“I don’t remember the last time I used it,” she says.
I wave off her concern. “I’ll be fine.”
Pushing the bike out of the garage, I immediately set off toward the end of the road. It isn’t very long when I recall those famous last words. The rear tire is deflated and I won’t make it up this hill, so I reluctantly get off and push the bike. The pedals scrape my leg a couple of times and it hurts like a fire poker.“I really should have checked the tires before I took the bike,” I mumble to myself.
Sweat gathers around my temple and beneath my brow. I thank God I put on deodorant this morning. I don’t sweat often, but this is one of those times.
The sound of cars and horns as I approach the town’s center drown out the rattle of the flat tire behind me. When I finally reach the community center, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and exhale loudly. Relief is short-lived as I look behind me and realize I must do this all over again on my way home. Ugh. That’s a problem for later.
The cool ventilated air on my face as I walk into the building feels like a splash of cold water. Inside the yoga room, the scent of the white tea diffusers lingers.
Checking my wristwatch, I realize I have only ten minutes before everyone starts to file in. I take this time to clear my thoughts, steady my breath, and still my body. I sit in Sukhasanauntil footsteps alert me that someone is here.
Slowly, I open my eyes and smile when I see Mrs. Green in bright pink leggings and a hot pink sweater. “Good morning, Mrs. Green. How are you feeling today?”
“Honey, these hot flashes are something. I swear if I were a chicken, my eggs would be hard-boiled.”
I snort loudly and cover my face. “Mrs. Green. I swear, sometimes I forget you weren’t raised in Cedar Brook Falls, but then you say something like that, and I can hear your southern roots.”
She pats her head. “I hope not, darling. I pay good money for Cheyanne to cover them up each month.”
We both burst out laughing and her guttural chuckle only makes me laugh harder. By the time the rest of the participants enter, I’m wiping tears from my eyes.
“What’s so funny?” asks Mrs. Gibbons as she sets her mat next to Mrs. Green.
“Nothing, honey,” says Mrs. Green. “I was just sharing some tips about going through the change.”
“Oh, don’t you start with that again. You nearly scared Trish to death with those bearded tales.”
“She’s not scared enough. She hasn’t taken my advice to laser them yet.”
“Gladys!” snaps Mrs. Gibbons, but Mrs. Green just shrugs and reaches for her ankles in preparation of Sukhasana.
I think it’s a good time to get us back on track. “Good morning, and thank you all for coming,” I say. One more lady is still setting up her mat, but I continue. “Today, we’re going to focus on relaxing our muscles and our minds. I know there’s a lot going on in our lives, but for one hour, I want you to only think about your body. I want you to focus on your breath, your heartbeat, and the way the movements make you feel. I want you to envision the way the air moves through your lungs and out through your nostrils. Take a deep breath, filling your lungs and then let it all out. All your frustration. Your disappointment. Your worries. Then, when you’re ready, let’s move into table pose.”
We stay here for a few breaths as I ease the class into some simple breathing exercises and back stretches. Despite the concrete walls and the faux carpets, I imagine being on a beach somewhere or in the middle of a forest. It’s tranquil here. There are no rushing cars, or deadlines, or even phone messages. The world is calm, still, and serene.
“Oh, no!”
My eyes pop open and I find Mrs. Green clutching the left cheek of her buttocks, writhing on her mat. I rush over and place my hands over hers.
“Mrs. Green, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Her face is scrunched up, her eyes squeezed shut. “It’s my back. My sciatica just popped.”
Her sciatica popped? I don’t think that’s even possible. But I don’t say that. Instead, I ask, “Where is the pain?”
“From my butt cheek down the back of my thigh. Oh God, that hurts.”
She’s biting her bottom lip so hard, I’m sure it’ll bleed. I consider the options. I don’t think she’s injured herself since we hadn’t done anything too difficult or strenuous that she could have twisted or sprained something. It must be a muscle cramp. I spring up and rush over to the cupboard where I keep some essentials, including an electric heating pad and extension cord. When I used to teach prenatal yoga, I would treat the moms-to-be with a warm back massage.
After plugging in the heating pad, and cranking the heat to max, I place it on Mrs. Green's lower back. If it is sciatica, it’s most likely coming from there. “Is it all right if I use my hands to massage the back of your thighs?”
Mrs. Green stops scrunching her face for a moment, to raise her eyebrow at me. “You don’t have to ask, darling. If you think it’ll help, I’d let you slap me right now.”
I chuckle. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Pleased that the heating pad seems to be doing its job and loosening Mrs. Green's muscles, I get to work on her quadricep. There’s a huge ball beneath her fascia and I knead my hands to loosen it. “Can you lay on your side, Mrs. Green? I’d like to try something.”
I help move her onto her right side and curl her leg. Then I lift it up, slowly bringing it forward, and stretching her glute muscle. Her face scrunches up again. “Does this hurt? Should I stop?”
