No Yogi

It should been a clue that things would be different when the wall of heat hit me as I walked into the room, new yoga mat tucked under my arm.  Apparently the class before Yoga Basics is Hot Yoga.

"Great," I thought. "This should be named 'Poses In Hell.'"

I dutifully set up my mat, got my blocks, optimistically threw a towel down over the mat (really, I hate spraying down the mat!) and waited quietly for class to begin.

The teacher, who is adorable, said, "Yeah, this is called Yoga Basics, but we have people who have been coming a while, so this will be pretty challenging."

"Then perhaps a new class name is in order??" I groused silently.  I grumbled to myself a bit then.  It's hot in here. This is gonna suck. I wanna go home and eat some of that pulled pork my crockpot is making for me.

Then I smiled at my grouchy self and said, again, totally in my head, "You're just nervous. It will be fine."

And it was.

No, it didn't fit the web site description.  Yes, I had to do a fair bit of adapting, and again sharing with the teacher that no, my joints don't line up, so yes, that is how my feet go, and sweating so much I began to worry about dehydration. I had to remove the towel from the mat about 10 minutes in because it was too slidey to get a firm grip, so I could see my own body fluid pooling in the grooves.

But once I gave myself permission to be new, to suck, to ask for help, to ACCEPT help, to make the necessary accommodations unashamed, I was able to just be in the moment, be grateful for the experience, smile at the people around me, and even marvel at the amount of dripping sweat my body can produce and yet survive.

I am no yogi, but I may become slightly addicted to this.