Yesterday, for the first time in over 6 years—I went to yoga. This wouldn't be out of the ordinary as many folks my age have become lapsed athletes that are often now lapped when they once again attempt to get back on the fitness track—except for the fact that I live in Boulder. And Boulder is a town where you can hire a fitness trainer to get your little rug-rat crawling faster by instilling the finer points of drafting at an early age.
After my recent softball outing, I had a few doubts about yoga. Part reasonable terror and part ridiculous terror based on an incompetent Bally's instructor years ago that pushed me way too far into a pose. So, as I headed out the door the last words from my roommate the ski coach were "Don't get stuck, and if you do get stuck and it looks like the fire department has to drop by and use the Jaws of Life…have LeeAnn call me first, that would be some great shit."
Needless to say, I'm not too sore and I'm excited to go back. I'm also standing a little taller, sitting a little straighter at my desk. But I think it has nothing to do with stretching and 100% to do with the fact that I didn't get stuck. I suppose to the majority of the folks functioning in proper Boulder-mind set that means I didn't go far enough—but there's always next week. Booyaa!
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