Yesterday, I punched someone in the face and drank beer.  Two things I don’t do often.  Scratch that: Ever.  For the record, the punch was in a boxing class and an accident.  The beer was in my kitchen and on purpose.

After the uncharacteristic beer (yes, singular), I characteristically fell asleep on the couch.  Later, I retired to bed feeling woozy and happy, albeit with an alarmingly fast level of soreness setting into my hands and shoulders.  And just before I dozed off, I had the following thought:

“This was a Monday.  Really?”

Mondays, as you know, tend to get a bad wrap, and most of the time, they deserve it.  They unceremoniously squash our weekends and all too often launch us headfirst into a new week of nothing new.  Wake, shower, eat, work (or school), eat, work (or school), exercise, eat, TV, sleep.  Repeat. No wonder we hate them.

Unless somewhere between eat and TV, you transform into Micky Ward, clock a guy with a perfect Boston accent in the chin, and drink a beer for no good reason.  These were minor highlights of my Monday, which got me thinking: I should drink and hit people more often!  I’m kidding.

Sort of.

Yoga is great.  Don’t get me wrong.  In short order, it’s my meditation, my stress relief, my livelihood, a source of creative inspiration, my favorite form of exercise, the time when my mind becomes most quiet; an opportunity to set intentions, overcome challenges, and, simply, breathe.  It’s a type of community and the anchor for my approach to wellness, which includes (among other things) discipline, healthy eating, and typically a dislike of beer.

But it’s not my only form of exercise nor outlet for stress.  It’s not where I blare my favorite rap music.  It’s not my preferred environment for socializing.  It’s not where I express pent up aggression.  It’s not where I sigh or grunt or growl.  It’s not where I go to feel a little badass.

In my opinion, these activities work better in other environments, like gyms, bars, boxing rings, and playing fields.  Last night, made me realize I needed a dose of this kind of non-yoga to shake my own ho-hum Monday routine.

My boxing coach shrugged off my many apologies for the errant right-cross to his jaw and even (generously) likened me to Million Dollar Baby as our class came to an end.  I offered him my weary hand for a shake and, then, handed over my gloves.  I walked home with something resembling a float-like-a-butterfly spring in my step.  And as I walked, I thought I might like to have a beer while cooking my dinner.  Why?

Because that’s what a boxer would do.