I recently began taking yoga classes. This is long overdue since I’ve been a proud wearer of yoga pants for more than a year now. But believe it or not until three weeks ago, I had never actually participated in a yoga class. I like to wait until trends are good and established before participating in them. Which is why you won’t see me in a Zumba class until at least 2017.
My first yoga class was the Wednesday before Christmas. The stress of the holiday season was at its peak. I had two more very busy days of work before a week of vacation. I had presents waiting to be wrapped. Groceries to be purchased. Laundry to be done and a house to clean.
And then the class started and my yoga instructor began to do her thing.
Sixty minutes later, I walked out of that room completely relaxed and refreshed and ready to conquer my holiday to-do list. Later that day, my kids’ argument over who got to sit where at the table was no match for my relaxed state. After just one class, I was hooked.
Most classes run late. She’s not the type to keep to a tight schedule. Probably because it’s more important to listen to what our bodies are telling us than to watching the clock on the wall. or something like that. You can leave early if you need to, but you’ll miss the relaxation part or, as I like to call it, mini-nap time.
I attend class with a friend and the two of us enjoy fantasizing about our yoga instructor’s life outside of class. Is she always that calm and relaxed in her real life? Does she have kids? How does she react when her kids misbehave? What if she’s actually this completely stressed out person and teaching yoga is just “another thing” on her plate?
That’s when I decided we could never be friends: my yoga instructor and I. It would never work. I don’t want to know about the days when she’s overwhelmed. I don’t want to hear about her bad day. I want to live in a world where I believe that she lives her entire life the way she lives it in yoga class. I want to imagine her always like that.