Thursday is yoga day.
Actually, it’s not just yoga, but a combination of tai chi, yoga and Pilates called Body Flow. But if I say Body Flow, as in “Thursday is Body Flow day”, it makes me think of those that refer to their period as Aunt Flow visiting. So I just call it yoga and call it a day.
This was me after yoga a couple of weeks ago.
I like yoga Thursdays for a number of reasons, and one of them is that I can dress comfortably. As in I don’t have to wear a restrictive sports bra and I can wear my fur-lined Sketcher mules that my husband says looks like I’m wearing slippers when I walk out of the house in them. I also get to wear my most favorite hoodie, that I got on clearance from the Gap last summer.
As an aside, last week, I was planking next to a guy I’ve seen in the daycare a few times and I realized that dude had a pretty clear view right down my shirt since we were head to head. After class, I ran into him in the daycare and he said to me:
“So, uh, was that you I was next to in class?”
I looked at him and said, dryly I hoped, “Yes, that was me.” What I didn’t say was, “I know and you know that you spent half the class looking down my shirt but we’re going to pretend you weren’t by having this banal chit-chat.”
But, I could be wrong.
Today, again next to the same dude (but this this time wearing a less-cleavag-y shirt, sorry friend), we had a substitute instructor teaching the class. A girl I’ve overheard the guys at the gym calling (and not very nicely) Ms. Venezuela. And, as hard as she tries, and as nice as she is, she’s just not very good at teaching the class. And it’s not her accent.
The whole time, I’m distracted by just how terrible she is and at the end, I’m so close to leaving before the 10 minutes or so of relaxation because I’m so frustrated by how the class went, that I’m anything but relaxed. But I stay, because those ten minutes of laying still (and not having a two year old climbing over me) with a clear head is quite frankly, my reward for the six days I work out.
It’s painful though, and after class I explode into the daycare where there are already a couple of other moms that are already picking up their kids and were also in class.
“She’s terrible,” one mom exclaims. “Part of its her accent but it got to the point where I gave up and just laid there.”
“I KNOW,” I burst out. “That was like really bad sex, where you’re just waiting for it to end.”
Both moms started to laugh, and I continued. “And the worst part was the end. It’s like you want to leave but you think it’d be rude if you do so you stay and cuddle even though you’d really rather not.”
They laughed again, as we busied ourselves collecting our kids, putting on coats and hats, and what I didn’t add was that unlike bad sex, when you can take care of your frustrations yourself if you need to, with really bad yoga, there’s not a similar release. With bad yoga, you stay frustrated.
Which I was and which I did, for the rest of the day. Thanks for nothing, Ms. Venezuela.
And that’s Thursday’s yoga.