My husband needs to stop living vicariously through my yoga practice. Today, when I came home from class, I decided to quickly sit down at the computer to check my email. I was quietly clicking away when I saw this fluttering blur of navy blue out of the corner of my eye.
I made the mistake of turning my head to see what was going on because what I saw stopped me in my tracks. There, in the middle of my kitchen, was my husband attempting the Triangle Pose: legs shoulder-width apart, left arm leaning down the left leg to touch the shin, right arm pointed straight toward the ceiling. He doesn’t even know he’s doing the Triangle Pose – which makes the sight of him even more ridiculous.
“Look at my yoga,” he says. His face, slowly turning bright red, can’t hide the fact that he is in a great deal of pain. I tell him that’s not yoga and he then jumps into First Position – a ballet position by the way.
With hands at heart center, he contorts himself into a squat and utters a quick, “Namaste.”
As he pulled himself together, I realized that my husband actually talks about my yoga challenge more than I do, so I can only conclude one thing: He secretly wants to join me at the yoga studio. But when I mention him coming to class with me, he says, “Only if I can wear my blue wresting singlet from high school.”
Although I would LOVE, LOVE, LOVE to see the expression on my fellow yogis faces when they try to focus in class next to this completely inflexible bald man in a blue singlet, I do know that I would be banned for life from the studio if I let that happen. I will never make the offer again.