Yoga

Hit People and Drink Beer

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Yesterday, I punched someone in the face and drank beer.  Two things I don’t do often.  Scratch that: Ever.  For the record, the punch was in a boxing class and an accident.  The beer was in my kitchen and on purpose.

After the uncharacteristic beer (yes, singular), I characteristically fell asleep on the couch.  Later, I retired to bed feeling woozy and happy, albeit with an alarmingly fast level of soreness setting into my hands and shoulders.  And just before I dozed off, I had the following thought:

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“This was a Monday.  Really?”

Mondays, as you know, tend to get a bad wrap, and most of the time, they deserve it.  They unceremoniously squash our weekends and all too often launch us headfirst into a new week of nothing new.  Wake, shower, eat, work (or school), eat, work (or school), exercise, eat, TV, sleep.  Repeat. No wonder we hate them.

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Unless somewhere between eat and TV, you transform into Micky Ward, clock a guy with a perfect Boston accent in the chin, and drink a beer for no good reason.  These were minor highlights of my Monday, which got me thinking: I should drink and hit people more often!  I’m kidding.

Sort of.

Yoga is great.  Don’t get me wrong.  In short order, it’s my meditation, my stress relief, my livelihood, a source of creative inspiration, my favorite form of exercise, the time when my mind becomes most quiet; an opportunity to set intentions, overcome challenges, and, simply, breathe.  It’s a type of community and the anchor for my approach to wellness, which includes (among other things) discipline, healthy eating, and typically a dislike of beer.

But it’s not my only form of exercise nor outlet for stress.  It’s not where I blare my favorite rap music.  It’s not my preferred environment for socializing.  It’s not where I express pent up aggression.  It’s not where I sigh or grunt or growl.  It’s not where I go to feel a little badass.

In my opinion, these activities work better in other environments, like gyms, bars, boxing rings, and playing fields.  Last night, made me realize I needed a dose of this kind of non-yoga to shake my own ho-hum Monday routine.

My boxing coach shrugged off my many apologies for the errant right-cross to his jaw and even (generously) likened me to Million Dollar Baby as our class came to an end.  I offered him my weary hand for a shake and, then, handed over my gloves.  I walked home with something resembling a float-like-a-butterfly spring in my step.  And as I walked, I thought I might like to have a beer while cooking my dinner.  Why?

Because that’s what a boxer would do.