I have always supported the fact that it is healthy for the soul to be out of ones comfort zone…such as my very conservative Anglican in-laws who had to sit through a contemporary Lutheran praise service while my boys sang last Sunday…it’s just good to squirm sometimes.
Besides my in-laws, I get great enjoyment from watching my husband when he’s “outside of the box”. I have been nagging him for quite some time to try a yoga class. He plays competitive old man soccer on Sunday nights, so it’s good for him to stretch. Besides, yoga can be a soul bath, too. Again, don’t we all need one of those once in awhile…but if you know him, let’s just agree…he needs some yoga.
Comfort zones aplenty were demolished last Saturday when my short, angry, furry husband invaded Yoga Flow. (On a side note, we don’t belong to the Y anymore. As much as I love the concept of the Y and miss my Airport Road friends, the new gym has classes I can get to (no 30 minute wait to get a bike…you hear that Jenny? :)). We got a deal – costs less than the Y as a result, but no one wears tattered t-shirts to the new gym, in fact, no one wears generic gym clothes. It’s a fancy pants kind of place, yet of course bucking against the establishment, my short, angry, furry husband delights in wearing well aged threads.
This is the kind of yoga class I’m talking about: I have been religiously taking a Monday morning yoga class next to my friend Kelly who is one of those bendy-flexi persons who can hold her poses for 6 minutes. I purposely Namaste next to her so I can follow her lead- I need someone to emulate, which she probably doesn’t want me to declare in public forum. I veer left when everyone else is headed right. I up-dog when everyone is down-dogging. There are times when I can’t look at her, or I will laugh and we will be banished from class. You know exactly what I mean. Like when someone has the toots or is om-ing so loud the glass is chattering? Well, last Monday, I had a bloody lip from trying to suppress my hysteria. It was the 2nd time the instructor said, “Shine your nipples to the clock!” Oh, dear. Say it outloud three times and keep a straight face. I couldn’t look at Kelly and I was thanking the gods that my short, angry, furry husband was not in attendance.
So into this idyllic land strolled me and my man last Saturday – and as luck would have it he was the only male in the class. We were late – not crazy late – and so we made an entrance of sorts. It was a 90 min class, and 15 minutes in I looked over to see the instructor drop an extra towel off to help the bald hubby dab the sweat. Thirty minutes in during downhill skier he leans over and asks, “how do you keep from farting during this one?” – not all that quietly.
So did anyone get freaked out? Hardly – the short, angry, furry man actually liked it, the instructor loved him (gave him a mid yoga back rub) and he received waaay too much attention as the class wrapped up. I needed him centered, not flattered, ladies!! But more importantly, it was the Saturday class, not the shining nipples class…because I am pretty sure the “I heart Hot Mom’s t-shirt” would be in shreds on the floor and he’d be shining away….