Alone in my studio apartment, I groggily gaze up at the flickering lamp I forgot to turn off. Sigh, “another weekend begins…” I say to the four poorly decorated walls. Picking up my phone, I browse the unread emails that have magically appeared on my “free time.” I need to get up.
Rolling out of bed, I’m greeted with the familiar feeling of my hips popping as my feet slap against the floor.
“I really need to start stretching or something.”
Clambering to my work desk, I begin carefully composing emails to clients and coworkers alike. Ba-ding! A notification from my phone.
I have a doctor’s appointment today. Shit.
The smell of rubbing alcohol fills my nose as I look at the sporadically placed advertisements for podcasts and health insurance.
The door clicks open.
“After looking at the results of the tests, you seem mostly healthy. No tumors this time!” She lets out an empty laugh like she’s performed this bit one too many times. “My only recommendation is to start doing some sort of exercise. The stress relief could be good for your blood pressure.”
The same diagnosis as usual.
“Unfortunately I really don’t have time for going to the gym or running.” I reply, a mild headache fading into my attention. “I understand, busy as always. I did see something recently that I think you could give a shot though. It’s a new trend called Saturday morning yoga. There are tons of people hosting live streams for it and they only take about 30 minutes.” I ponder the idea for a second while rigidly getting up off the examination table. My joints are begging me at this point. “I’ll take a look at it, thanks doc.”
The comforting sight of my fluttering light.
It’s how it always starts.
Opening my laptop, I’m greeted by dozens of lively women in sweatpants and tank tops, all echoing the same sentiment of live, laugh, love; They’re trying to balance their failing relationships with their fragile social media presences. I keep scrolling until something catches my eyes.
A stream with three viewers.
On the surface, one might see a woman trying to ride the coattails of a passing fad, but something feels like she’s there for me.
Click.
“So now we’re gonna move into a classic pose, the downward dog!”
She glances at the screen beneath the camera.
“Oh, looks like we have another viewer! Welcome and please make sure to behave yourself in the chat.” She says with a hint of coquet. I obey her instructions and get into position. My arms and legs start to shake from a history of disuse as I collapse after a few minutes.
I look up at the screen.
She looks away from the camera and playfully states that “it’s okay if you can’t hold it for the entire time, just do your best!”
Her words heal me and I repose myself.
“It’s time for the next one! We’re gonna start the triangle pose. Stand with your feet just past your shoulders and reach your arm down to one side. With me now!”
Somehow it starts to feel natural. Familiar. Like riding a bike.
My abs moan from stress, but I continue. It’s good for me.
Barely keeping myself from collapsing once more, her voice resonates in my ears; a calming presence that reinvigorates.
“Alright we’re going to finish up with my personal favorite, the splits!”
“That seems unusual.” I say, concerned at the difficulty of this stretch. But just as I start to hesitate she reassures that “it’s okay, I understand if any of you have concerns, but you need only follow my movements.”
I get into position.
Sliding down, sinews scream and tissue tears.
She guides me down, her persuasive song sending me closer to the smooth stone lying underfoot. Tendons snap like overstretched rubber bands. I must continue, She says “it’s good for you. Continue.” The loss of leg control bothers me less every second.
Finally I reach the ground, the vibrations from Her voice surround me. With one last motion, the session will be finished.
Her hands find my face, Her fingers slide into the folds of my chin.
The familiar sound of my joints.
Pop.