So, this morning was my first real attempt at yoga. Sure, I had gone to a few classes before in college and pre-babies, and one sorry attempt at pregnancy yoga. My good friend and super yoga teacher, Tej, convinced me to go. Kicking and screaming. Okay, so the setting wasn’t too bad-72 degrees and blue sky, light breezes (thanks, Africa!) and just a couple other peeps so I wouldn’t be too self-conscious.
First of all, I am a lady in my mid-30’s (heh heh) with what appears to be an old-lady body. Darn it all, whatever flexibility I used to have is loooooong gone. It’s been replaced with an achy, stiff, ain’t-no-way-I-am–gonna-touch-my-nose-to-my-toes excuse for limbs.
Okay, during a yoga class, there is typically a lot of talk of “relaxation” and “floating”, but let me tell you, I was neither relaxing or floating at any point in the hour-long class. More like cringing and teetering. Then, there’s all the funky names for the positions. “Laughing Baby” is the one that sticks in my mind. This is the pose where essentially, you lie on your bags, grab your feet, and roll from side to side. And in my case, hope desperately that no one catches a glimpse of my ass.
All right, I know that it’s going to take a few months to sit on my head (more like a few years) , but I am going to keep it up. Plus, I refuse to let my husband be more flexible than I am. Which he is, at the moment.