Go big or go home

The first adventure continues

This is totally what it looks like when I do yoga. Totally. (Photo credit: Flickr | ZenNomad)

Continuing on my first great adventure of 2016, I decided to do yoga in public. And not just anywhere in public, but in Grosse Pointe - land of the uber-thin, nimble, old school monied, hangry soccer mom.

As Jillian, therapist to the stars, said when I later told her, “Go big or go home.”

Truth be told, I choose Grosse Pointe because my step-daughter works at a yoga studio there and was subbing for the regular yogi the night I decided to make my grand yoga debut. It wasn’t so much a matter of “go big or go home” as it was safety in the numbers, but let’s not let facts get in the way of a good story.

I convinced my friend, M., to go with me to the class. Again, safety in numbers. Also, he makes me feel better because he was as equally as concerned about the very most important elements of yoga class… what one wears.

In all honesty, the other students weren’t very hangry-looking at all. (It was a candle light class, so maybe the soft glow hid their furrowed brows.) There was a teeny pre-teen child in attendance with her older sister who  did not yet have the burden of adulting to bunch up her ligaments, so she was super bendy and showed everybody up and I hate her. And there was a woman with *gasp* black socks (probably also a Detroiter) who made me feel better about my capital F Funky Feet. And then there was M. next to me.

“No judging if I fart,” I warned him as my girl started the class.

Within minutes of beginning the class it was very apparent to me that yoga with a Tiny Tummy is drastically different than yoga with a 305 pound body. (Shocking, I know.) I don’t know that words can properly describe the feeling of being so afraid of what your body can’t do only to find that it can do it without effort. And, to top it off, is doing so in response to direction being given by your daughter - always your student, but now your teacher.

The experience was absolutely surreal. 

I spent the entire class cycling between overwhelming pride, silent tears of joy and silent giggles. Silent being the operative word here because one simply does not make a noise in a yoga studio lest they suffer the judgement of the nimble, future-hangry, super-bendy pre-teen across from you who can somehow hold downward dog while kicking one leg up in the air for, like, 30 minutes straight.

That last part might be a slight exaggeration.

The girl had us rest our legs on the wall for the final pose, savasana, as she walked us through a final guided meditation of healing white light traveling down our legs, up through our core, out our crown and into the world. She then walked around to each student, one by one, and placed her hands on our shoulders to breathe with us. I was struck by how firm her touch was. This child who literally tiptoes through my house and has a touch so light that cupboard doors are never quite shut, grounded me completely with her confidence. 

I lay thee - elated, proud, at peace and SO full of gratitude. Breathing, smiling, breathing, smiling…

“Roll over onto your side,” she whispered to the class as she shut off the music.

And I did…

And I farted...

Loudly. 

I laid on my side, curled in a fetal position, shaking from the laughter that was welling up in the Tiny Tummy.

And so ended the first great adventure of 2016