That Punishing Pooch

There was a period of time when I did yoga regularly...a time before I had children.  Now, I mostly run, because fleeing my home on foot only requires another adult left behind with the kids and no prior appointment. 

And, well, I love running. 

I love running so much that for decades I have pretty much ignored my upper body and, as it's become affectionately known, my core.  And then last year I was recruited into an inclusive club of colleagues meeting at 5:45 AM to work out to P90X videos projected on the wall of our dark and otherwise empty high school gym.  I have learned how to lift weights that weren't children or groceries.  I have learned how to make my abs hurt a lot.  I have learned that even though I run regularly, a good leg workout will mean I can hardly walk on those running legs the next day. 

I'm not trying out for a P90X promotional here; nor do I want to become part of Tony's Team, but I have to say, it's been nice to notice that my back doesn't hurt as much when I get out of bed, and I even sit and stand more comfortably since, allegedly, I have Strenthened My Core. 

This morning's o'dark-thirty workout incorporated some yoga, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote ten years ago, when I was dogged by one particular pose. 

Perhaps you can relate:

Down with Downward Facing Dog

I hate you,
Stretch that my dog achieves with such ease and grace and
sloping back
You make my calves burn and my arms ache.
I shift my weight and try, try, try
To push my heels down flat
while my biceps tremble and my eyes tear. 
I cannot turn my elbows outward
I cannot move my outer arms inward
I cannot move tailbone upward
I cannot release my head and make my back concave. 
I long to collapse on my haunches,
forehead on the wood floor.
I whimper when I hear the words
"Downward Facing Dog"