Within seven seconds, I chose yoga over Facebook. I hadn’t been to yoga in weeks and was spending way too much time with the other. But I’d been busy. Writing, I’m alway writing. And last month I had strep throat that lingered. Plus we just returned from vacation.
Seven minutes later, I was out the door and into the humid morning wearing my favorite yoga pants that somehow seemed smaller.
After a seven minute drive, I signed my name on the clipboard. “Don’t worry if I spend the whole class in child’s pose—just ignore me, I’m rusty.” I explained to Michelle who teaches Explore the Body. I needed to explore my body. We had become strangers as of late.
Michelle laughed and promised to call an ambulance if I stopped breathing altogether. She’s nice that way.
I sorted through at least seven yoga mats to uncover mine, dusty and abandoned, propped in the corner where I left it in July.
Seven minutes into shoulder stretches, I felt the squeeze of a Charley Horse building through my arm. I adjusted. Charley eventually released his vise-grip hold on my invisible bicep, but not until I reverted to steady pre-labor breathing exercises.
Seven minutes later, I floundered into and out of Thread the Needle Zen Pose. But I did it. Sort of.
Seven more poses, and my shoulders loosened, my mind cleared, the nerve endings in my body tingled.
Seven cleansing breaths into Uttanasana, I could bend near enough to the ground to notice my shabby toe polish.
Seven shades into final Shivasana, I remembered why I love yoga.
This was written for the Write Tribe Festival of Words. Prompt: the number Seven.