I’ve visited (and lived in) France regularly enough to know that breakfasts are typically comprised of a variety of breads; primarily baguettes, brioches and croissants. In case you didn’t know, the French word for bread is pain (sort of pronounced like “pah”) – as in pain au chocolat. Although I rarely indulge anymore, the inimitable P.A.C. still ranks right up there among my favorite carb- and chocolate-filled treats.
I thought of that this morning while I lay on my back on the yoga mat. I wasn’t down for the count because I hadn’t eaten breakfast – which I don’t normally do anyway, as I’ve learned that anything more than water first thing in the morning (before yoga, that is) tends to induce an almost complete state of lethargy from which it might take me hours to recover.
No, the real reason that I withdrew this morning from Christine’s instructions, fell away from the wall where I’d tried a few poses with the others, then retreated to the mat in the center of the room, was because I was trying to listen to my body. And, aside from the simpering (not quite growling) sounds emanating from my stomach, the bigger problem, the deal-breaker, the mother of all reasons to back out of my favorite yoga class was simply this: Pain. Two days old. Pretty stale if you ask me.
Not, god forbid, the kind of delicious, mouth-watering, will drop anything at a moment’s notice kind of pain (au chocolat!). Not the kind that comes slathered in butter or topped with jam. Nor the kind that melts in your mouth due to its utterly exquisite just-out-of-the-oven freshness.
No, it’s the kind that brings to mind deeply burnt toast or plumes of smoke rising. The kind that you want to shred and dump, whole or in tatters, in la grande poubelle.
Just simple, un-embellished, undesirable + undesired… PAIN.
So perhaps I did have breakfast after all; a truly forgettable inedible one.