Yoga Class

One Saturday morning in July I managed to get to the gym for yoga class. It’s a great class, offered several times during the week, but 9:30 am Saturday is the only time that fits my schedule. Sadly, even that is not a sure thing, and it’s been more of a once-a-month cycle for yoga class due to heavy competition for my attendance at various Saturday morning appointments including the maintenance of health and vanity, dog care, and family stuff. 

I carefully chose a spot in the second row of the group fitness studio, behind and to the left of a man who has been in the frontmost row every class I have attended, and not blocking the view of the mirror for the several people already positioned further back in the room. I knew they weren’t blocked because I checked. That’s basic studio courtesy.  I unrolled my mat and started to stretch in the few minutes before class started.  

During this quiet time, a silver haired woman in violently pink leggings marched in and unfurled her mat in the front row. Although the row was occupied by only two people on the right side, and nobody for about ten feet to the left, she chose to set her mat a few inches from the man to the right and directly in front of mine. She aligned herself to thoroughly block my view of the instructor and the mirror with such pinpoint precision it would appear deliberate if she had seemed even remotely aware anybody else was in the room. I heaved a sigh, stood up, and moved my mat several inches to the left, checking behind me to not block a view while regaining my own.  

Meanwhile, the instructor was making the rounds, dabbing citrus oil on the wrists of everyone in the class except for me, who she somehow bypassed. First the mat business, now the oil. Maybe my invisibility cloak had accidentally activated, which happens with depressing frequency. It’s a fabulous feature of middle age to become invisible to nearly everyone, which, I will confess, is not always a bad thing.  When she arrived at the front row to anoint people with her fragrant oil, the instructor looked at Lady Silver Locks, camped perilously close to the man next to her, and suggested the dear Lady move over as there was imminent danger of a physical mishap.  

Her royal highness seemed surprised, got up, and moved her mat. Despite there still being a solid six feet of space remaining before the next mat to her left, she edged over only a few inches and once again parked herself directly in front of me. There was no space in my now full row to move my mat again. Fine. I huffed and accepted the sad fate of a view of a vivid pink ass for the next hour.  

The scent of everyone else’s citrus oil lingered in the air, wafted about by the breezes from the open windows and I tried to shake off my annoyance at being blocked in the mirror.  Twice. The world will not end if I can’t check my alignment. It is a small thing for me to move on. Of course, it is also a small thing for old pink pants in front to pay the tiniest bit of attention to those around her. 

We started the class on our stomachs with heads turned to one cheek. It hurt my neck, so I turned to the other cheek which, while feeling somewhat biblical, was still hugely uncomfortable. It also hurt my lower back to be on my stomach and I felt like I couldn’t breathe, so I propped myself on my forearms to wait this part out. Unfortunately, that aligned my sightline with the crotch of old Lady Pink Pants whose legs were splayed. Not cool. I stared down at my mat, wondering what the valuable life lesson was for this particular class. There had to be one, right? 

We moved from stomach to table top to standing and the glorious yoga landscape changed with us. As we transitioned through the hour, the vibrant pink pants of Lady Front Row transitioned with us. They eased down a bit, and a bit further, ultimately revealing a majestic view of a solid three inches of elderly buttocks cleavage.  

Not once in the entire hour did she hike her pants up or her shirt down. I know this for a fact because the sight of her royal grand canyon blocked my view of everything else. Did she not feel the air upon her exposed derriere? Apparently, her range of blessed obliviousness was broader than initially suspected. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for a yoga class to end and sprinted out of that room like I had someplace to be, which, in actuality, I did not. Maybe the next time I should consider a spot in the front row. 

Fast forward a couple weeks to early August and my return to yoga class after missing a couple weeks due to various conflicts, both legitimate (dental appointment) and manufactured (trying to decide what to wear to a music festival later in the day). Remembering the sights of the previous class, I grabbed a spot in the front row. 

Soon after, Lady Silver Locks arrived and unrolled her mat on the floor barely the span of a yoga block from mine. Are you kidding me? I shifted my own mat a couple inches to the right, nearly violating the space of the guy who is always in the front row.  

During a spinal twist, when our right leg was supposed to be over to the left, she nearly crashed her leg into mine. This was because first, she was too close to my mat, and second, she was on the wrong side and putting her left leg over to the right. I wanted to kick her. Hard. Before I could finish imagining shameful and aggressive bodily harm upon my yoga class neighbor, the instructor told her she was on the wrong side and she corrected herself. 

Throughout the class, when we extended arms or legs, I made sure to fully extend. Just because she is unforgivably unaware shouldn’t mean I have to minimize my movements. And if she happens to catch my hand in her throat, let that be a lesson, darlin’. 

The back of the studio always fills up first, so unless I get there early enough to take the class before yoga and grab my spot then, I will likely always be at the mercy of the space in the front of the room. Maybe next time, instead of putting my sneakers out of the way in the corner, I’ll line them up as a little boundary marker. It’s worth a shot. Maybe my lesson is to learn to define and own my personal space.