There were only a couple of the positions that I knew better than to try. No hands and knees. No downward dog. And pretty much everything else was severely modified. Maybe the wrong word. I think maybe severity and yoga are antithetical. Although we were warned that our hips might be talking to us sometime in the middle of the night. Hey, my bladder has no compunction about yodeling until I'm awake. What's one more body part?
But when class was over, I was able to stand up without assistance. Maybe not gracefully, but adequately. You know me. I count all the small victories.
Mostly my muscles yelled at me and shook, while I tried to keep enough space to breathe. There were a couple of moments where I could actually feel some yielding. Grudgingly, perhaps, but real nonetheless. My left side was a little more cooperative than my right. My right just hung in there and held on for dear life. I suspect my ego is right handed.
I like the teacher. I trust him in the same way I trusted my banjo teacher last year.
My mat is hung up to dry (I knocked over my friend's water). I'm going to clear off the bed and call it a night. No knitting. No reading. Just me, becoming one with the mattress.
Namaste, y'all.
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