A couple weeks ago, College Candy posted an article called “You Might Be Crazy If You…”, a humorous tome about the actions of love-sick young women that hit eerily close to home. Love douchebags? Love the chase? Pine for someone you can’t have? Oy. By the end, a healthy dose of embarrassment, self-loathing and mix between pity and disappointment had sunk into my face. Hoping to find a cure, I dove into the last paragraph:
“Did you find yourself on this list? Congratulations. You’re not psychotic, you’re totally normal…define what the hell you’re doing wrong and work on it. It probably won’t be perfect, but it’s worth a shot. If not, don’t forget that 52% of marriages end in divorce anyway, so it’s not really your fault…”
I’d wanted some proactive advice. Something to help me get over my ex, find a new guy and get on with my life. But I had only received, yet again, a nebulous solution. Out of the hundreds of posts in my Google Reader (ahem, research), why does the closest thing to constructively moving on seem to be “Have a girls’ night out?” Girls’ nights out don’t fix anything. They just leave you wallowing in an even deeper pile of self-doubt and pity, when you wake up the next morning alone and hungover, with an empty pizza box next to your bed. Where is my proactive cure??
Walking down the street last week, I found my answer. It was 9:42 am, and I was on my way to yoga. I know it was exactly 9:42 am because halfway there, across the street from me, my ex walked out of his building. My ex with a corporate job who should have been at work at 9:42 in the morning. My ex whom I have not spoken to in four months and whom, after a two-month traveling hiatus, I thought I was finally over. I had a series of small heart attacks right there in front of Jennifer Leather Convertibles and, fuming about the universe’s sick, twisted plan for my inevitable loneliness, went on to yoga.
I’ve never had a better class. I stretched and sweated and breathed like I’ve never breathed before, forcing the ex-encounter out the window and under the bus flying down St. Marks. By the time we hit savasana (relaxation pose), I felt calm and rejuvenated and had placed the morning’s events into perspective–It was 2 seconds. It really didn’t matter.
You see, when done correctly, the practice of yoga shifts your focus from the external to the internal. You block out the sirens, the boss that yelled at you, the ex that called, and you focus on your breath, on what your body needs. You focus on you. And when getting over a breakup, I can’t think of any better cure.
So, College Candy, I would like to propose yoga as a different ending to your article, as a proactive solution to the psychotic tendencies on your list. You can find classes everywhere, from studios to your local Y, and if you prefer to stretch it out at home, Gaiam offers a great series of DVDs. It doesn’t matter how deep you get in downward dog; all that matters is that you learn to listen to yourself. And right now, my self is telling me to get into a new relationship with this cream cheese bagel sitting on my desk…see? No men troubles in sight.
You can find Blair on dating in New York City.