A Yoga Mat in Every Port

Currently I own three yoga mats. As recently as last week it was four, except I threw out a high-tech new antibacterial mat I had because the surface was uncomfortable (holding downward dog should not feel like I'm getting acupuncture on my palms) and the mat slid everywhere, no matter what I did.

I have one at home, one at the office, and one I'll probably store at some yoga place or another, just as soon as I commit to one. (In the interest of full disclosure, I fell out of the habit of doing five Sun salutations every morning once I moved to New York, so the home mat isn't used much. But I still keep hoping there will be a morning soon where I don't wake up late and starving...)

For a girl who once couldn't stand yoga – and who still is unlikely to choose it over, say, running – I find it amusing I now have more mats than I have legs.

Tonight I tried a new yoga class and left making a mental list of all the classes (not necessarily yoga) that I want to try. I felt a rush of something – joy, I daresay. Both because I love trying new things, and because the fact that I'm doing it again (though not as often as I'd like) means I'm feeling more like myself again.

Hello, self. It's been a while.

***
Last night I gave in and bought a scale. It's fairly fancy one from a well-known brand.

This morning I got on it and it gave me a seriously friendly reading: 158. (I say "friendly" because that's a good four pounds lower than what I weighed at my sister's at the weekend). Just to test it, I hopped on it post-workout, but wearing jeans. It gave me an even lower reading: about a pound lower. I got on it three times in a row and it gave me the same reading.

Grrr. I mean, I'd like to just enjoy the number, but constitutionally, I can't. Honestly, I'd trust it more if it were a proper Scale of Doom...