I took a little detour today.

I went to a ninety-minute power yoga class. Instead of starting my second month of bootcamp.


I originally said I would stick with bootcamp for 12 weeks. But I didn't see changes as quickly as I expected. And while the feeling of accomplishment at the end of each session was great, I did not like the workouts.  I'm just not cut out for repetitive, continual, high-impact, shock-absorbing movements.

And I remembered how I always loved power yoga. As a physical exercise and as a mental workout.

So off I went to see what it was like after all these years.

I twisted, and stretched, held poses and balanced, and flowed from position to position in a bruising, soothing yoga class. My heart beat quickly, and the sweat ran off my face. Droplets dripped down my cheek and gathered at my neck. I relished the moments in child's pose.

And I discovered something along the way. Aging sucks. It really, really sucks. Years ago, it wasn't this tough.


But at the end of the yoga session, I felt relaxed and calm. Ready to sleep.

And it's not because the positions were any less taxing than the bootcamp exercises. Balancing on one bent leg, while holding the other across will make any heart beat madly and challenge any body's homeostasis. 

It's just a different form of intense physical exercise. A very, very different form.

Ergo I now face a decision: go back to bootcamp on Wednesday for another month, or go back to the only exercise I ever really stuck with and enjoyed--yoga?

I like yoga more. For my body and for my mind.

But I don't want to lose what I've gained at bootcamp. I need to be sure before I completely give it up. If I stop now, I don't think I'll ever go back to it again. I won't be able to tolerate another first week at bootcamp. When muscles and bones ached more than ever before. When I was so sore, it hurt all the time.

I need to make up my mind. Soon.

I did something crazy, impulsive and totally out-of-character last week.

I started a bootcamp program. Three times a week, for one hour, at the local park.

And now I'm paying for it.

Really.  I have never felt such incredible soreness in my thighs. I stare at the staircase in my house with fear and trepidation. How will I make it up? I grip the handrail with all my might, trying--and failing, to get myself up with the sheer strength of my arms. No success. My legs burn with each step.

Anything that requires any degree of squatting causes major pain. Even walking. I never realized that we keep our knees slightly bent when we walk.

I've devised a method to get into the car seat. Open the door. Lean against the top of the seat. Slide down the leather till I plop down in place. Allowing gravity to do some of the work helps. So does the fact that the seat is leather.

Going to the bathroom? Ouch each time. Getting back up? Forget about it. And with all the extra water I'm consuming, it is simply a chore I cannot avoid. So I grimace each time. 

Yet something keeps me going. I'm just not willing to quit yet. That would be too embarrassing. Too defeatist. I'm too ashamed to quit in front of the six other moms in the program--all of whom have been participating for months and are in incredible shape. I envy them all and am simultaneously inspired.

And, for some completely odd, inexplicable and perverse reason, I am enjoying this. Four sessions so far, and I've made it through each one. Forget that I can't always keep up. Forget that I'm always the last in the group to finish my squats and burpees and push ups and sit-ups. Forget that I look like Gumby on steriods, lacking form and finesse.  I don't care. It's all good.

Because I started something that is brutal and challenging and hard. And I am making it.

Even if I can't feel my thighs anymore.