Making an effort to stretch myself

Hey gang.

I have a dirty, horrible secret that I need to get off my chest.

(Urg, that conjures up some truly horrific imagery doesn’t it? It makes me think of a putrid, gelatinous squid laying waste to my body, its tentacles wedged into the crooks of my neck and the dip of my bellybutton.)



Why would I even write that? Now that I’ve conjured up that visual nightmare, I’ve only made this whole thing even worse.

Enough of this pseudo-Alien bullshazzle Ethel. Pull yourself together woman!


My secret doesn’t have anything to do with my sci-fi film proclivities, nor does it have anything to do with seafood (although you can bet your bottom dollar I’m not going to be ordering a plate of calamari anytime soon.)

My dark globule of shame is thus:




I should have just stuck with being eaten alive by a blood thirsty extra-terrestrial octopus.

And yet, alas, it is true.

To paraphrase Katy Perry: I did yoga and I liked it. (I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.)

Jeeze Louise, I am losing all the cool points today, aren’t I?


So how did this all come about you might ask? (Or maybe just, you know, can you get to the point Ethel because you’re rambling like a rambling thing?)

It all started with the rain.

You see, here in Beautiful British Columbia© it rains like the absolute dickens. The relentless deluge we west coasters suffer through betwixt the months of October to April (and sometimes later) is of such magnitude that there is a good chance we will grow moss all over our bodies if we do not exercise constant vigilance.

This is fact.

So. As the drizzle has now descended upon our fair city, coupled by the fact that the days are growing ever shorter (and ever darker), I am trying my darndest not to reenlist at the gym, because a.) I’m trying to save money and b.) GYMS ARE THE WORST.

But it’s hard. Who wants to arrive home from work and go running outside in the pitch-dark pouring rain?

The absolute wettest I have EVER been on a run. Taken this past weekend.

That is bleak, bleak sauce.

However, I figure if I work really hard at it, a gym-free solution is doable.

For instance, because I am currently taking a break from my half-marathon training schedule, I have the option of going for much shorter, faster runs.

For instance, yesterday I burned through a 5 km while practicing my sprints/hill running.

I also have to admit that running in the rain isn’t always as dreadful as it sounds. Sometimes it’s actually pretty empowering and deliciously badass. Plus, it’s definitely manageable if you’re only doing it for 20-30 minutes at a time.

Further, no one is saying that should we get the odd nice weekend here and there I can’t take advantage and bang out a sweet 10-15k just to make sure I don’t backtrack in terms of my distance training.

The second part of of my gym-free workout plan is to do a crap load of resistance work, which means push-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, burpees, wall sits, planks – you name it.

And the plus side of all of this is that I can do all of these things in the comfort of my own home.

Okay, okay, I know what you’re all thinking: “WHAT ABOUT THE BLOODY YOGA!?”

I’m getting there, I promise.

Seeing as though I’ve been told that I should be practicing my downward dog and sun salutation for something like the past two-hundred years, last Sunday I finally thought to myself, “Enough of this bollocks. I might as well give it a go.”

Now, don’t get any crazy ideas that I actually went out a bought a mat and paid for a class or anything.

After a brutal session of burpees, jump squats, pull-ups, and hip raises, a twenty-minute beginners yoga class via Youtube (that I could do complete on the carpet in my bedroom) was looking pretty good.

And it was!

It was good.

It was so good in fact, that I’ve done the same video every night since, as well as an extra session of stretching.

The only fly in the ointment being that whenever I am doing my poses M walks around the house muttering “HANI PASHA” to himself, which completely ruins my concentration and sends me into uncontrollable giggle fits.

But I’ll take it.

In the end, I guess a leopard really can change her spots, as I have long ridiculed yoga and its disciples (living in Lotus Land it’s pretty hard not to, what with the city’s collection obsession with Lululemon and its competitors.)

So that’s it folks; that is my slimy, salacious secret.

I am a budding, neophyte yogi.

And I blame it on the rain.