My Feet Know Where They Want Me To Go

It's hot and I'm sweating - which is a step in the right direction. I've been limping around town on creaky joints since last summer. Then, last week, when I wrenched my left hip, I finally had what Dad described as a goddammit talk with myself.

Tata: I've had it with you!
Tata: What? Ow! What?
Tata: This is pathetic. You've waited more than a year to do something about this. A freaking year!
Tata: Ow! What's your point?
Tata: I am totally done with your excuses and lollygagging. We're taking private yoga classes now, and you're paying for it.
Tata: Ow! I can't afford that!
Tata: Really? Can you afford to put on another ten pounds and wait another year?
Tata: No...
Tata: Bust out that credit card, princess, we're rehabbing those hips.

At the new yoga studio in town, I signed up for three private classes at a price that made me gulp and I stretched for all I was worth. Then, again on Monday, when the teacher pushed me hard. The day after a tough workout, you walk around whistling. The second day, you wish you could lie down on a runway at JFK and let Lufthansa run you over very well. This afternoon, I went back to the studio and pushed myself as hard as I could. Tonight, I drew a hot bath, perfumed it with oils and tinctures, poured a glass of chardonnay and lay down in the tub for as long as I could hold still, possibly even whole minutes.

My hip joints ache but the muscles promise a less painful Friday than they might. I let this go too far and fooled myself into thinking the pain and stiffness weren't important, and that it's never too late to address them. That's idiotic. And my next class is Wednesday.