In which your author demonstrates his nasty childish streak. OK, one of them.
We walk into our yoga class tonight. Cleo, our regular teacher, isn't behind the desk as she usually is; instead, there's a sub. She seems nice enough, but it puts me in a tense "my weekly relaxation isn't going to be as relaxing as it's supposed to be i hate change i didn't really want to come tonight" sort of frame of mind.
We start. We meditate. Cleo doesn't have us meditate, but it's a nice change of pace, so I suppose it's OK. She wants us to what? We chant "om" three times. I'm officially nervous. I'm not categorically opposed to chanting "om" -- I did live in Eugene, after all -- but it makes me worried that she's going to be too "woo woo", as Miz Becky says.
We do some poses. A lot of downward dog, which is a pose I like, because it works all of the areas I need to work, but also one of the ones I'm worst at, because it works all of the areas I need to work.
We do dolphin pose, which is a lead-in to "half headless headstand", up against the wall. Not bad, I can sort of do that.
Then she asks us if we want to try "full headless headstand". Mysteriously, most of my classmates nod.
The phrase "with a sickening crunch" passes through my head.
She seems to linger forEVER in the poses that I'm struggling in, and to breeze right through the ones I'm good at.
We cool down. We do some hip openers.
We finish with shivasana, "corpse pose", also known as "naptime for adults".
I stare at the ceiling.
I settle into the floor, feeling all of my opened joints and stretched muscles.
I lighten the fuck up.