I have a love/hate relationship with yoga.
The “hate” stems from the fact that my girls are 34DDs and yoga clothes are not designed for large-breasted women, regardless of what the nice sales woman at the yoga clothing store says. My breasts become unruly during yoga, which leads to an issue with breathing, particularly when in the Downward Facing Dog position. After initially smacking my face, they calm down only to bury my nose in my own cleavage, leading to suffocation.
Historically, the “love” has been in part about how good I feel after yoga and in part about my perception of what yoga can do for my body. I say “perception” because I’m a little on the heavy side and although I carry it like nobody’s business, there’s usually a skinny, bendy thing on the yoga mat next to me who inspires illusions of a thinner, more flexible me. This hasn’t occurred.
That said, I’ve one upped that expectation by meeting my inner child in the yoga studio.
It happened when I took a community class. The community aspect means free, lots of incense, candle light, groove music, poor college kids crammed in, a few throw-back hippies with copper bracelets on, and couple of token moms and seniors wishing they had chosen the 6am class.
Something was off with me that day. I couldn’t say what exactly, but when I saw my hippie yoga instructor, to my surprise, I kinda wanted to hug him. Feeling uncharacteristically warm and fuzzy toward a stranger, I wanted to bolt. But surrounded by all the yogis, my ego said stay.
The vulnerability went out the window and was replaced by disgust and irritation when somebody farted about 10 minutes into the class. I realize it’s un-cool among the yogis to lob harsh judgments at the release of toxins in any form, especially because it’s bound to happen to you or someone you love, but I’ve got issues with bathroom-type things that I have no desire to resolve in therapy. In fact, even with a 3 year-old in my life I haven’t really loosened up about it, so I prefer that people release their gas on their own time and in their own, private space that is located far away from me.
But, I digress.
Finding my focus, I was able to hit a Zen place and became completely relaxed by the end of the class. Laying face-up on the mat, with my eyes shut, I heard a guitar. Hippie was strumming a sweet, soft tune while we collectively lay silent and that’s when it happened.
Initially, I thought of Nugget, giving myself a “bad mama” talk because I hadn’t signed her up for yoga, which I think she would love. We do a couple of positions at home, but she may appreciate the real deal. Then I began to think about her interests, and one thing led to the next. Who would she become as she grows older? What will she look like? How will her voice sound? Already smart, will she be athletic, artsy, a mix? Then suddenly, Nugget morphed into me. A 7 or 8 year-old me; my inner child.
She looked a little like this: