Call it a mid-life crisis. Or call it another day. I'm ready to make some major changes,Chickens. I watched "What the Bleep Do We Know?" at PC last week, and while Marlee Matlin deserves to have her SAG card revoked, it was an extremely thought-provoking movie, which was the whole point--that what we think, we create. Anyway, for me, big change requires small steps, so I signed my seventeen-year-old daughter George and myself up for a private yoga lesson (You didn't think I was going by myself, did you?). We met Cindy, the Yoga Bear, at her studio this afternoon, where I could learn the basics in safety and isolation before facing a roomful of graceful Kundalingus Barbies in a regular class. I knew George wouldn't laugh at me, because her prom is next week and she doesn't have her shoes yet. The studio, in a little cottage off the historic square in Marietta, was exactly as you'd expect: futon furniture, crystals, dreamcatchers, one of those paintings of a waterfall with no source, and Enya oozing from the walls. It was all very zencere, but I had a hard time "centering" and "breathing" as I was told to do, because I was surrounded by mirrors reflecting not only my ass, but also my bad haircut. In one mirror it looked like a mullet, and in the other more like a pelt. My hair, that is. The ass looked like your grandma's.
I stuck it out the full hour and a half, though. Small steps.
1 comment:
The first yoga class I took was at Callanwolde. The only male student in the room decided to sit directly behind me. So during one of those particularly humiliating poses where your shoulders and cheek lay flat to the floor, your back is arched, knees bent, and ass waaaaayyyyy up in the air, I was painfully aware of the view the young man behind me had OF my behind.
Oooftah.
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