The Bar Wench & Yogini

Just another typical yoga class… or at least that is what I expected when I showed up with my mat in tow ready to treat my body like a bendy straw. From the moment I claimed my space and set up camp on the less than comfortable hardwood floor, I could sense something wasn’t right.  My spidey senses were tingling but I just couldn’t put an immediate finger on it.  Class began and I couldn’t ignore my internal rumblings, so while the rest of the class was focusing on working through their chaturanga to get to their bhujangasana, I was mentally going through my ‘am I appropriate for yoga class’ checklist hoping to figure out what was alluding me before having a possibly embarrassing scene:

  • legs covered, shaved and lotion-ed… so no need to worry about repeating the Dr. Delicious moment.

  • before leaving the house, I shaved the peach fuzz I call armpit hair… radiation turned out to have one bonus, it’s now much easier to maintain the pits!

  • the seams of my pants were intact… so my purple flowered undies remained my secret.

  • I was gas free… so no cliché baby pose yoga farts on my horizon.

Why did I feel like something was completely off?  All I had to go on was my intuition and the fact I was extra toasty and extremely uncomfortable.  Then, I reached up to readjust my shifting tank top and discovered it… I was wearing two bras!  If I wasn’t in a ‘thread the needle’ pose, the palm of my hand would have met my forehead.  Yup, this morning I got up, made myself nice and cozy to do some reading from a poorly written romance novel, then, when it was yoga time, changed out of my clothing, and for some reason put my sports bra over top of my every day bra. 

We moved into puppy dog pose (well, the class moved into downward dog, but it makes my head explode, so I go puppy all the way) and took the opportunity to take a glance at my décolletage and the ladies were being pushed up by my every day ‘appear like my breasts are bigger than they are’ bra and then girdled in by my sports bra that really felt more like a corset at this point.  I had to admit, they looked great (in a bar wench kind of way), but I was sweating beyond a glisten, and it was a challenge to breathe.

Meanwhile, in her overly calm soothing voice the yoga instructor was asking us to relax our shoulders, and raise our hearts to the ceiling; at least that is what I think she was saying because frankly, all I could think about was that yes the girls looked great, but man was I overly anxious to get both of these blessed undergarments off of me. 

Yogini: … and breath, let go of any outside thoughts…

Bar Wench: I wonder if I could at least slip one bra off as I put my coat on after class?

Yogini: … focus on your body and be present with what it needs…

Bar Wench: I could just slip it off now; after all, people’s eyes are closed during our final resting pose of shevasina. It would be like the time while I was teaching and my front clasped bra popped open mid-Romeo & Juliet lesson and I had to ever so discreetly reach for a binder to cover chest and make a lame excuse to go out into the hallway to put the cattle back in the barns.

I finally gave up trying to figure out how to get myself out of this bind (literally) and since I wasn’t listening to the instructions anyway, I figured I might as well see if I could find the metaphor in all of this.

And it was simple… no matter what I’m going through, or how I am feeling, I always have more than enough support to get me through… whether it’s obvious or not.