Sit. Stay. Sweat.
It’s been an adventurous weekend. There have been two never-tried-before experiences, and it’s only Sunday morning.
Yesterday marked the first day of the rest of Bryson’s life. It was our first dog training class, and I think there is a glimmer of hope that we won’t have to scrounge up the receipt from over a year ago and plop him on the counter at the Humane Society and ask for our money back. This particular trainer was recommended by several different people, and, though long-winded enough to turn an hour -long class into two hours, I trust he knows his stuff. The first class induced a bit of eye rolling beforehand when we heard it was all about teaching our dog to sit, lie down, and stay. Duh. We have those commands down. As long as there are absolutely no distractions and Bryson is just a little bored, slightly sleep-deprived, and thoroughly well-fed, he will sit, lie down, and stay just fine. Apparently, that’s not good enough for Mr. Dog Training Perfectionist, who has this crazy notion that our dog should obey us at all times, no matter what. Whatev. We paid the fee, so we’re going with it.
If this training was all about winning Cutest Dog in the Class, that one’s in the bag. We could have shown up, picked up our certificate and left, thank you very much. There was slight competition from the pair of German Shepherd puppies, but those stick-straight six-inch ears kind of freak me out. The trouble comes when Bryson actually has to sit still so mom and dad can learn how to be the alpha dogs. The first command came at the beginning of the class, and it was directed at the owners: “Ignore your dog, and don’t let it interact with the other dogs.” Sure thing, pal. We’ll just ask this 80-pound, 14-month old hound/retriever mix to ignore the overwhelmingly pungent odor of animal urine and feces and the 4-month old puppy licking at his nose and doing back flips two inches from his face. Because we’re really good at controlling our dog, obviously. We just signed up for dog training to get a front row seat for your borderline offensive jokes about your Asian yoga buddy. An hour and a half lecture/attempt at a dog themed stand-up routine later, Clayton and I had completely worked out every muscle in our arms while “ignoring our dog” and keeping him shoved up against our legs as hard as we could. Bryson was only mildly deterred, and my forearms are still sore. Could be a long eight weeks.
Clayton and I committed to this training, though. After a few bouts of aggressive behavior in the past three months, this is basically our last hope of having a well-behaved dog that we can trust in any situation. Clayton and I are in total agreement that whenever (fictitious) Baby Noa arrives, he or she will not have to share the house with an unpredictable dog, no matter how unbearably adorable he is.
To relieve some stress, I finally made good on a standing invitation to a yoga class with a friend of mine. As active as I am, I’ve never done yoga before. I was extra apprehensive about this particular class because it is “hot yoga,” which means exactly what it sounds like. The room is kept at 100 degrees. I don’t like to sweat, but it’s been something I’ve become rather good at. Running, golfing, sneezing, blinking, my Cuban genes kick in and there you go. I didn’t want to embarrass myself and be the only person forced to swim out of the class in a puddle of my own sweat. Everyone else would be set with a little dab here and a pat there; I would have to soak up and wring out.
But this morning I gave in, and before I even had coffee, I was downward-facing dogging it. And I think I’m hooked. It didn’t feel nearly as hot as I was imagining it. I’m guessing that’s because I was anticipating 100 degrees as it would feel in the middle of a Florida summer — record-breaking humidity, mosquitoes buzzing around your head, and watching your nose transition from white to pink to lobster in ten minutes. Compared to that, hot yoga felt more like a spring day. It was relaxing and energizing at the same time. According to the instructor (yogi? yoger? yogista?), you really shouldn’t compare yourself to anyone else; it’s just you and your mat. So I didn’t even notice that my friend had a much better warrior pose than I did or that I held my left leg in the crossed-over-your-right-leg-tucked-behind-your-calf pose longer than the chick behind me. It was just me and my mat. That I rented. And didn’t see anyone disinfect before planting my face on it.
If the poses weren’t therapy enough, you get a 5-minute cool down at the end of class. It’s much more of a literal cool down in hot yoga, as in the yogista walks around and puts a cold washcloth on every one’s forehead. At first, I thought she might just be giving me one because of my aforementioned predisposition to get blinded by own sweat. But I wasn’t sure because I was following directions and not comparing my cooled off forehead to anyone else’s. On the way out, though, I definitely saw other people, mainly the ones still lying motionless on the floor, soaking up the icy goodness of their own forehead washcloths.
Moral of the story: Bryson’s learning to sit. I’m learning to sit without a chair while balancing on one leg.