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Mallory grinned. “I love it. Theo, you look miserable.”
“This isn’t fun,” I said, my right thigh burning from holding the pose.
“There’s no winning in yoga,” she said. “You don’t have to do anything perfect.”
Said the woman holding a perfect pose and glistening with sweat, not melting like a snowman in July like I was.
“That’s right, Mallory,” Aspen said, picking up on Mallory’s words. “You’re here, you showed up for class. That’s yoga. If you can’t smile while doing yoga, when can you smile?”
I gave the woman–who seemed so quiet and placid but was actually a ruthless taskmaster–a doubtful look.
“Life’s not easy. Shit happens,” she added.
The others in the class hooted and called out their agreement from their extended side angle misery.
My mind immediately went to all the trauma patients I had over the years, which was pretty much a daily occurrence, then to the last one, the boy who’d died in surgery. Shit definitely happened, and when it did, I was supposed to feel something. Anger, sadness.
“This is easy,” Aspen pushed on. “Simple. Just be. There’s no competition, no winning. Just be.”
“Just be,” I muttered. “Have fun.”
“Yes, let’s have some fun,” Aspen added, seemingly taking my words to heart. “Time for Bird of Paradise pose.”
Everyone started to laugh and groan, which meant I wasn’t going to like it.
On her mat in the front of the class, Aspen moved into the pose we were all holding, then added on. I listened and watched her with growing horror.
“Bind your hands, bring your right foot back to your left, then slowly lift, lift, lift, then foot to the sky.”
“Holy fuck,” I whispered, rising up out of the pose and stared at Aspen in disbelief. She was standing on one foot, her arm wrapped around her back and the other around her leg that was raised in the air and pointed toward the sky. She looked like she was inCirque du Soleilor some other contortionist show. Or a Bird of Paradise flower.
I looked on as everyone in the class started to work on the pose to varying degrees of success, talking and laughing as they tried. One woman got her hands bound, one arm behind the back, the other through the legs to have the hands clasped together. One got her feet together but that was it. She looked… tangled bent over like she was. Another was slowly lifting her leg, balancing precariously.
Then there was Mallory, who got her leg up just like Aspen, then stumbled and fell out of the pose. She laughed, then tried again. This time, she failed at bringing her legs together, stumbled, then stood and laughed some more.
I couldn’t help but smile at her efforts, the way she tried, failed, and just… had fun.
I shook my head, amused.
She turned to me, eyes rolling. “You try.”
I held up my hand. “Hell no.”
“Just the bind.”
Just the bind.As if that didn’t look hard enough.
I gave her a look, but she gave me a look back.
“Fuck,” I muttered before shifting into the initial pose, but couldn’t figure out how my arms went from there. Mallory took my left arm and bent it behind my back as she helped move my right to reach beneath my thigh and then behind.
“Good!” she praised as I struggled to reach the tips of my fingers together, then curled in and clung. Barely.
My breathing was ragged from exertion, the sweat falling non-stop.
“Now bring your legs together,” she added. The soft feel of her hand on my hip had me attempting. I felt like I’d been hogtied while trying to stand upright at the same time. An inch, then another. Then–I lost my balance and tipped, but I let go of my hold and stopped my fall.
I stood, caught my breath and found myself… smiling.
