I took a much-needed getaway to my friend's ranch in Hockley, Texas this past weekend. Being that I live in the center of Houston, I felt it was time for a break from the hustle and bustle of the city and figured this “country” getaway would provide all the mental space I could possibly want. (Authors note: Hockley is about a 45 minute drive from my apartment in Houston: that’s about as country as I get, y’all.)
It annoyed me when I was still alarmingly unprepared for the familiar sound of my alarm clock this morning. I felt in need of not only another day off, but perhaps a week-long yoga retreat to an unpopulated area in Bali. I had the familiar realization that less than a year ago, my pace of life was entirely different- I was regularly clad in Lululemon, carrying a yogamat under my right arm and spending my afternoons in a yoga class, levitating myself five inches off the ground in crow pose. Now? Well, it seems apparent that the only reason why I’m ever five inches off the ground is solely a result of my stiletto heels. (Heck, at least I’m still getting some air. As for this working girl’s “yoga abs” equivalent? All I have to say is God bless whomever invented Spanx…)
In the past six months, I went from hardly working to working harder than ever, putting in 40+ hours a week at a job once occupied by a 40-year-old (making him 16 years my senior.) Translation? Bye Bye Lulu, hello drive-thrus. Sometimes, the closest I come to an overseas getaway is my French fries: not exactly Bali, let alone France. I often sit on my sofa with my laptop, looking at photos of friends still in college or outside of the 40 hour-a-week realm, downing the lump in my throat with just one more red Sour Patch Kid.
It’s no surprise I find myself at war with my new schedule, trying to squeeze in all of what I used to have time for in fear of no longer being able to squeeze into my favorite jeans. Needless to say, this isn’t the first time I’ve had this kind of case of the Mondays - I go through the same thing every Monday. In the morning, I’m exhausted. At noon, Im revved up, ready to head to yoga after work. Six hours later, Im asking myself if it’s possible that squatting, using my couch for support (otherwise known as sitting on my couch and watching TV) counts as my yoga for the evening. Today was no different.
Rather, I was.
I made small changes. I woke up this morning an hour earlier than usual - I took that time in the day to not be with work, but to be with me. I got home and, no, I didn't go to that damn 7:45 p.m. yoga class across the street from my house that constantly beckons me; however, I did 30 minutes of yoga in my living room. I made tea afterward. Then, I called my friend Rob.
"It's weird," I said to him over the phone. "I did all of these things I don't usually do today, and what do I feel? Not good enough. I feel like I should have gone to the damn class. It's not like it's my fault I'm not mosey-ing around all day anymore," I yelled into the phone. "I'm doing my best here!"
It didn't take long for me to realize I was talking to myself, not Rob. I pulled out a tea bag for the water I'd just boiled. The bag of my fresh Rooibos read:
Perfectly balanced tea.
I went noticeably silent on the phone.
"What's up?" Rob asked, like he usually does when he notices I'm somewhere else in my head.
"Perfectly balanced tea," I chuckled.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Tea. Tea is perfectly balanced ... not humans."
"Yeah," he responded.
Oh, I thought to myself. I forgot ... I don't have to be perfect. Thank goodness.
And I helped myself to a red Sour Patch Kid.