Namaste

 

There are two kinds of people: those who love yoga and those who hate it. I fall into the latter group. I’m a walker, a past runner, a Zumba gal. I crave motion and loud tunes. I need to feel the beat of the music, not that of the heart.  

I learned early on that flexibility is overrated, that trying to relax everything only makes my eyes pop open and my body itch. But because my doctor recommended that I stretch more and try to build up my strength, I thought I’d give it another go today. Big mistake. Two hours later and I’m still nauseated from my tummy protesting the fact that it was being folded over.

During the class, my discomfort extended to my knees, my legs, my shoulders, even my toes. Every time the teacher introduced something new, she’d check around the class and see if anyone needed help. She soon learned to make a bee-line for me, and I became her pet project. When I was having trouble planting my knees, she brought over another mat, quadrupled to provide me with more padding. When I gave up and sat, showing my disinclination to do what she asked, she showed me another way to accomplish that particular stretch by standing up and leaning against the wall. And every time she readjusted my knees or my hands or my shoulders, she’d softly say, “Amazing.”

The only thing amazing about it is that I got out of there alive.