A friend of mine talked me into joining a beginner’s Yoga class with her, so I in turn cornered my friend Susan and bullied her into going too. For some reason I felt I needed numbers to do this because everyone knows…..there is safety in numbers!
This was a huge step for me because I hadn’t engaged in any real exercise for a couple of years, unless you counted my frequent trips to the refrigerator and the bathroom.
My knowledge of Yoga was zero, and except for the mental visual I had of Gandhi sitting sedately in the Lotus position, I was clueless.
The entire concept sounded, well….boring. I like dancing around, shaking my giblets to hard driving music. In my mind the prospect of going to a Yoga class was the equivalent of going to exercise church.
This was an early evening class, so I was forced to eat my dinner on the road, woofing down a steak and bean burrito that my husband had lovingly prepared for me.
I met the girls in the parking lot so we could all walk in together.
The room was quite pleasant, decorated in an eastern style, with the slightest scent of bamboo lingering in the air. The floor was draped with yoga mats of various colors, like towels on the beach, and an exotic instrumental was being mysteriously piped in from somewhere….maybe heaven.
We found a corner of the room with space enough for us to spread our mats. An easy task for most people, but we fumbled and bumped into each other, giggling like fools and fitting in like Larry, Moe, and Curly.
The room was crowded with poker faced women all in various stages of stretching. I eyed Susan, and mouthed over to her: “We don’t belong here.” She intentionally ignored me while gracefully assuming the mad cow position. Traitor. Sitting nervously on my pink mat, with my chubby legs painfully crossed Indian style, waiting for the class to begin, I felt the first burrito bubble seeking the easiest exit. Never again! Yup.
This was a huge step for me because I hadn’t engaged in any real exercise for a couple of years, unless you counted my frequent trips to the refrigerator and the bathroom.
My knowledge of Yoga was zero, and except for the mental visual I had of Gandhi sitting sedately in the Lotus position, I was clueless.
The entire concept sounded, well….boring. I like dancing around, shaking my giblets to hard driving music. In my mind the prospect of going to a Yoga class was the equivalent of going to exercise church.
This was an early evening class, so I was forced to eat my dinner on the road, woofing down a steak and bean burrito that my husband had lovingly prepared for me.
I met the girls in the parking lot so we could all walk in together.
The room was quite pleasant, decorated in an eastern style, with the slightest scent of bamboo lingering in the air. The floor was draped with yoga mats of various colors, like towels on the beach, and an exotic instrumental was being mysteriously piped in from somewhere….maybe heaven.
We found a corner of the room with space enough for us to spread our mats. An easy task for most people, but we fumbled and bumped into each other, giggling like fools and fitting in like Larry, Moe, and Curly.
The room was crowded with poker faced women all in various stages of stretching. I eyed Susan, and mouthed over to her: “We don’t belong here.” She intentionally ignored me while gracefully assuming the mad cow position. Traitor. Sitting nervously on my pink mat, with my chubby legs painfully crossed Indian style, waiting for the class to begin, I felt the first burrito bubble seeking the easiest exit. Never again! Yup.
