I started going to yoga because I wanted to get rid of my muffin top. Everyone else looked so damn good in their skinny jeans, and I wanted that. But I was out of shape. And I loved cupcakes. So I put on the baggy gray sweatpants I often referred to as my "fat pants," drove to the tiny yoga studio near my home and took one of those $5 community classes taught by the studio's teacher trainees.
The hour and 15 minutes passed slowly. I couldn't touch my toes. I thought the teacher's casual invitation to pop up into "crow pose" was ludicrous. But when I slipped into my flip-flops at the end of class, I knew I'd be back. What the hell, I thought to myself. At least it's not Zumba.
It wasn't long before I could touch my toes. Teachers praised me for my "pigeon," flat and low to the ground, and exclaimed over my "crescent lunge." I loved that I could feel myself getting more flexible. And stronger! I started pulling off poses that previously would have landed me flat on my face. I was hooked. That feeling—of accomplishing something that had once upon a time seemed impossible—was exhilarating. I started attending four to six classes a week.
Aside from the thrill I got from feeling like She-Ra, Princess of Power, it was just good to get out of the house. As a full-time freelancer, I often get lonely working from home. I have three cats, but our conversations tend to be one-sided. I have Twitter, but I've heard that doesn't count. My husband, Michael, doesn't arrive home from work until late in the evening. When he eventually walked through the door, I'd invariably try to share ALL THE THINGS about my work day, all at once. But it wasn't really fair to rely on him as my sole social outlet.
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