Three #2
After we hang up, I don’t move right away.
I drop my phone and put my head in my hands.
If Lucy were still here, everything would be different.
I would be different. Lucy was a self-described shut-in and I made it my mission to help her “get out there,” even when I didn’t really want to either.
But I’ve found that when I’m focused on other people—my family, Lucy, my boss—I have less time to be stuck with my own thoughts.
When I was being Lucy’s hype girl, pushing her to go after her now fiancé, I poured all my energy into being there for her.
When I lived at home, I was always aware of what my family needed.
If Mom was taking Nicky to the doctor, that meant she wouldn’t have time to fold the towels or take something out for dinner.
I acted before I was told. I anticipated people’s needs. That’s what I’m good at.
But now, I don’t have to force Lucy to go out for dinner, so I usually get take-out. I feel less and less motivated to fight the “sweatpants and stay home” lifestyle that Lucy embraced, so that is what I do.
After I finish my breakfast, I pull out my yoga notebook and start to plan tonight’s class. I started teaching at a studio on Columbus Avenue last year, after years of trying to find a studio that worked for me.
Before trying yoga for the first time in college, I was one of those people who thought it wasn’t that hard.
I took my first class in my sophomore year.
Ten minutes into the class, I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
I was a flailing mess of arms and legs and bumped into the girl next to me three times.
She was understanding the first two times.
By the third, she looked like she wanted to kill me.
But the next week, I went back. And again the week after that. Even though I made an absolute fool out of myself, I loved it. I loved how the instructor’s words moved in rhythm with the movements. I loved the structure—warm up, sun salutations, flow, savasana. It was comforting.
I’m still not the best yogi I’ve ever seen.
But the mat has become a place where I can commit to failure.
I can fall over and laugh at myself. I can make mistakes in my instruction, confuse my right and left, and feel completely comfortable.
I mainly teach beginner classes. Instructing a group of people who don’t expect me to be perfect feels a lot like talking to my brother.
I can be my most authentic self, and have fun. Which I don’t do all that often.
I break my paper up into three sections and plan out my sun salutations and flow.
I’ve found that yoga can get monotonous after a while—plank, upward-facing dog, downward-facing dog, repeat, repeat—so I do some funky sun sals that people don’t expect.
I like to get the heart rate up, but also allow for moments of moving meditation.
Those are my favorite parts of yoga, when everyone’s eyes are closed, and we’re breathing in tandem. It’s powerful.
I put my pen down and put one hand on my heart and one on my belly.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I focus on taking a long, slow inhale, feeling my lungs expand.
I fall into meditation mode, as if I was teaching.
I picture myself in front of the class and try to imagine what moves would make the most sense to end the practice.
And then I jump nearly two feet off of my chair at the sound of screaming music.
My gaze travels upward, anger rising in me. The jerk is blasting Metallica at full volume. I don’t know what this guy’s problem is, but I intend to find out.
*
My yoga students find me lying flat on my back when they enter the studio. Before I teach a class, I need that moment to ground myself. To have a moment of peace where I’m not worrying about a million and one things I have to do. I’m simply still.
I never really understood what the word “grounded” meant until I started studying yoga.
As a kid, I was always obsessed with the sky.
I loved being the one to take Meatball out at night, because I wanted to be able to stand and stare at the sky for as long as I wanted without any judgment.
It made me feel small, but I loved being reminded that there was a whole universe out there.
In the grand scheme of things, I was insignificant, so why should I care what anyone else thought about me?
As I got older, though, I learned how much I loved to be on the ground.
I would always lay on the floor in our living room, and I figured it was because I wanted to be close to Meatball—which was true—but there was a comfort in being low, close to the earth.
As I studied more yoga practices and learned the importance of savasana—the practice of being still, like a corpse, at the end of a practice—I realized that even though I loved the stars, it was just as important to connect to the ground beneath me as well.
I have some soft rock music playing in the background of the studio as the students come in.
The owner, Tanya, likes us to call the people taking the class “students,” and also says we should address them as “friends” to “make the space seem more welcoming.” I try, I really do.
But I always end up reverting back to “people” or “you guys.” I think it’s a Jersey thing.
“Welcome, friends,” I say, trying not to visibly cringe. I straighten my mic on my ear and fiddle with the knot I’ve made on the back of my shirt. “Take a seat on the mat and we’ll meet in hero’s pose or easy seat to start.”
I see the last spots fill in and I signal to Tanya to start my playlist on the speakers.
The music I play during class usually surprises people.
I’m not into the meditative, chanting vibe.
I play contemporary songs. I like the mood of the music to be rhythmic and sexy.
That’s the kind of class I would like to take.
And I figure if I structure the class how I would like it, maybe other people like me would like it too.
The group is all women across a range of different ages, and many of them are frequent members.
I hear a lot from my students that they like my classes because I am funny and make yoga easy to understand, so I guess that’s why they keep coming back.
I own that, because for the next thirty minutes, the mat is my sanctuary, and I want to make it theirs, too.
I run the class through a series of sun salutations—downward-facing dog to plank, chaturanga, back up to plank, child’s pose to upward-facing dog.
I only fall twice, both times on half-moon pose because balance is not my strong suit.
The crowd laughs just as they did when I forgot a vinyasa, and because they were falling with me.
I leave feeling refreshed, ready to have a nice evening to myself—or do battle with my new neighbor, whichever happens to come first.