I think being an adult is recognizing the need to “do the things.”

A woman in class today confessed that it took effort to leave her comfortable chair, snuggling with her dog, to get herself to yoga today.  A chorus around the room of other women, myself included, confessed they never regretted coming to class — that class itself was amazing — but getting there, especially on cold, grey days was the real challenge.

I know that even if I am tired and angry and frustrated and depressed the best thing for me to do is get dressed and get out of the house.  I think that’s why Covid affected me in a such an insidious way.  I am a loner, I am an introvert … but to stay balanced, I need to get out of the house.  I need social interaction and routine.  All that disappeared a year ago.  And while it’s come back in fits and starts, it isn’t the same.  There’s an underlying fear, there’s a wary gaze — politics and pandemics and civil rights have divided all of us and we don’t know who  is “safe” anymore.

Even on my mat— socially distanced and wearing a mask— it doesn’t feel the same as class used to feel.  It feels close, don’t get me wrong.  But not the same.

I also know that to save myself, to keep myself from spiraling, it’s imperative that I get on my mat, that I sweat and wobble and struggle through class, breathing heavily through a sweat-soaked mask.

And that is adulting.  It’s knowing that I could choose sadness and depression and sweatpants and junk food … and choosing something else instead.  Something better for me.

Adulting is really effing hard sometimes.

Xox, g