drooling over yoga.

GEG-featured-imageLet me set the scene for you. I tiptoe into a yoga session with about a half-dozen other class-goers, all of them quiet and relaxed, meditating themselves into a yogaesque daze. The only space left to roll out my mat is near the front. Great. The front row is NEVER where I want to be. I’m not the most coordinated woman around, and I don’t need everyone else watching me lose my mojo in the dojo. But…it also happens to be the spot nearest the Kleenex box. Which I take as a sign, since I’m about 7-to-1 making it out of yoga class withOUT crying. (My instructor says the waterworks are totally normal. TOTALLY NORMAL.)

The room is long and narrow, with a hallway running parallel to it; two windows are cut into the wall between the room and the hallway to let in some light, lend some openness, whatever. Rolling out my mat, I decide I want to peer out into the hallway via the window and have a looksy because, as my 10yo later puts it, “You’re like a little kid.” So I lean forward…SMACK! into a pane of glass. All the class-goers gasp, startling out of their supposed meditative states when the sound of my forehead slamming into glass rings out like a gunshot. I continue to set up my area, avoiding all eye contact and confess, “Yeah. That was me. That was my head hitting the window…there.” Super-fun trying to explain that to a bunch of strangers. There is uncomfortable shifting around amongst the others. Another concerned instructor asks if I am okay. I say I’m fine, just blushing. When I joke that this will make a great Facebook status, the girl next to me snickers.

Then, as if that isn’t enough, somewhere amid all the posing, I drool on my mat. Not once. TWICE. (Possible head trauma?) And of course I followed through on the expected weepfest. It’s nice that they turn the lights down low, so as to conceal all the blushing and drooling and crying. Sometimes the instructor massages our scalps, ears and shoulders during class. That night I was the only one. Can’t imagine why. Afterwards, someone asked again if I was alright, and I said, trying to redirect the conversation with a compliment, “Those windows are SPARKLING CLEAN!” (Unlike my mat, by the way, which is now covered in saliva.)

I’m not worried. At the end of every class they all say “namaste” which translates: “I bow to you”. No matter if you’ve tried putting your head through a pane of glass, can’t keep your spit in, and use up all their tissues. Those yoginis love me. They have to. It’s what they do.

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