There is such a thing as too much yoga. I admit this openly.
Like all things sweet and lovely and—in all likelihood—made of soy, it’s possible to overdo it. The resulting discomfort ranges from a constrictive feeling akin to wearing just-washed skinny jeans at Thanksgiving dinner, to sitting next to a PDA-crazed couple of honeymooners on a transatlantic flight, after you’ve been dumped–which is to say, nauseating to the point of wanting to stab yourself in the eye with a spork, the most menacing utensil available on an airplane.
When I feel this way, I rarely share the sentiment. Why would I want to ruin all your yoga fun with my yoga fatigue? I wouldn’t.
Instead, I put yoga on a shelf for a short while. I go running, sing aloud to every Jay-Z album I own (all of them), try boxing, or get bombed and cause trouble (read: have two glasses of red wine and pass out on the couch). You know what they say, too much of anything is, well, too much. And, anyone who tells you differently is selling you something, likely a 30-day challenge at his/her yoga studio.
This is all my way of explaining why I missed Wanderlust in Bondville, Vermont this past weekend. I’m sorry. I wanted to go and cover everything with giddy, good-natured excitement, but truth be told, I was spent. It’s been a busy few weeks, partially due to some actual wanderlust.
First, I bought a bike. (His name is Oliver).
And, promptly tore open my calf riding said bike. (I’ll spare you the details, but my Twitter feed has the grisly photo).
This was perfect timing for a small modeling gig with New Balance. (Shockingly, they booked me anyway, though I would have liked to have heard the internal phone call after my fitting: “I said get me an attractive, athletic girl . . . Not a bloodied moron who can’t ride a 3-speed bike!” Bless their hearts; they even gave me a pair of Revlite sneakers, which I love. (See the PDA below).
Then, two hours later, I jumped on a flight to France, to see my friend Kim Vandenberg, in training for the 2012 Olympics.
We rode around on her Vespa.
I ate a crepe.
I said a prayer at Notre Dame de la Garde.
I taught yoga to Olympic swimmers.
I didn’t get to do much sightseeing in Ireland, but it was beautiful all the same. I especially enjoyed the people and tea. You’d be proud; I tried a Guinness.
I landed safely back in Boston, where I battled jet lag, taught a dizzying amount of yoga, and blogged intermittently. (OK, my blogging of late has been about as prolific as Lebron James in the playoffs.Apologies.).
I reunited with the lululemon/LYCRA crew a week later, and we had a fun time shooting here, despite rain that reminded us of the exact weather we experienced in Ireland.
They left on Friday.
Which is the day I met Mark Wahlberg. He was friendly, and expressed regret when I joked that his film was taking up all the parking spots in my neighborhood. It was then that I realized I must be exhausted to the point of delusion.
I meet Mark Wahlberg, and I talk to him about parking . . . Seriously? Somebody, please call Micky Ward, and ask him to punch me in the face.
Sooooo, I took this as a sign that I should hunker down and enjoy the homefront this weekend, forgoing the yoga love fest up North, featuring many talented yoga teachers and musicians. It’s an unfortunate occupational hazard: When yoga is your vocation, you’re at risk for a yoga overdose.
Fortunately, by Sunday, yoga and I had our shine back.
But, do tell . . . How was Wanderlust?