I’m off work on a medical leave. I’ve been told to do things that are good for me.
Yoga was recommended.
Since I’m an expert at following directions, I signed up for a class.
I haven’t yoga-ed for a few years, so I was a bit nervous until I learned it was a class for “mature” people.
I arrived early, and unrolled my mat to wait for the instructor–in my limited experience, they’re always lithe young women with meaningful tattoos and gorgeous, glowing skin.
There were a few other early birds, and I scoped out the competition–some leathery women and an old man in an ancient track suit with mad scientist hair.
I started to feel confident about keeping up with this group…until I saw track suit guy do some kind of advanced yogic handstand! He did several other, equally athletic poses.
I panicked. If this was what the seniors did to warm up, what would the actual class entail?
I was trying to figure out how I could gather up my things and slip out before the instructor arrived when track suit guy came over to me.
“Welcome to the class,” he said. “I’m Jan, the instructor.”
It was a good class, and Jan’s a strong teacher, but the most important lesson I learned had nothing to do with yoga.
I will not judge a book by its cover.