Carole’s currently engaged in a 30-day Yoga challenge, or some such nonsense which means that every evening she needs to be left in the front room, with candles lit and the lights out to yoga along to a video of a woman with an annoying voice.
Yoga, to me at least, brings to mind a sense of calm. It’s an almost silent pursuit, you could say. It allows you to become one with yourself and the universe. You’re supposed to feel more zen. More relaxed. More at peace with yourself. Your inner doohickies are much happier. Everything is great with the world.
Yesterday’s yoga session elicited more screaming and cries of pain than anything that has gone before.
Today, in fact, Carole is a broken woman. She can’t laugh, sit up properly or move about without complaining about the pain in her abs.
Whatever that means.
(I do know what it means, thank you)
I’ve never before looked on yoga as having the capabilities to render a woman pained in such a way. It’s all downward dogs and tree positions. There shouldn’t be pain and screaming and agony.
Luckily, though, Carole is not one to go on about it.
She’s hardly mentioned it at all, in fact, since she got home from work. She really is a trooper. I know she’s in extreme pain and yet she’s just bravely soldiering on, with barely a whimper.
Look at earlier, for example, when she was lying back on the couch and then needed to stand up. She made no fuss whatsoever at the fact that she couldn’t get into a position to stand because of the pain in her torso. She just stood right on up. She didn’t need me to pull her forward or anything.
She really is a trooper.
I don’t know how long it is until the yoga loops round to dealing with the core again. I imagine it will come at some point next week…
Luckily, though, there will be no complaints next week either. Everything will be fine and dandy. I’m sure I won’t have to move everything downstairs so Carole can operate fully down here without having to climb the stairs for anything.
She’ll be fine.