My Inner Ethel

I've enrolled in a six-week series called Progressive Yoga through the downtown Y. A small class of six. The instructor spends most of her time coming around to help correct your position in the various poses. We got started this past Saturday.

In one session I learned how to better manage my elbows. Being double jointed, those elbows can twist or tug me off course. And I found out that my body favors its left-hand side. The left leg in particular.

I've been a closet yoga practitioner for years. I'm not particularly skilled but I stick to it and advance in small steps. I'm bendy enough and all. The struggle is finding that peaceful mind or bodily space that gives rise to yoga practice. I'm a loud, chatty sort of person. The sort of yoga-faker who lays still, breathes deeply during the relaxation session all the while making a mental list of ingredients for Bombay Potatoes, because I'm in an Indian Food mood. I'll consider whether or not to swing by the store for some ingredients. I like to put it this way: if yoga is the cool, melodious sound of Billie Holiday then I'm Ethel Merman at heart. Always have been.

This class was quite nice. A collection of people interested, for whatever reason, in advancing their practice. As far as classroom settings go, I liked it. Incense, moody music. I walked into a room completely washed in earth tones and had to chuckle at my Ethel sense of sporting a vibrant-lime-green. Next time I'll opt for OSHA safety orange, I think.