No Life Jacket Required

Last week, I was in the yoga room 15 times -- for someone with a hyper metabolism and an effortless ability to ignore the all-important inner monologue of what a girl wants; what a girl needs -- this is a substantial amount of time spent sweating out some of which I may have been better off keeping in.

I haven't spent over 22 hours in the hot box since before I got pregnant over two years ago, at which time I was a sprightly 27-year-old; at 29, back on a full-time teaching schedule and fitting in a solid practice, I may have to start pumping electrolytes intravenously to keep from passing out at the end of the day. Either that, or I could just eat and pound coconut water constantly.

Whatever symbiotic solution I find to keep me ticking and ward off the several midnight incidents to which I've unhappily awoken, completely cramped -- paralyzed from the knee down, calf muscles calling out for me to treat them more kindly (salt and potassium please Miss Allison), for now I'll simply have to take my body's transitional state one step, breath, posture, class and day at a time. This weekend, for instance, I made the easy decision to (apart from teaching doubles both days) strive for allowing only the contraction that comes from strutting around in sky-high stilettos for a Friday night downtown worthy of stunningly uncomfortable shoes and a tastefully provocative cocktail-bandage dress. So far so good. As yet, an intake of wine and tequila seems to have adequately replaced my desire for 3 am bags of salted rice chips, so I must be striking a decent balance there somewhere.

Maybe it was the incredible dinners at Vij's and Sanafir, places I would not normally have the opportunity to enjoy back to back, that replenished my depleted resources, or the surprisingly irresistible charms of the tattoo artist with whom I spent an alluring hour last night at Adrenaline.

There are so many sweet sources from which to nourish one's body, mind and heart. This afternoon, I satisfied (as much as possible from a province away) the constant craving I have to see, hear and laugh with my daughter. Over Skype, she proudly displayed her newly acquired talent for holding a pen and instead of just putting it in her mouth, with the utmost concentration, pulling the lid off and replacing it repeatedly until I distracted her with greetings from some of my curious students. A cluster of buff, bared yoga bods eagerly surrounded my laptop and giggled along with Maya at her pen-handling genius. My heart full, I blew her a kiss and headed into my home away from home to teach a double dose of the ultimate effortless effort.

Now sitting alone (which I always hate -- particularly late at night), having downed a mega-sized coconut water, working towards even just pretending to feel comfortable tucked in by myself, I lie awake, trying to lull my busy mind to sleep with Jason Mraz -- not such a hot idea as listening to "Lucky" is serving no greater purpose than creating a hollowness in my chest as if the manic monkey from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs is ripping my heart out like he does to the unsuspecting evil gummy bear who, as a result, perishes heartless (if you've not seen the movie, stop lying to yourself and admit you loved it).

Tonight, on the floor of my sister's bedroom (my residence for only a few days more), the waters are inclement, there is a small craft warning; I could go down, flounder helplessly. But life is best managed calmly. With balance comes buoyancy. At least the clock has passed midnight and (apart from a tightness in the leg I had to keep still for an hour last night while my foot was being branded with words of limitless wisdom) my limbs are relatively relaxed. No signs of debilitating cramps this evening. Staring at my right foot, I find calm in the honest script so beautifully curved just above the instep. I will take my own advice and follow what is written there: trust, breathe, smile.