Nama-fucking-stay

At this time on a Tuesday morning, I am usually in Adho Mukha Svanasana position, feeling very proud of myself that I am even out of bed. The remainder of the day is usually followed by a feeling of utter Zen, a feeling which clashes comedically with my anxious colleagues at the Royal Town Planning Institute. If the world was a giant stress ball, it wouldn’t be big enough to pacify the tensing hands of these neurotics.

This morning, however, I couldn’t be further from Nirvana.
This morning, I could make Woody Allen look like Buddha.
This morning began smoothly… that is the strange thing.
I woke up feeling refreshed, had a lovely hot shower & plenty of clean work clothes to choose from, remembered to take my sandwich out of the fridge and was running 5 minutes early for my train. A perfect prelude to a 7.15am yoga class.

Within 10 minutes I realized that I’d caught the wrong train, needed to walk 20 minutes to my gym and had no hope in hell of making my Ashtanga class in time. After a short bout of Tourettes syndrome, and a brief affair with self-loathing, I regained my calm and walked leisurely to work, vowing that I wouldn’t be ‘like them’.

Arriving early to the Royal Happy Shack, I consoled myself, I would have a chance to catch up on emails, filing and well-needed research. And yet, as I said my first good morning, my greeting was met with a solemn grunt. My boss was in a particularly bad mood and I could feel it like a kick in the Yoni before I even closed the door behind me. At that moment, all of my conscientious enthusiasm was lost, and here I am writing my blog. Namas-fucking-stay.