Mirror, mirror, on the wall....

I try to pretend that it's no big deal. I read the "right" books and magazines in an attempt to transcend my egoic tendencies. I find it easy to accept my students no matter what abilities they have. But then there's the other side to my personality...

I make no secret of admitting that what got me to start doing yoga from the very beginning was my desire to have a nice body. If I could achieve that while sitting on the couch eating Ben & Jerry's then this blog would be named "Ice-cream-mamma indulges...again!" And I realize that the same is true for a lot of people, even those who take up yoga. In that sense vanity is a great motivator. And I think a healthy dose is good for our marriage in the sense that I WANT to look good for my husband; I want him to think I look good; and I definitely enjoy looking at him when he's looking good... That's when I feel like I'm 22 again and seeing him for the first time.

But then there's the downside, my dark side of the moon. The anxiety brought about by my imagined detoriation of muscle tone and flexibility. The sense that a week of not exercising is immediately resulting in my jeans fitting too snugly around my hips, waist, and butt. My nervous restlessness awakening my taboo sweet tooth, coaxing me, promising me comfort.

Not at all yogic, I know. I've thought a lot about this during this week in convalescence. I've challenged myself with questions like, "Could you go a year without buying new clothes?" "If you switched jobs and took a huge pay cut, could you still be happy not being able to consume as much as you do today?" I hate to admit it, but I'm not there yet. And it's getting apparent that I better start learning. It's not like the wrinkles on my forehead or the hairs on my chin are going to be any fewer. I know this in my head, but...

Maybe this is what karma is trying to teach me this time? Maybe the shift in why I work out should be in an effort to keep my body healthy. Because what I learned last week was that while everything looked okay on the outside, my knee is degenerating. And if that weren't enough, the message of my folly really hit home when I read my favorite blog, Börja Om, this evening. In it the author writes about her child, a 6-year-old boy whose father died this past March, as he explains for his teacher that he didn't feel like adding his father to the family portrait he had drawn. He said he didn't need to, since he carries his father "here" (points to his heart).

Need I say more about what really matters? Get with the picture, Judie, and screw whatever the mirror says...