The desperate part comes with the yoga. Although many of my colleagues love yoga and a very good friend of mine is a talented teacher, I’ve never been a huge fan. But I decided to be flexible. (Ha-ha-a little yoga joke there just to show my heart is in the right place.)
The teacher of the class is lovely but a bit tough. She doesn’t put up with any nonsense—she made me tuck in my shirt last week because she couldn’t see my hips—and she’s quite appalled by my tight hamstrings. Nevertheless, I like that she explains things clearly and has a sly sense of humor.
Massaging your mangoes …
Last week she had us sitting on some yoga blocks (think of them like phone books made of foam) and asked, “Have I talked to you about massaging your mangoes?” When we all assured her that she most certainly hadn’t, she proceeded to demonstrate. I was impressed with the exercise and went home to tell my family. But when I announced the name, my teenage girls quickly cast their appraising eyes over me. I could see it in their faces: “Is Mom suddenly talking dirty to us?” they pondered. No, actually, I wasn’t.