Yesterday afternoon, my friend Kayla invited me to join her for an evening yoga class.
My initial response?
Hell to the no.
No because I had already taught a group exercise class that morning and my body was wiped.
No because we had arrived home at midnight from our trip to Iowa the night before, and I was exhausted.
No because it was still freaking snowing outside, and the last thing I wanted to do was leave my warm, comfy house.
But perhaps most importantly, no because I am absolutely terrible at yoga. Seriously, if you watch this video my friend Streeter made, you’ll get the idea. Just imagine I’m the phantom, and it will be a hauntingly accurate representation of my past “practices”.
While I’d like to think I’m a generally fit person, yoga just isn’t my jam. I prefer my workouts to be infused with lots of loud music, yelling, and jumping around. Yoga’s too calm for my taste, not to mention the fact that I can’t seem to keep track of the dozens of social guidelines attending a class requires. (Apparently giggling is not okay. Same goes for walking in ten minutes late.)
In Seattle, yoga is practically a religious sect. Our Ballard condo was within walking distance of three different studios, which prompted me to abandon all reason one Saturday morning and try my hand at Bikram. I’d heard fantastic things about hot yoga, and figured adding intense heat to the mix might make the workout a little more interesting.
I was correct, if disrupting the class no more than four times by slipping in my own sweat and crashing violently on the floor qualifies as interesting. And no, ‘violently’ is not an exaggeration. I landed so hard, the three people next to me were sprayed with droplets of perspiration as a result of my body’s not-so-graceful swan dives into its own sweat puddle.
To be fair, it’s really difficult to remain upright on foam yoga blocks in a 100 degree room when you boast a pretty serious sweating problem.
Also really difficult? Not snickering at the woman next to you who is moaning as if she’s about to…well…you get the idea.
While I wasn’t asked to leave, the passive-aggressive yoga glares from all of my neighbors made it abundantly clear I was disrupting their inner ‘shanti’. Even if it was moaning inappropriately.
A few months later, I learned I’m capable of disturbing a yoga class without even being in attendance. It was a gorgeous spring Sunday, and Scott and I were engaging in one of our favorite weekend traditions — the Ballard Farmer’s Market. While Scott and Jolie partook in some smoked salmon samples, I found myself wandering to a small yoga studio located on the edge of the market. The storefront was constructed entirely of windows, and I was able to peer right through and observe a dozen or so women participating in what was clearly a prenatal yoga class. I gazed in wonder at the collection of graceful bodies, flawlessly executing every single pose, despite their swollen, pregnant bellies. It was strange yet inspiring, not to mention a blatant reminder that I am a complete and utter yoga failure. (Seriously…these prego mama’s could have schooled me in Vinyasa.)
Moments later, a young boy and his father walked past me. “Look, Daddy!” the boy exclaimed, “It’s fat people yoga!”
The father scolded his son, explaining the women were pregnant, not fat, and dragged him along to the gluten-free bread booth. I simply stood there, guffawing shamelessly at the boy’s astute observation. Unfortunately, it was at this precise moment the instructor looked up at the window to witness me, standing all alone, laughing hysterically at her prenatal yoga class. She stomped over to the windows, shot me an angry (yet totally centered) glare, and promptly closed the blinds.
Yep. I was that girl.
These are just a few examples of why yoga and I don’t get along. I let out a sigh of defeat and texted Kayla, explaining I was just too tired to join her for class.
And then I remembered Kayla had purchased a new car over the weekend.
A new car that I was dying to see.
I swiftly texted back that I would come to class, so long as she picked me up in her pimped out new ride.
And that’s how I found myself in the front row of a YMCA yoga class at 6:30 pm last night.
As we rolled out our mats and settled into downward dog position, I felt nervous. Nervous that I would giggle at an inappropriate time. Nervous that I would break wind in the middle of our sun salutations. Nervous that I would lose my footing during the balance poses, knock someone else over during my clumsy descent, and end up needing a yoga injury lawyer.
But mostly nervous that I had chosen to clad myself in a pair of yoga pants that Scott had recently mended for me. What if his suturing skills weren’t as strong as I had assumed them to be? As we extended our right legs into three-legged dog, I feared the three-inch crotch-hole my husband had so kindly hand stitched would give way at any second, turning my three-legged dog into a three-legged {insert animal euphemism of choice here}.
Thankfully, three years of stitching up people’s skin have served Scott well. My leggings held strong through 60 minutes of poses.
The most shocking part? I actually enjoyed the entire hour-long class. So much so that five minutes in, I had completely forgotten about my potentially disastrous leggings. Our instructor was encouraging without being too hippie-dippie. I was able to relax, but also felt challenged. The playlist was incredible and the entire experience was very…well…zen.
In other words, I’m coming back next week.
(But I’m not making any promises about controlling my giggling during the whole “namaste” head bow thing at the end.)
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