I am horrified to admit this, but my husband is mocking my yoga practice. I think he has tried to pretend he’s into my newfound obsession and the fun I’m having blogging about my experience. But, truth be told, he’s just not that into it. I find that shocking.
How can he not be enlightened by the life-affirming tidbits I share with him after each class? How can he not be impressed by my increased strength and flexibility? Perhaps I pushed him too close to the edge when I went on and on about one of my yoga teachers, her many lavish tattoos (I think she has at least 10 – one of which is a beautiful lotus flower) and my new appreciation for people who cover their bodies with meaningful art?
I finally figured out how my husband really feels about my yoga quest today at the Paperstore. I was quietly browsing the books in the Mind, Body, Soul section when he came up behind me and said, “Oh, here we go,” under his breath. He then rolled his eyes and said, “Come on; let's go.”
As we left the store, I confronted him and learned that he doesn’t mock my yoga but rather “the funk and cost” of my yoga (his words, not mine). His assessment is that for the $150 I paid for my month of yoga, I’m basically locking myself in a hot room and playing Twister. “You should save me the money, go down to the basement, turn the heat up, and get out the Twister mat.” Oh really.
Then he preceded to tell my I should think about changing my email to namaste@verizon.net and end my cell phone voicemail message with “Namaste.” He has said Namaste about 100 times today. That, my friends, is more than I can take.
So, tomorrow in class when my teacher reminds us to dedicate our practice to someone or something, I am going to dedicate my session to my husband. And I will continue to do so until he stops saying "Namaste."
Namaste (so there!),
Erin
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