insist it must exit somewhere. In my case, he says, it most surely explains why I just talk so freakin much. It’s got to come out somewhere. Just as long it ain’t from down there, I’m good. And look! You can get as good as I am too, and never have to fart again!