Put my foot where, exactly?
I am now taking the kind of yoga class my younger self would have considered not efficient enough (sure, relaxation, but no “real” workout), a class that I would have deemed vaguely for pussies and the elderly. Clearly I am one or the other or both. It’s a gentle stretch class, in which we do, well, gentle stretches.
And you know what? I still managed to pull something incredibly painful in the arch of my foot. Probably karma for judging people for taking what I deemed in my 20s to be yoga for the weak.
I didn’t start out being a a yoga bully. Like an idealistic law student who vows to be a Legal Aid attorney but winds up a soulless corporate drone, I was in it for the right reasons. Before I had kids, I was a big yogahead. Not, like, learning Sanskrit and doing that little prayer-hands namaste bow when greeting people at the coffee shop big, but I loved it and practiced a few times a week. I was one of those people for whom yoga was truly transformative—it made me rethink my approach to the world and myself:  Yoga class was the first place I was told that it was OK to be wherever I was that day, instead of pushing my body and my standards beyond what felt comfortable for no good reason. (more…)
