As a kid, I peripherally understood yoga to be fitness for soccer moms.
In high school, I wanted to be a hippie, and when a super crunchy friend invited me to a yoga class with her, I jumped on it enthusiastically. We went to a flow class at the YMCA in Hendersonville. I stumbled through it, confused by the foreign concept of a Sun Salutation and wondering what the heck a Warrior 2 was.
At the end of class, we did Legs Up the Wall for maybe ten minutes. My legs and feet felt like they’d caught fire, and I wanted to crawl out of my skin—especially when the guest musician came around and blew his didgeridoo over my chest, and the smell of hot, stinky breath washed over my face. I absolutely hated it. I swore I’d never do that crazy yoga stuff again.
Thank goodness, I didn’t keep that promise!
