yoga…or yoga pants

So I’m trying something new..at the urging of my friend. One of my best divorced friends. That’s what single divorced women end up doing. Stuff together so you’re not alone. She came up with the idea of enrolling in a beginners Yoga class. New Year New You crap we fall for every year. She’s the one always searching for terrific things we could be doing..that neither of us will want to do in the end. We will be to tired..broke..or lazy. But she seems to enjoy this ‘let’s try this..’ game. And I start to feel like an asshole for always saying no. So how bad can Yoga be? I mean one Pro right off the bat is it gives my a legitimate reason to own my Yoga pants. Con- no shoes.. But anyway- she registered us online and I prepared myself mentally for Yoga 101. (Knowing full well that in reality on the first  night of said Yoga I wouldn’t want to go. I would be hoping for a sick kid..or sudden diarrhea..) But the first night came with no crisis in sight. I drug my feet..waited for her to back out..but nothing. So off to Yoga we go. Sigh.

We arrived at the ‘studio’ (aka strip mall with shitty parking) and paid $48 for our 4 classes. We were late (my fault of course) and were forced to parade in front of a roomful of women and 2 token men (1 old guy who’s pants are to short and 1 guy with his Asian girlfriend. Has anyone else noticed how cool and beautiful Asian girlfriends are? Like us regular middle aged divorced women don’t have enough competition) to the front of the room. Not where you want to sit in beginning Yoga. I am right in front of a statue of some weird Chinese Elephant thing. I can’t really see the teacher.. But everyone can see me. And my ass. There are mats and pillows..and blocks and straps. Accessories. Instructions. Our instructor is a lovely woman with a flowery top and pleasant reassuring voice. I don’t hear her name. But her assistants name is Luna. I zone right in on that interesting tidbit. Because of course if someone names you Luna you will work in the Yoga industry. It’s destiny.

Yoga is supposed to be relaxing. Enlightening. Exercise. You still your mind and learn self…something. I know right away I’m out of my league. I spy on the people around me instead of listening to my breathing. I remember I don’t like most people’s naked feet to be near me. Ever. My pants feel tight. I forgot my hair tie. My favorite part by far is when we just lay on our mat with the lights dimmed. My second favorite part is the end. I do find I am good at the child’s pose. My hips are not flexible (probably due to the lack of sex in my life..or maybe because I’m over 40. Or is that redundant?) It becomes evident that I really need to pee. But disturbing class seems a bad idea. I don’t think Luna would like it. I focus on the elephant and wish I could see the clock.

I mean there are obviously 2 types of women. Women who like Yoga..and women who like Yoga pants. I think it’s obvious which one I am. (However–side note–I do have a great idea about Yoga classes that start with everyone drinking a big glass of wine. WINE YOGA. My idea. Called it.) When I was in counseling during my divorce a few years ago my therapist recommended I try Yoga. I went once and cried through the entire class. Being quiet with yourself during absolute heartbreaking misery not a good idea. Especially in dim lighting with incense burning. *Consider yourself warned.*

But wearing the pants. That’s something I’m good at….