Lately Milo has been talking about downward dog and other phrases I cannot recall at the moment. And it has now dawned on me: my 9 year old son is now more proficient at yoga than I am. This is not a hard feat because I have done yoga a total of… wait for it… zero times.
I know, I’m basically blaspheming my exercise life away. I read this book of essays last month and I swear that is all women do in New York.
To make matters worse for my outcastish ways, I don’t really care to start yoga. I am a totally believer in the “don’t knock it ’till you try it” mentality – but it just looks so boring (and I cannot even begin to comprehend doing it in a sauna-like environment). Yes, people who do yoga are amazing, I get that. I basically stared at this Instagram account all day yesterday. But do I feel the need to earn flexibility through a snail-paced exercise class in a room that rivals a summer day in the city? I would rather… I don’t even know. I’d basically rather do anything. Like do a million burpees and leave flexibility to my childhood days.
I feel like I have to lie to Milo about all this though. What sort of respectable mother would he take me as if I told him I had to google search downward dog to see what it looked like? (For the record, I was pretty sure it was that triangle thing before I googled).
Really though. I just don’t get the appeal.