Until last night at 8:15 pm CST, I was a hot yoga virgin. And while I didn’t have the same remorse I did after my first sexual experience, it was every bit as awkward.
In my defense, there is nothing quite as twisted as a yoga instructor starting class by spearing your left ankle with a two minute tree pose. I was a aging oak in the middle of a tornado. Bending sideways and tripping over its own roots.
I am trying to let go of judging yoga teachers, but I’ve had a hard time ever since my last instructor thought he would shit-can the ocean soundtrack for his falsetto. We’re literally in proud warrior and he is belting out Sinatra. A little Madonna with your sun salutation? And for an encore, let me present Kenny Chesney as you slither into child’s pose.
I was a mess and walked away from the quest for a quiet mind and peaceful heart. Until last night.
I survived the premature tree pose and (considering I am a tight-assed-hamstring kinda guy) settled into a decent groove. The mirror reflected my weakness as I spied the room full of women owning their poses. I shrugged off vertigo and fought through half moon. Sweat blurred my vision and the heat vent dried tears before they moistened my cheeks. But, like they tell you, I stayed with the pose.
I imagined relaxing as I pierced the rough waves off the beach at Kona. The sun shined as I soaked in the scenic 112 miles of rolling hills in Lake Placid. And I hummed along in meditation for a 26.2 mile run through the University of Wisconsin campus. I am, after all, an Ironman virgin as well.