I’ve always enjoyed yoga, but in the past 3 weeks, I’ve found a new motivation to roll my mat out and namaste my butt to the floor. His name is Reagan.
Reagan might be the perfect man. He’s always like, “Hey, you can do this pose…or not. Listen to your body. Do whatever you need to do and it will be good. If you don’t want to do the pose, you can just lay there and listen to your heart. Its your practice. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.”
Can you see why I dig this guy!? I mean, he’s so not judgy!
Also, he’s good looking. Like really good looking. I think. Even though I’ve only seen him from a distance in a dimly lit room, I can tell he’s handsome. Compassionate brown eyes, sensitive brown hair and an expressive mouth. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s my soul mate.
After my first class with Reagan, I was so high on Zen, sweat and pheromones, I vowed to go to yoga every Wednesday.
So far, I’ve made good on my vow. I’ve gone to yoga class every Wednesday for the past 3 weeks.
As I was walking to my second class, I caught wind of a terrible smell. It was heavy in the air and filling my nostrils with an undeniably familiar stench. Ugh. It was My Feet!
My feet smelled so bad, they were offending my olfactory system from nearly 5’10” away! I couldn’t turn back though, I was halfway to the studio and running late for class, plus I had vowed to go. I put my mat down in the second row and hoped Reagan kept a solid 6′ radius. As long as he didn’t get too close, I felt the smell could pass as a decaying squirrel in the studio walls.
As class went on, I focused so intently on my practice that I had nearly forgotten all about my embarrassing odor situation. I thought I was in the clear as we sank into our final Shavasana. I was wrong.
I felt Reagan’s uncannily soft hands on my ankles. He was slightly adjusting my corpse pose, gently pushing my ankles down into the mat. Every muscle in my body instantaneously contracted as the vision of Reagan leaning over my putrid un-pedicured, blistered, calloused feet filled my head. I felt a little piece of me die. I think that dead little piece of me was called “my last bit of hope for my own happily ever after.”
This past Wednesday, I knew I had some serious prep work to do before my practice.
I painted my toenails pink. I scrubbed my feet with grapefruit soap til they were glowing, I walked all the way to the gym in my flip-flops to let them air out, and right before class started, I slathered my shins and feet with a lightly perfumed lotion.
I was out of clean sports bras, so I donned my pink push-up bra, it looked fantastic with my tank top.
In my last glance in the locker room mirror, I adjusted my hair to look effortlessly, naturally perfect in a slightly sloppy pony tail. You girls know exactly what I’m talking about.
I skipped into class with my chest out and head up. Confident. Ready.
I smiled and tossed my head to the front of the studio to say hello to Reagan, when I caught sight of something that made me stop dead in my tracts. Something that made my confident smile fall into a frown of disbelief. The substitute yogi, Christine.
She said she would be teaching Reagan’s class.
I immediately pictured Reagan out with his girlfriend. She’d be blonde and petite probably really good at yoga. He’d be generously treating her to a vegan restaurant, not judging her, and they would look lovingly at one another in the candlelight.
Christine announced again that she was teaching Reagan’s class because he was home sick with a bad head cold, but he should be returning the following week.
I told myself to stop being so freaking neurotic. He was sick.
Immediately, my train of thought took me on the high-speed rail back to crazy: I bet he called in sick so he could take his girlfriend out to that imaginary vegan restaurant.
Class was starting, so I stared at my nicely painted toes and tried to focus on making my downward facing dog something a little more impressive.
Christine was a great yoga instructor, but I can’t wait to see Reagan next week.
And if it turns out the trollop in the front row who wears short bike shortsthat show off all her goodies and then some when she does her forward fold is more Reagan’s type, well, I raise my glass of Zinfandel and wish them the best.