I was made an example of in yoga class last week – and not because my downward dog is so impressive.

My favorite instructor teaches a sixty minute class (which, because I’m not a super-strong yogi, I vastly prefer to the ninety minute classes) at 6 pm on Wednesdays. The small problem here is that, every other day of the week, I work out at 4 pm, and therefore I have my post-workout snack around 5:15 or 5:30. My body is used to having a snack at that time, and so it wants to have a snack before yoga starts.

Last week, I munched on a Luna bar while I waited for class to start and then, because I didn’t see any trash cans in that corner of the gym, tucked the wrapper under my towel when we went into the studio. Fast-forward about thirty-five minutes, and I’m sweating in a three-legged dog while our instructor, this fabulously nutty woman who sometimes breezes into class wearing this huge, outrageous floppy hat, walks around the room. She tapped me on the back and whispered, “Did you eat that before class?” I acknowledged that I had and apologized for bringing the wrapper into the studio.

“It’s okay,” she told me. “That just reminds me I should bring something up with everyone.”

Oh no. That sounded ominous.

We shifted to rest in child’s pose, and she began telling us that we shouldn’t eat for at least two hours before we practice yoga. It wasn’t just that we shouldn’t do it, she told us, it was that it was one of the basic principles of yoga not to do it. I was mortified. I felt only marginally better when she also (gently) reprimanded the students who had brought water bottles into the studio.

I was also slightly indignant. I mean, it was a Luna bar. It wasn’t as though I had eaten a Subway sandwich or something. Regardless, I made a point of not eating before class last night.

This was unquestionably the wrong decision. It was impossible for me to concentrate on my breathing or the poses because I kept thinking about when I would get to go home and have dinner. I bolted out of there when class was over, and I didn’t even make it all the way home. I had to stop at the Duane Reade on my way to the subway so I could buy a cup of grapes.

Consider my lesson learned: one shouldn’t eat before yoga, but one shouldn’t not eat before yoga either. It looks like I’m going to be having a 4 pm snack on Wednesdays from now on.

Originally published on Katie’s blog, Perky to a Fault

If you travel with me, chances are good that we’ll need to visit a pharmacy. I’ll probably hurt myself or develop a headache, and, even though I should have known better, I probably will have left my bandages and acetaminophen at home.

On a recent trip to Italy, I was struck with a sinus headache. I had packed acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and a whole host of vitamins, but I had nothing for my sinuses. We were in Venice – near the Rialto Bridge, no less, an area crawling with English-speaking tourists – and so I had no problems getting something for my head. I walked into a nearby pharmacy and trotted out my best attempt at explaining my ailment in Italian: “il mal di testa … but sinus.” The pharmacist immediately produced some pseudoephredrine and explained the dosage to me in English.

It’s not always that easy. In fact, it’s usually not. My cobbled-together language skills weren’t enough to get me sinus medication in Guatemala, where I moaned “dolor de cabeza” while pointing at my eyes, my nose, and my temples. I even mimed a vise-like grip on my head. I had been pretty pleased with my miming … until the pharmacist handed me some eyedrops. Luckily, my Spanish-speaking boyfriend was just behind me and was able to communicate what I needed.

Armed with phrasebooks, I can usually at least get my basic ailment across to the pharmacist. This wasn’t the case in China, where I had a foot injury and needed a bandage. I did my best to sound out the Mandarin word for “bandage,” but the pharmacist clearly had no idea what I was saying. I tried once more before leaning over the counter to show her what I was trying to say. This caused her to erupt in laughter at my pronunciation, but she did produce a bandage. Unfortunately, it was an Ace bandage. With a bit more effort, I found the word for “adhesive” and walked out with a box of Chinese band-aids.

It was only marginally easier to get a bandage in Paris than in Xi’an, China, even though I had a phrasebook and was traveling with my mother, who speaks French moderately well. The situation was slightly compounded because I needed antibiotic ointment as well. We were unsuccessful in obtaining the goods until I sucked up my pride and showed the chic Parisian pharmacist my fairly embarrassing foot wound. She quickly gave me a bandage with antibiotic ointment inside.

At some point, one would think I would learn to travel with my first aid kit. Of course, that would make healing myself easier, but I think I would miss my interactions with foreign pharmacists.

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I imagine I’m not alone when I say I have a rather dismal track record where New Year’s Resolutions are concerned. Every year I resolve to eat better, exercise more, be more fiscally responsible, and drink less – and every year I end up continuing to eat spoonfuls of peanut butter dotted with chocolate chips, use the elliptical rather apathetically, and spend too much money on overpriced drinks (effectively knocking out two resolutions with one stone – or martini olive).

To date, my most successful resolution was the year that I resolved to eat tomatoes. Tomatoes had long been my arch-nemesis. They often appeared in my least-favorite meals as a child (spaghetti, chili, and meatloaf), and I didn’t care for them in their raw form either. I didn’t like anything about them: the taste, the texture, the appearance. I found the seeds to particularly offensive. Tomatoes are full of lycopene, though, which I had heard was good for you, and so I resolved to eat tomatoes.

And, by God, I learned to eat tomatoes.

Encouraged, I tried a similar resolution the next year with beets, but my success was only marginal. I can now consume small portions of beets – assuming, of course, that they have been coated in olive oil, salt, and pepper and roasted until almost unrecognizable.

It took the entire year to see any results with both the tomato and beet resolutions. This year, however, I am pleased to report progress on my primary resolution in just the first month!

My primary resolution – the one that I have deemed most important – of 2011 is to stop being so unnecessarily competitive. I’m not a terribly competitive person in other aspects of my life, but, for reasons that I don’t understand, I’m in a constant race against other people on the sidewalks, even if I’m not going anywhere particular, and I get irritated when people step in front of me while I’m waiting for the train, even if the train has plenty of open seats and/or I’m only going one stop. I can’t even fly Southwest because the open seating policy gives me anxiety for days before my flight.

Clearly, this is not the best way to go through life, and so I resolved to change it.

My Wednesday night yoga class is usually a pitfall for me. The small room fills quickly, and some spots are clearly less desirable than others. Another class is scheduled in the studio just before ours, and a loose line forms outside the door. I usually spend the fifteen minutes before class trying to make sure that I have the best possible spot in line and worrying that people will cut in front of me and get a better spot. Now that I’ve made a conscious effort to rein it in, I found myself remaining calm while I waited for the most recent class.

My yoga practice definitely benefited from me not getting worked up before class, and I’m delighted that my resolutions are off to such a great start. Now if only I can find a way to work on those peanut butter spoons …