my day began listening to sex advice in a foreign language, delivered by an older woman whose postpartum stomach wrinkles i’ve become quite familiar with over the past weeks. tired of running 12k a day, both mentally and physically, i’ve opted to pursue yoga for a while. it’s not, much as i’d wished it would be, what i’d be able to term an equivalent experience. last week, as my brain dismissed thoughts of breath completely (can one really, truly focus just on breathing? is that an accomplishment i even want? am i just way too type-a for this?) in exchange for estimations related to muscle mass and caloric expenditure, this same woman told me, along with a class full of doe-eyed, reverent mothers, what true love is.
true love, she told us (not even 11 am yet and we’re here? what happens if i stay past noon?), is telling someone, “you’re okay just as you are.” it’s saying, and really believing, “you don’t need to change at all.” and with that i realized i’ve never loved. week 1. week 2, that my sex life is subpar. i admit to being a bit fearful of next week’s revelations; love, sure, that’s metaphysical, it’s emotional, it causes people to use words whose meaning i can’t say i can really wrap my mind around, words like spiritual, transcendent, all-encompassing. i’m not really certain i’d even enjoy being entirely encompassed. that sounds pretty heavy to me, pretty restrictive. people in straightjackets are all-encompassed. people buried alive. and what am i supposed to be transcending? life? problematic when you’re not the sort who believes there’s any alternative to it but death. and i’ll just skip any analysis of the word spiritual for fear of doing overly much damage to either my reputation (such as it exists) or your faith in humanity (which i take as axiomatic is rather more solid than mine, and which i don’t wish to change). all this to say that i can tolerate being told by a woman whose yoga top is fancier than any of my work clothes (purchased for that era when i actually had a job) that i don’t know what real love is. touché. point taken.
but sex? is my sex life subpar? (if it is, dear partners past, present, and future, i’m casting no aspersions upon you. well, upon most of you.) will these sets of forty exhalations pumped vigorously through my nostrils, horselike more than anything, really sensitize my inner organs? will a smoother transition from downward-facing dog to plank to belly flop truly serve to heighten my orgasms? do my orgasms need to be heightened? these, now, seem important questions to me. existential questions, even. i’d like to pull this woman aside and confront her about what, exactly, i’m supposedly missing out on. because until this point, i have to admit that i’ve been highly uncritical of my orgasms. i’d always thought they’d served me well.
running caused no such side-effects, no such deep soul-searching (clit-searching?), none of this performance anxiety. and running is far more economical. i’m paying a lot of money to be told i’m unhappy in the sack. also, running requires no uncomfortable comparisons to neighbor’s clearly more advanced breath pumping or tail-bone-balancing or superficial knowledge of sanskrit. thus, tomorrow i will go for a run. i will get sweaty and smell bad and either improve my cardiovascular health or encourage early-onset osteoporosis (or perhaps both at once) and internally bitch about the goddamned wind and listen to loud angry music. but the day after? the day after, i’ll probably find myself back in the company of this woman, who has delivered the most crushing criticism of my person since my last rejection letter from a magazine you’ve likely never heard of, waiting to hear what else she thinks i’m fucking up. and they call this a restorative practice.
tonight, though, as penance, i will try snorting, 3 sets of 40, as i get it on. let’s see how it goes.