Fear and Yoga, A Memoir

I'm afraid to go to yoga again.

Let me explain. First of all, I am not flexible. I was once, so flexible that I could bend my knees and put my feet up behind my head. I could lift a leg entirely up over my shoulder. I once slipped on our patio AstroTurf as a child and fell after completing one of my showy, bendy moves. That bruise was HUGE! It's like a fishing story of flexibility...But those days are behind us now and I am not flexible.

I have begun the process of stretching my body out all over again, only to discover several dozen muscles that are angry at being disturbed from their hibernation of naps and snacks and booze and don't want anything to do with the lunges, crunches, squats, plies and other torture measures I am inflicting. Too bad. It's happening anyways.

Then I get the great idea. You know the one. The "Hey, I went to yoga a few times, I should do that again" thought. Put that away. That thought is a little ahead of itself. It is immature and young and forgetful and can't seem to remember that the room is one big mirror from which you can see your 'form', IE your craptastic biscuit body shoved into workout wear, disheveled Afro and graceless moves. That room is full of lithe, graceful, ethereal beauties, all descendant from ancient  ballerina genes with corn silk hair in perfect ponytails whose feet never come off the mat with a weird 
plastic-y farting sound. Never.

So I sit reading Groupon and Living Social deals about yoga classes and think "Hmm......well?......nope". And that is honestly probably for the best. We are just not at that stage yet. We need to keep stretching. Then maybe graduate to all out running instead of throwing ourselves forward into the air in front of us, gasping like a fire victim after only a block. Then we can be seen in public with women in tight pants and lovely hair. Then and only then. Maybe.