Eden M. Kennedy

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Eden M. Kennedy is the co-author (with Alice Bradley) of the book Let's Panic About Babies! (St. Martin's Press, 2011).

A former college-radio DJ, Mrs. Kennedy has driven cross-country six times in a 1973 Volkswagen Bug and enjoys standing on her head.

Currently she works at a public library and is finishing writing her first novel.

Yoga Makes Me Want to Eat Meat and Hit People

Normally I try not to post unless I have something entertaining to tell you, but it's been almost a week and I seem to be sort of permanently irritated. And you know what? I blame yoga. Yoga is RUINING my LIFE.

I've gone to yoga nine out of the last twelve days and on the one hand my hamstrings feel fantastic. You know your hamstrings feel fantastic when you forget you have hamstrings. I suppose that's the entire goal of yoga, you clear the resistance of the body and the mind ceases its fluctuations, and you achieve total consciousness. Gunga galunga.

So my body's all, "Yippee! It's 5:00 a.m.! Let's go to yoga!" and my mind goes, "Transition to robot mode successful," and I get out of bed and get into my car and onto the highway (and you wouldn't believe how competitive drivers are at that hour; if I don't stay out of the fast lane I am routinely extricating all kinds of assholes from my asshole), get to the shala, roll out my mat, and attentively perform my postures, breathing, and gazing as directed.

But, fuck.

A lot of people will tell you that the more yoga you do the less patience you'll have for the bullshit in your life. I actually heard a guy say, "I was doing so much yoga that I wanted to quit my job, so I had to quit doing yoga instead." People get divorced over yoga; I read about a new mother on a message board who was leaving her husband because he wouldn't take care of the baby so she could go to yoga class.

I know yoga's supposed to make you all supple and serene, but between the mild deprivation of getting 90 minutes less sleep per night and the energy I get in return for sweating my knockers off nearly every morning, I have become hell on wheels.

It's been an interesting time for wee little Jackson, as you may imagine, my mood coinciding as it has with his parent-teacher conference at school, wherein I learned that the same problem we have with him at home (trying to talk his way out of doing work he doesn't find interesting) is the same one his teachers encounter every day. So imagine how happy I was to receive permission to gently, firmly, and consistently clobber my son into obedience.

For his own good and future success, of course!

Actually, he's taking to it pretty well. There was some whining at first, but I think he realizes I mean business and it's best to just put away his toys like I asked, and not try to finesse a popsicle until he's finished his broccoli.

My husband, on the other hand, is all, "Step off, bitch!" He takes no guff. But you know what? He's done the dishes the last two nights in a row.