My Unexpected Yoga 'ish' Motivation

I imagine sometimes that when aptly flexible people see my absurd and uncoordinated yoga-ish practice, aka stretching and range of motion work, they assume it’s for mindfulness, balance, spiritual growth, or because some impossibly flexible human on social media convinced me that inner peace lives just one pigeon pose away.

No.

The Scene of the Incident

I took up what I coined a more consistent ‘yoga-ish’ practice because I peed on my boots.

For most of human history, women managed bathroom breaks outdoors.

My ancestors did it. Your ancestors did it too. Generations of women completed this task without indoor plumbing, moisture-wicking fabrics, or instructional YouTube videos. It should not be this difficult. And yet here we are.

I first noticed a problem while hiking and off-roading. My squat was getting higher. Not dramatically. Just enough. My ankles were tighter. My hips less cooperative. My knees increasingly interested in filing formal complaints.

Meanwhile, gravity remains fully committed to its original job description.

The resulting spray pattern suggested room for improvement. Naturally, I developed a plan. Not yoga. Not yet.

First, I attempted engineering after speaking to my Army niece about her time outdoors. As suggested, I located a sturdy-looking branch. A branch that appeared trustworthy. A branch that, from a distance, communicated confidence and stability.

I incorporated the branch into what I’ll call Mother Nature’s Handrail, my mobility assistance program. The branch and I entered into a partnership. Unfortunately, the branch had not agreed to the arrangement.

Remember the nursery rhyme and song, “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall...” Most people associate that line with babies. I associate it with a sudden and unexpected change in elevation. The branch snapped. I descended. The mission deteriorated.

What happened next is best described as a close encounter with prickly vegetation. For reasons known only to the Creator, certain plants appear specifically designed to punish poor decisions. I spent the next several days discovering stickers attached to the unmentionable portions of my anatomy. The physical injuries healed. The emotional growth remains ongoing.

That was the day I upped my mobility goals. Not because I wanted six-pack abs. Not because I wanted to touch my toes. Not because I wanted to achieve enlightenment.

I simply wanted to reclaim enough hip, ankle, and knee mobility to perform a basic human function without involving:

• engineering,

• gravity-assisted failure,

• or botanical retaliation.

One of the strange gifts of aging is that goals become less impressive and more useful. In my twenties, fitness was often about appearance. In my fifties, it was competitive strength. Now it’s evolved into capabilities: Can I get off the floor easily? Can I carry my backpack for distance or groceries into my 90s? Can I climb the steep trail and stairs? Can I extend the time I have doing the things I love? Can I successfully navigate a bathroom break in the woods without creating a story?

The answer to the last question is apparently no. At least not as well as I’d like yet. But my yoga-ish practice is helping. When I regain sufficient range of motion and leave no trace of a splatter pattern on my boots, I will consider the entire effort a success. 

My ancestors would be proud. 

The branch, however, can never be trusted again.

What outdoor moment made you realize your body had entered a new chapter?