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 kind 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.