Yoga: A Story Of Jealousy

This used to be way too true in my life. I bought yoga pants with zest and wore them when I felt spunky, lazy, and for every school drop off from September through May. I never wore them to a yoga class. When I worked out at home, I traded yoga pants for shorty shorts that I had banned myself from wearing in public until I figured out how to treat the condition that had caused pubic hair to grow down my thigh. Yoga pants were always a part of my go-to ensemble. I would pair them with a loose fitting tank, some cheap flip flops, a beer stained hoodie or my Jesus tee shirt. I could take on the world. Or hide on my couch with a book and my 17th cup of coffee. The options were endless. Then I stopped running. I also stopped working out at home. Every pair of yoga pants I owned suddenly became two sizes too small and I was forced to consider buying sweatpants. The kind with the elastic ankle and a tie cord waistband. It was a low point, I'll admit. I had so many wonderful pairs of yoga pants, many that I had paid way too much for (I'm looking at you Athleta), and I wasn't going into sweats without a fight.

I went to a yoga class with my sister one month ago, and similar to the way you would stuff sausage into a casing, I stuffed my midsection/midlife crisis into my Athleta yoga pants and held my head high. The class was beyond my wildest dreams. The man who taught it looked to weigh as much as a third grader and the way he was able to fold forward, from a standing position, and lick his spine was really quite inspiring. I also enjoyed the moments when the extra skin from my belly gave itself over to gravity, my tank top inching it's way up and I spotted my mommy bagel. My prayer was that everyone else attending the class enjoyed those free carbs as well. I woke up the next day feeling as though I had been living in the stone age when people were pulled apart by their appendages and yes, it was awesome as it sounds. My yoga pants were going back, with or without me.

The next class was called Ashtung and after a Google search regarding the relaxing quality of this type of yoga, I was informed that it was great for athletes, marathon runners and Type A personalities with rock hard abs. I had almost made the list. When I crept in the door, I found the instructor to be the spitten image of what I had hoped I would look like when I grew up. She was very tall and very beautiful with long dark hair and bright red lips. She could lick her toes in a back bend and float into a perfectly straight head stand at a moments notice. Which is why I wanted to hate her. Then I realized, to my horror, that she was friendly and clearly not aware of how she could easily use her great looks to threaten and intimidate others. She must of missed that meeting. It was the best class I have ever taken and to top it off, this perfect human has a double first name. I wouldn't expect anything less from from you, Sarah Jane.