This will never happen to my body, but hey.
I want to like yoga. I do. It’s just that I hate it. All the indecipherable pose names that all sound like Hakuna Matata to me. The reinforced knowledge that balance and I aren’t friends. The pain, let’s be honest.
So the other day, I ran into a pal at the market, and she raved about her yoga class. “I kind of hate yoga,” I admitted.
“So did I!” she exclaimed. “But this class is different. And they take walk-ins.”
Thus, armed with the Princess who is game for these kinds of excursions, I went. And it was different.
The instructor was John, a hot veteran with tattoos. Not that I was looking or anything.
The room was mostly dark, so no one would be able to witness my lack of flexibility.
John talked through the whole class, drowning out the sound of my grunting.
It was not painfully hard.
At the end of the class, John played a song. “This is an emotional song,” he said. “If you cry, that’s okay. Enjoy your tears.”
The Princess and I smirked at each other. Cry, right. We weren’t that into yoga. Please. We’re Yankees. We’re stoic. Plus, the song had significant kettle drumming, and Princess and I share an inside joke about kettle drums makes us wheeze with laughter. There would be no crying.
Thirty seconds later, tears dripping into my hair, I reached for Princess’s hand, grateful that she was home, that she loved her mommy enough to sacrifice an hour, that she still is a remarkably affectionate child at the age of 19. Happy to be a mother to my two wonderful, kind, responsible kids. And a little nostalgic, too, because times with the Princess are rarer now that she’s in college, and I just adore her so much.
“Are you crying?” she whispered.
“Happy tears,” I said. “Very happy.”
So I guess I’ll go back to yoga class! You never know. I might be Hakuna-Matatting with the best of them one of these days.
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