It's Fun to Stay at the Y..M…C..A… Sing it with me, now!

Well, life’s full of little surprises, ain’t it? In the last year or so, I’ve more fully embraced my inner love child. I’ve gradually started weeding out my nondescript wardrobe and replacing it with one that better reflects the “inner me.” Soft suedy fabrics, sheer flowy pastels and crocheted shawls are gradually taking the place of my previous bland vanilla fashion choices.

I took ballet for years as a teen, and even now I’m remarkably flexible for a thirtysomething with two kids. I dig meditation, nature sounds and candles. So one would think that given the chance to attend a real yoga class, with an actual instructor, as opposed to a yoga video, I would not completely suck at it.

Last week, I attended my first two real yoga classes at the Y. How do you define “embarrassing”? Try being in a class with 15 other women, most of whom are older and more…um…zaftig than you, and who is the only person wobbling in tree pose like a two-minute postnatal colt? You guessed it–That Darn Kat.

On the other hand, I was able to get deeper into most of the non-balance-challenging poses than the skinny, concave-stomached teen behind me. But my balance stinks in a serious way. And who could imagine BREATHING would be that hard? It seems like such a simple, basic thing. I’ve been doing it roughly since I was born with no major breaks. And yet, apparently doing it all wrong. The story of my life…

Of course, if my granny were to call me and ask me what I was doing, and I were to reply “I’m practicing breathing,” well, I hate to think what kind of remarks that would prompt.

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