Being Zen and Shit

I like to workout. Usually these workouts involve strenuous activities, like ripping kettlebells above my head or jumping up and down so my knees slam into my chin and my feet slam into the floor or punching imaginary but moving objects. They all involve forms of screaming. That’s why I work out by myself. In the basement. Sometimes I need a break from these death exercises. Namely, because even though my blood pressure might be perfect, my shoulders are so tight they’re touching my ears or I can’t bend my knees to walk down stairs. I basically hold onto railings and drag my lower limbs. “Be down in a sec!” *thumpthumpthumpthump* So, sometimes I do yoga. As a form of stretching. And to teach myself how to walk again. In the past, this only involved bikram power yoga – which involved muffled screaming. Because I was in a public place. Not my torture basement gym. “There’s only a truck tire and blood stains!” Lately, I’ve been doing normal yoga. Normal meaning yoga that teaches matching movement with the breath and maybe even some meditation. It’s been nice. I’ve calmed down. Except when I can’t do things like a headstand or even bring my head within 3 feet of the floor and end up yelling, “Fuck!” over and over again. But my knees are working much better. Like a lot fucking better.

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