17
Everyone does a collective eye roll.
None of us move.
Rhonda surveys the room. “C’mon,” she coaxes. “Frog Pose isn’t that bad.”
We obey. Reluctantly.
The beer-bellied fifty-something man on the mat next to me mumbles something under his breath. The woman on the other side of him lets out the softest, barely discernable “s**t” I’ve ever heard. With my knees bent, my butt up in the air, and my forearms on the ground, I feel like a yoga piñata, ready to be busted open.
Then, Rhonda says something profound. “Notice your resistance. Sometimes, we can learn more about ourselves when we’re opposed to something than when we easily accept it.”
As I lie—belly-down, a*s-up, like an i***t—I realize that Frog Pose is my step one. I’m powerless over my inability to do it perfectly. Yet, here I
