It’s January 21st. Resolutions are shriveling like leftover poinsettias.

I had the BEST intentions of keeping that plant and my new yoga streak alive. By streak I mean three classes. In four weeks. I should have done at least 14 classes by now.

I should have gone to yoga every other day.

I should be able to do pigeon pose by now.

I should have gone yesterday but instead I read historical fiction on my couch and ate cheese.

The therapist says I should stop saying should.

(Except, I really should not eat cheese. I’m lactose intolerant.)

So it’s January, and I’m failing at yoga, at resolutions, at botany and new year and diet and therapy and health and life. I should throw myself in the compost with the poinsettia. That was my new new year’s resolution when I got in bed last night.

Then this morning, something weird happened in the shower. It took me until 10:20am to drag myself in there. When I’m depressed, I dread showering. I’ll put it off for hours, then once I finally corral myself in the bathroom, I procrastinate further – cleaning hair from the drain, scrubbing tiles, refolding the towels – unenjoyable things, but at that moment they’re better than showering.

I’ve learned to recognize shower-dread is a sign I’m not doing so great. Recently, I asked my depressed self why showers are scary. Here’s what I said:

Wet + naked = vulnerable.
Shampoo AND conditioner AND soap? Like I have time? I’m too busy avoiding taking a shower! [This cleanser-order phobia is what lead to me being diagnosed with OCD, but that’s another blog post.]
I don’t want to see my fat stomach in the mirror.
Ten to 20 mins is a long time to stand after hip surgery. (I’m recovering from a total hip replacement. See other blog posts.) I can step into the tub now (not to brag), but it’s still work for me to balance on curved, wet ceramic when my left hip is newly also ceramic.
When the shower ends, you need to get dressed. Which means decisions. As in, what should I do with my day? Which immediately snowballs into what should I do with my life? Which is an overwhelming question to tackle while dripping on an Ikea bathmat.

It’s now 10:22am and I’m in the shower. I know it’s 10:22am because I put a clock in the bathroom so I can time my showers to prove to my anxious brain they last only 9 to 18 minutes and not the 4 hours I feel like they take. I see it’s 10:22am and I know there’s a yoga class at 11am I could make if I hurry. And then my brain shocks me. Normally at this juncture, my brain would list all imaginable perils of going to yoga:

I get mugged on way to the studio.
The combination of stretching my pelvis and attempting to relax results in me weeing on my yoga mat. And because we’re in a 37-degree, enclosed yoga pod, everyone smells it and knows it was me, including the Commissioner of BBC Drama who happens to be on the mat next to me. She tells the entire UK scripted drama industry and I never work as a screenwriter ever.
I trip in the alley and land vein-first on a used needle and contract HIV.
Etc.

But today, my brain doesn’t do that. Instead, it goes: You could make it to yoga. Could. Hm. That’s nicer than should. Could feels… possible.

I grab hold of that sliver of could, towel off as fast as I can, and rush to yoga. I’m in time for class. I’ve out-run the should. It feels good.

*Caption: Yoga in a 37C (98.6F) enclosed pod.*

Later in the pod, I hear the instructor invite us to pigeon pose. That’s my brain’s cue to go into:

I should be able to do pigeon pose.

My hip should be able to handle it by now.

I should have pushed harder in physical therapy.

I shouldn’t have been such a lazy, ungrateful waste of NHS care who has to rest in child’s pose like a slob while the rest of the class pigeon poses.

*Caption: Resting pigeon pose. As if that’s resting.*

But today I’m still riding high on the glimmer of could. So I try this fucking pigeon pose, not because I feel I should, but because… why the fuck not?

I did it. I pigeon-ed. Not well. Everyone else was folded flat against their mats like stomped-on soft pretzels. Meanwhile I was barely crouching, supporting myself on a tower of purple blocks. Should I even count that as pigeon pose? Fuck off brain. That’s pigeon enough for today. That’s plenty of pigeon for an icy, grey 21st of January.

Caption: Fuck-it-close-enough pigeon pose.

The poinsettia probably won’t make it to February. I will.

MissAbility: January Pigeon