Why I Can Never Go Back To That Monday Night Yoga Class Ever Again

You know that feeling when you're a little/totally rattled, trying to get dinner started, homework settled, telling your daughter that no, she can't pick out what you're going to wear to yoga because even though it's called a sun salutation does not mean I can wear a sundress? That feeling? And then Bryan (or whoever your Bryan is) comes in the front door and you pass the baton to get to yoga on time? That feeling. Well stay with me here.

Because that all happened and then I got to yoga, zipped off my sweatshirt, laid out my mat and got into Supta Baddha Konasana feeling like I had totally won that round of whatever. Aahhh. To give you a visual, this is what Supta Baddha Konasana looks like, if you're a very skinny man with hopefully soft heels.

There I was all proud of myself because I knew what restorative pose I was supposed to take to leave the day behind, Pranayama breathing the hell out of my Supta Baddha Kanasana except I felt a little cold. Drafty. So I reached one of my hands down to my stomach only to realize that I had no shirt on. I was Supta BRAddha Kanasana--see what I did there? Oh for shame. I quickly got up and put my hoodie back on wanting very much to make a quick exit except that would mean rolling up my mat and stepping over people to get to the door. Somehow getting low and horizontal felt like the right thing to do. So I did, and spent the whole class too hot and bunchy in a sweatshirt wondering if anyone would have ever told me I was doing yoga in just a bra or not?

It didn't help that it was a new yoga class for me, a step up in level and I already felt like I wasn't ready for it. The yoga teacher kept coming over to adjust me, and if you've ever been in a yoga class then you know that feeling when you sense she is coming over to you so you try to suck in your core and strengthen your thighs and--goddamn it, she's moving your knee up and back, isn't she? Don't look at me! I'm hideous! Shame spirals are hard on a Tree Pose.

Plus there was a guy in front of me who looked exactly like Russell Brand, or what I imagine Russell Brand looks like from behind doing yoga.

Like this, only the back of his head. 

The part of the class that I wasn't doing a mental Chris Farley stupid stupid stupid over my bra blunder I was wondering if Russell Brand had seen me in my bra, hoping fervently that he had already been in his own restorative pose when I came in.

It wasn't until the end of class after we had all Namaste'd the light in each other that he turned around and I saw that he looked more like Charles Manson:

As you can see, there are striking similarities, and yet there is something slight in the eyes that says that one is not someone you want to see you in your bra. Or at all. 

Which is why I can never go back to that Monday night yoga class ever again.

xo,
S

p.s. If you happen to live in my town and you overhear someone telling a story about how some crazy lady came to yoga in just her bra, it wasn't me. It must have been some other person who left the house too quickly to remember her shirt. It happens, right? Please tell me it happens.