D is for Deep Breaths, and the Occasional Down Dog

Goodness, there are so many “D” words pertaining to aging.
Most of them start the word “Don’t.”
Don’t look back, don’t forget your vitamins, don’t go for that second margarita.
Don’t regret.
Don’t rely on hip and knee structure so fully any longer; you’re sure to be Disappointed.
It’s enough to make me give up on this alphabetical reflection I’ve embarked upon.
But then I was peer-pressured into a little yoga — a new thing I do as an aging soul, because it’s so much kinder than step aerobics, plus my eyes are closed a lot, so I don’t have to see and resent the presence of others in cute outfits surrounding body parts in place where they should be. (You’ll get older; you’ll see what I mean.)
And I realized during my fourth session of yoga — heated yoga, no less, which is another story altogether, good heavens — that “Down Dog” starts with a D!
And “Deep Breath”, a life skill I thought I’d fully mastered, but guess what, nope. I was even admonished once with, “Don’t forget to breathe,” from the instructor as she made a gentle, rescuing grab at my arm while I was attempting a balancing move I thought I really nailed. (Also nope. But in my head, I was a freakin’ yogi.)
Shoot, now I deep breathe all over the place. Deep, deep breaths, in lines, in the car, in the car line. (Ugh. The car line. Sometimes that requires the deepest of breathing, am I right? It’s the sixth layer of hell.)
And breathing — who knew? — it kind of Delightful. It’s centering. A reboot of sorts. Plus, it eases that tension line between my eyebrows, the one I hate but loves me so much it’s trenched, ready to stick around for years.
Also, it’s preventative. Concentrating on breathing helps distract my imagination from shooting imaginary darts into the shopper in front of me, the purchaser paying for a full cart of items with the contents of a Ziploc loaded with coins of the smallest possible denomination. (That much copper in one locale should be guarded by bank employees.)
There are other D words —  drab, dowdy, dumpy, dimples, where one does not wish for dimples — that come with aging; internal words that take me down in a moment.
What do I do with such negativity? Breathe. Deeply. And do a down dog or two, because the blood rush leads to a re-focus on the good stuff:
Wait…I’ve put myself on the spot and I’m having trouble coming up with happy D words…
Hang on…it’s coming to me…
AHA!
Doting on my boy! (He’s maybe a little spoiled; I’m okay with that, maybe even Delighted! (Can’t stop me now!))
Driving! (Adults get to drive and we love it.)
(ignoring) the Dust laying around everywhere! Because I CAN! Because I’m an aDult!!
Plus, all this avoids the big “D” we age-rs fear:
Diapers.
Shudder.