With the parentals arriving amid this afternoon's winter storm watch, I've got maybe twenty spare minutes between preparations and stocking up in case of snow-in. I should be working. I'd rather be reading. Scratch that, lunch sounds the best.
I've been reviewing several yoga books lately and stumbled onto a genius book of routines with times attached and real people showing off the poses. Yay. Much easier to check posture than on my previous favorite book's stick figure guide. I've tried to incorporate yoga into my everyday life, people, really I have. It's hard. Five minutes of quick stretching is the easiest thing ever to scratch off the to-do list. And who cares? Well, my toes for one. See, I haven't touched them in, mmmm, maybe ever. I remember being a nine-year-old gymnastic attendee who could do straddle splits no problem but not touch her toes without bending the knees. It got worse from there, especially after breaking my femur in the ninth grade and hobbling on crutches for months. Not like I was really making an effort at that point. Once a year at the presidential fitness test in gym class, I'd whip out a painful toe touch under duress. And now, even post run when I'm all warmed up, my hands are about 6" from my toes after serious effort.
But I've decided that this is the year for me and my toes to patch up our differences. Starting on Monday, I'm going to complete 20 minutes of yoga every day for 30 days. My hope is that it will limber me up, maybe narrow my hand-to-toe margins by an inch or two. I've read that practicing a few minutes every day is more effective than doing a 90-minute class once or twice/week. I'm out to test that theory. Stay posted.
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