I started going to yoga because I wanted to get rid of my muffin top. I was out of shape. And I loved cupcakes. So I put on baggy gray sweatpants, drove to the tiny yoga studio near my home, and took one of those $5 community classes.
The hour and 15 minutes passed slowly. I couldn’t touch my toes. But when I slipped into my flip-flops at the end of class, I knew I’d be back.
It wasn’t long before I could touch my toes. I loved that I could feel myself getting more flexible. And stronger. I started pulling off poses that previously would have landed me flat on my face. I was hooked.
That feeling — of accomplishing something that had once upon a time seemed impossible — was exhilarating. I started attending four to six classes a week, all the while learning how to relax.
Aside from the thrill I got, it was just good to get out of the house. As a full-time freelancer, I often get lonely working from home. I have three cats, but our conversations tend to be one-sided. I have Twitter, but I’ve heard that doesn’t count.
My husband, Michael, doesn’t arrive home from work until late in the evening. When he eventually walked through the door, I’d invariably try to share all the things about my workday, all at once. But it wasn’t really fair to rely on him as my sole social outlet.
Besides, things had been weird in our relationship lately. About a year and a half earlier, I’d gone off my SSRIs and my mood-stabilizing birth control because we wanted to start a family. This was risky, as I suffered wild mood swings and sometimes morphed into a psychopathic Hulk Smash version of myself. But we figured the risk was worth it.