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Yeah man, I see you. As I pedal out my Downward-Facing Dog, there you are, framed in between my quivering forearm and torso, and perfectly off-cue.
The rest of us are working through a late class flow, but not you. No, no, this is handstand time. In fact, this whole hour has been handstand time. It’s not the first class that such a thing has happened. In fact, we’ve slowly watched your evolution over weeks—moving from humble, participating yogi to wall hold revolutionary.
I’m not entirely sure how or why you became vertically radicalized, but I do know one thing: It’s distracting. I’m having a hard enough time finding my balance, but now I’m factoring in your off-rhythm movements and off-color grunting from the corner of the studio. Not today, dude. I just can’t.
Yoga class is a team effort—the breath connected, movement communal. If I miss a step, I look to my right or left for guidance, pleasantly pushed back into the yoga slipstream. There’s a pervading calm in this support system, something I’ve come to rely on to get me out of the gym and into my weekly classes.
However, as you turn this sacred space into a personal CrossFit gym, my left eye twitches and my blood starts doing weird, bubbling things. This is not where I should be—I know—but neither are your legs, torso, and general vibe. Let’s call it even.
Folding inward, I close my eyes through a final Savasana. Finally, the good stuff. I savor the stillness, picturing the Handstand Hero’s sudden slip and unceremonious topple from grace. A great peace overwhelms me as I imagine a calf—no, a full-on side cramp. Is this my daily Zen? The last namaste echoes through the room, and neighbors begin rolling mats. I hold out a little longer, putting off any kind of post-class contact. When I finally open my eyes, I look back: an empty corner and the tranquility I’d been searching for all along.
