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Yoga, I love you

On Tuesday I arrived  for my first Yoga class—one carefully chosen from a class list of many unpronounceable Hindu words. I arrived a few minutes early, while the previous class was just finishing up. Over a dozen sweaty bodies lay deceased-looking in a room that felt like it was 150 degrees. Maybe, I thought, this Yoga’s not for me after all—it looks hard. I wanted relaxing.

The teacher welcomed us to Joint Therapy and directed me to choose a mat and blanket. One hour and fifteen minutes later I was most definitely relaxed. Joints are vastly under appreciated, you know. For how long can one ponder her ankle? Meditate on her hips? Or breathe into her shoulder? The answer is one hour and fifteen minutes. Each and every joint was acknowledged and, by the end of the session, commended for its selfless service.

I skimmed the list and signed up for Friday’s Restorative Yoga. It sounded safe. However, when I arrived my classmates—three of them—were warming up with back bends and unbelievably long stretches. One was even standing on her head. As the teacher started handing out props (bolsters and extra blankets) I asked if perhaps I was in the wrong class—she knew what I was capable of from Tuesday. She assured me I would be just fine. She was right. I nearly fell asleep in child’s pose.

It turns out most of the classes are suitable for beginners, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. I did not, for instance, sign up for Upside Down/Outside In: An Inversion Workshop.

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