Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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Sam was a fucking nightmare. And he was probably going to cost me my second job today.
Margie humored me about guys whose egos directed their practice, but I had no firsthand experience. A newfound appreciation for my therapy class's humility swelled during the meditation silence.
For fifty minutes, Sam was distracting, silently argumentative, and defiant. His stubbornness could have torn his rotator and scapula. The most painful part to witness was the asshole smirking through his pain. Was he always an idiot or showed it off when I was around?
Although I had never encountered a cocky ego in my class, I fought it with my best efforts. He brought out the worst instructor in me. I pushed higher-level balance poses. Half my class couldn't touch their toes, forget while standing on one leg. It was Beginner Flow. They would've enjoyed my and Sam's petty stubborn showdown had they not gasped for breath.
That's why I showed options for restrictions or limitations. And Sam ignored every fucking one.
Introducing crow pose was a test, baiting his ego, and he fucking failed. His shoulder was in no shape to support his weight. That's why he grimaced through the pose and fell on his face. The fact I enjoyed it? Completely unprofessional.
And Delores? Poor Delores suffered from IBS, giving her gas, bloating, and constipation challenges. Was I happy to help offer her some relief? Of course. Did I need to throw in every possible gas-relieving twist and tummy-pressure pose housed in my yoga brain for Sam's detriment? Yep, I was petty as fuck.
Relaxation usually took over me by the end of class. Not tonight. After Sam's dangerous display of asshattery, my muscles wrenched tighter than during traffic. My shoulders curled and crept up to my ears. Holding my journal in all ten fingers, the words I normally drew inspiration from blurred into nothingness.
At one point, I palmed my heated face, a rarity during meditation. Spilling over the edges of his mat, Sam's eyes fluttered, and his fingers twitched. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, the lavender face cloth I offered discarded to the side.
He was not relaxing. Big surprise. An occasional cough interrupted the 'music' I selected. Instead of my go-to soothing relaxation cues and soft piano music, at the expense of the entire class, I sat in silence and issued one last punishment for Sam.
Seven uninterrupted minutes of birds chirping and babbling brooks should do it. Mother Nature's sounds were soothing, but the gurgling water was a recipe to drive my class straight to the bathroom.
The audacity of Sam's presence was a violation of personal space. What started as another mindless, insomnia-driven click, one taste of yoga online swallowed me whole. It was the tether that pulled me out of life-crippling darkness, the tool I needed to refocus my mind, and got my ass out of bed.
Yoga wasn't exercise. It wasn't a mind-and-body connection that resulted in my toned abdominals and glutes. It was so precious, the only way I knew to honor its worth was by sharing it with others. Others with an open mindset.
