When I was a little girl, my sisters and I used to love to watch the national hit exercise program, Hooked on Aerobics. We would always fight over who got to be the lady with the long brown hair. My favorite aspect of the program was the three levels of impact. Usually the guy was on the low level, which is of course logical because how many men really get worked up about aerobics? However, sometimes on the show they would all change levels, and that was the best, because then when Brunetta was on the lowest level I could truly be just like her. Or when she was on the highest level her hair got more flippy. That was cool.
Fast-forward to yesterday. I have been to three total yoga classes now, not counting the awesome personal instruction I received on my mission from Gina. I went to a yoga class at the gym, and there was a new instructor. And me. Awesome.
I was immensely relieved when one other person showed up a few minutes later, so I didn't have to have my own personal yoga lesson during which my son interrupted from the cry room frequently. I can just imagine the instructor in some strange tangled angle, upside-down with only her hands supporting her whole body, and me saying, "Can you just wait there for a few minutes? My baby needs me again. I'll be right back. Really. Just pretend like I'm here."