On Canada Day, I took Maya for an afternoon escape to Starbucks, which delighted her even more than it did me, because she walked there -- the whole way alongside me. Granted, we live across the street from Starbucks and it's likely no more than 100 metres from our door, but for a peanut, that's pretty far.
A look of accomplished pride plastered across her face as we entered the cafe, she drew eyes and hearts from all around. The barista couldn't resist and handed her one of those dangerously delicious, but totally unnecessary cake-pop pastries they recently started carrying; while kind and generous in intention, the offering was a digestive disaster. Maya clutched her pink, sugary prize, nibbling away at it all the way home. Shortly after a paltry dinner, which couldn't be helped because her tiny tummy was full of nutritionally bereft garbage, Maya tossed her cookies. Fortunately, most of it hit the laminate and not the couch and she seemed to be pacified with a bottle of water and a snuggle, but I'm fairly certain her gastrointestinal fireworks could have been prevented had her afternoon alimentary intake and its possible ramifications been more consciously considered. Poor doll -- victim of a cake-pop. Who knew something so innocent in appearance could do so much damage? I've experienced far worse from more benign delights.
The night following my gross negligence of Maya's nutritional needs, I prepared for her a complete, nutrient-rich dinner (by prepared I mean heated up what Nimrod had already thrown together) of beef goulash, broccoli and wholewheat noodles -- perfect. Having taken care of the most important person, I muted my mind, tucked her into bed and, having exhausted my domestic energies, feasted on a box of granola for dinner; this was a choice lacking any intelligence or foresight. Granola, being laden with satiating fiber is great in small amounts, but anything more than a small bowlful can sit in the stomach for enough time to turn one off it forever. By Sunday afternoon's afternoon of teaching, I still had a belly full of the stuff and resembled myself at four months pregnant -- very attractive and ironic considering my rant about the responsibility of a Bikram Yoga Instructor to look the part. But of, course, the magic of the hot room worked on me and after three hours of emphatic encouragement, coaxing new students to stay in the room and take it easy, and pushing regulars beyond their self-imposed limitations, my stomach shrank down to normal and I looked forward to whatever divine dinner I could suggest Nimrod make for me.
Incredible how powerful the mind can be when effectively harnessed and how easily it can be neglected, like when anyone decides to consume anything from McDonald's. Women can use mental strength to distract or focus themselves (whichever serves them better) and withstand childbirth unaided by pain-dulling medication; people can run marathons, make it through Bikram's torture chamber unscathed; go without sleep for 30 hours straight caring for the ill and wounded (don't think you do it without looking -- and acting -- like you belong in Shaun of the Dead); heal from heartbreak and open themselves up to finding another partner they can't imagine life without.
It is not enough to have the potential of mind control; we must be cognizant of it and use it to be the best possible versions of ourselves. Sure, nobody is perfect and the occasional slip is always a lesson learned, but a mind is a terrible thing to waste; some lose theirs entirely before their time expires and, from what I can gather reading and watching films on the subject of mental degeneration, they feel completely futile.
Past adolescence, we know what's best for us; so why do so many of us spend our whole lives choosing the opposite?
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