Come on, you've said that! Or at the very least, thought it.
Sometimes in yoga, I'm in a pose I've done a million times. I know I can go deeper, be it physically, or with my breath or my intention, and yet, it just feels so comfortable to stay where I am. Where I know I can hang out without being challenged. I call it Comfort Zone Yoga.
For many years as I was waitressing at a popular restaurant in West Hollywood called Newsroom I felt as if I worked in The Comfort Zone Cafe and lived in the Comfort Zone Apartments.
Sure, I wanted to do something else, and live in Santa Monica, but I was just so darn comfortable in my uncomfortableness.
I had cash all the time. It was easy. I didn't really have to use my brain. Not that much anyway. When I wanted to take off, all I had to do was find another body to replace mine of the "floor." I could pretty much do whatever I wanted (and I did, trust me) since I worked there for so long. As far as my apartment went, I had cheap rent and the idea of moving made me sick to my stomach so I avoided it. For years.
I was safe.
I had my rituals, my schedule, my habits. Yes, I was pretty unhappy but one gets used to such things and happiness seems such a small price to pay, right?
I sit here staring at a card someone just sent me in the mail. (Getting letters in the mail is such a beloved treat, isn't it? So ancient a gesture.)