If I’m not able to put my feet behind my head by Memorial Day, I’m demanding a refund from my yoga instructor.
I took my first real yoga class last night, and after an hour and 45 minutes of downward dog, happy baby, and warrior two poses, I walked out of the River West studio feeling like I was 6 inches taller and made of Jello.
I had my doubts, however. Going into this super-calm, incense-tinged studio immediately made me tense.
I was greeted by this annoyingly mellow receptionist who spoke to me in near whispers. I filled out my paperwork, handed over my dough and sat next to an open window to wait for my class.
As the minutes ticked by, I have to tell you, I can’t remember the last time I felt more uptight.
Chanting could be heard from the classroom finishing up. I started to get creeped out. Barefoot Gwyneth Paltrow wannabes began filing in wearing cute yoga outfits and clutching Prada yoga mats. I looked down at my 12-year-old Georgetown T-shirt and started to panic. Shit. This was supposed to be a beginners class!
I ran over to the desk.
Captain Spastic: Thisisthebeginnersclassright? IdonthaveamatcanIborrowamat?WheredoIgoagain?
Moon Unit: Yes, this is the beginner's class. It will start soon and you’ll find everything you need along the back of the wall. Just through that door.
I felt a little better and did I ever need a yoga class after all that.