I smother a smile as she’s a few steps out of sync, but her jaw is set, her gaze is focused, and her determination is screwed to the sticking post.
As the instructor guides us into a mountain pose, she must see that Ripley’s lagging behind, since she stops at the very obvious newcomer and offers some tips. My yoga companion breathes a noticeable sigh of relief, then rises into a standing pose with the rest of the class. Did Ripley even read the schedule online? If she knew this was an intermediate class, would she still have taken it? Or did she just want to scare me off that badly?
Well, she’s going to have to work a lot harder to give me the slip, especially given what’s onPage Sixtoday.
A little later, when the instructor guides us through a twisting chair pose, I’m vaguely tempted to tell Ripley she doesn’t need to sit so low. That she might risk overextending something.
But why bother? She’d bite my head off.
And you’d like it.
Yeah, I would.
After forty-five minutes of Miss Stubborn white-knuckling it through the class, the teacher gracefully pads to the front of the studio again. “And now we’ll start to slow down. It’s easy to focus on strength and balance. We spend all day going, going, going. We check things off our lists. Wedoall day. And so we often are drawnto the strength poses, the balance ones, the ones we feel like weshoulddo, but slowing down is just as important.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ripley’s expression soften. It’s like tension melts away as the instructor gives her maybe something she doesn’t often give herself—permission.
“Let’s take a child’s pose now,” the instructor says.
In a heartbeat, Ripley sits on her knees and leans forward with a contented sigh as she rests her forehead against the mat, stretching, easing, then letting out a long breath.
Then another.
Soon, all that tension she holds seems to slough off her shoulders.
When we move into the final resting pose, flat on our backs on our mats, Ripley’s like a happy dog, settling in at night in bed, before she closes her eyes.
I should close my eyes too. Really, I should. Since I’m not technically worried about her safety during a yoga class, it would be no big deal to do it.
But I can’t close my eyes. I just…can’t.
So I lie there as I stare at the ceiling. Wishing this painful part of the class would go faster. Willing the second hand to tick by at a higher speed. C’mon. It’s taking forever. Pretty sure the old dude a few mats away is snoozing. The young woman on my other side looks so serene. Ripley’s practically murmuring as she just…lies there.
Me? I’m trying not to bolt up, roll away my mat, get the hell out.
After a few laboriously long moments, the instructor speaks again, leading us out of that pose as she sits cross-legged at the front of the classroom. “Thank you for coming to this intermediate flow class here at Downward Dog All Day. I’m Briar Delaney. I live and work in San Francisco, but occasionally get the chance to lead special classes like this. If you want more yoga classes from me, try my Flow and Flex Fitness app. And I hope you all have a beautiful day.”
I really shouldn’t rib Ripley about her lack of research in trying to give me the slip as we clean our mats and return them to their baskets.
Truly, I shouldn’t, as we say goodbye to the instructor, then grab our shoes in the lobby.
I absolutely should refrain from teasing her as I head outside first, scanning the street for photographers or anything out of the norm. The coast is clear, so I hold open the door for her.
Then, fuck it. “So, you were thinking you’d give me the slip, but you wound up in a yoga class a little tougher than you were expecting?”
She digs her heels in. “I knew that was an intermediate class,” she says, lying through her teeth. It’s cute, the way she tries so hard to be so tough.
As we pass a tourist shop peddling sunglasses and beach hats, I check behind us once more, then look at my watch. It’s eight-fifteen. “What’s next? Are you planning on face masks? A spa day? Taking me to a salon? Oh, I know! Should we get a blowout?” I stop to run both hands through my hair, like I’ve got a luxurious mane.
With a confused look, she stops too, asking, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
She twirls a finger around my face. “That thing you just did with your hands in your hair.”
Was it not clear? “Like I’m a shampoo model.”
She gives a long nod. “My bad. I thought you were doing a stripper move.”
