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ONE
Kiki
Never trust a goat...
Have you ever had a goat walk all over your butt? I’m serious here. How am I supposed to stay in a zen state doing yoga as a rambunctious baby goat tramples his little hooves all over my body?
I’d never even heard of goat yoga until a few days ago when my best friend, Lola, told us about it. She’s a fitness blogger and these unusual workouts are her job to find and test out. Poppi and I are the ones she ropes into coming along so she can document the fun. ‘It’s all for the sake of a healthier lifestyle,’ she said as we entered the barn-like yoga studio earlier today.
That statement is always a bad omen. Like the time we went water walking. No, not like Jesus. This exercise involved being inserted into a human-sized hamster ball and rolled down the sandy shore into the water. Apparently, if you do it right, it’s great for the abs. If you do it wrong, like me, prepare to be rescued before you drift away.
Then, there was the Thug Workout debacle which took place outdoors with things like picnic tables and telephone poles as the workout equipment. I wasn’t happy about the splinters in my hand.
Lola’s followers love reading about this stuff. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be adventurous while working out, but there’s a fine line between adventure and just plain silly.
And maybe this is it.
I’m not complaining, because I’ve never been part of a yoga class where it hasn’t benefited me greatly, but I just don’t quite understand bending yourself into the shape of a pretzel and then thinking, ‘You know what this also needs? Goats. Lots of little goats jumping all over us.’
Yoga with Goats. Goga? Goga on. Super creative title, I know. You’re welcome.
“I’m pretty sure this goat just got to third base,” I whisper to Lola, trying to keep my yoga pose in check.
“Focus,” Lola whispers back, extending her arms forward on the blue mat. “Feel the serenity.”
I blow out a breath, as a sandpaper tongue licks my heel, and attempt to relax. This is supposed to be a serene space. Soft music. Sage walls. Even the yoga teacher is the epitome of tranquility. Her name is Flower, I kid you not, and she has her purple hair piled into a wicked knot on top of her head. Other yogis would be jealous.
“Close your eyes and work through the movements,” Flower purrs from the front of the class. “Now, move into the downward dog pose and don’t lose your goat.” Flower gives a sideways glance at Poppi whose goat took off long ago and is now nibbling on a potted plant on the opposite side of the room.
“I don’t think mine likes me,” Poppi says, tucking an escaped strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “And ya know, I’m not sure I mind.”
My goat ambles in front of me, and I stare at his angular face while his large brown eyes stare back. “Please stay with me, little guy,” I whisper as I move my body into a downward facing dog position. He hops onto my back and treks up to balance perfectly on my ass. I’m just going to ignore the implication that my butt is big enough for him to do this and savor the fact this hasn’t been disastrous.
“Now move into crab pose,” Flower instructs. “Keep your goat steady.”
Sweat trickles down my forehead as I glance at the teacher who glides into the pose with ease, her goat looking like he’s riding out the perfect wave. “Are you going to get your goat?” I ask Poppi.
“Nah, he seems pretty happy over there. I think he’s divorced me.” She focuses her attention back on me, not even attempting to do anymore yoga. “Speaking of, how’s the fiancé?”
I try my best to keep my inner yogi at peace. “He’s perfect.”
That’s the word my mom keeps using in her relentless texts. She’s got me in some type of subliminal competition with my cousin Marsha.
“Marsha got engaged. When are you getting engaged?”
“Marsha just became Vice President of International Affairs at her firm. How’s the dog grooming going?”
Marsha. Marsha. Marsha. My name should’ve been Jan.
I still can’t believe I’m getting married, though. Me. Kiki Kingsley will soon be...ugh.
“Just the name,” I breathe out, keeping my pose and goat stable. “Kiki Faniki. It rhymes.”
“Kiki Faniki, the first woman on Mars,” Lola says. “See it sounds more prestigious when you put it doing something important.”
“But, I’ll never go to Mars,” I whisper back. I’m sure Marsha will, and Mom will be sure to imply I should’ve been an astronaut instead of opening a dog spa.
“You never know that,” she says, always optimistic.
“Don’t take his last name,” Poppi suggests.
I shake my head. “No, my mom would have a heart attack.” I close my eyes, trying to find my center of gravity as the baby goat I’ve named Peter tries his best to stay on but fails. He’s kind of cute with his triangular black beard. He almost…no, I push the thought away. I can’t even think it. But as he studies me with his big brown eyes, I can’t help thinking...
