12
Eight weeks after being released from the hospital, six weeks after discontinuing any pain meds stronger than Tylenol, I drag myself to my first-ever Hatha yoga class.
It’s September 12th, the middle of the day, the middle of the week—the time when retirees, the independently wealthy, and the unemployed can indulge themselves with a breathing babysitter. That’s essentially what a restorative yoga teacher does, right? Watch her students inhale and exhale for an hour while moving—slowly—from one gentle pose to another.
I’ve always avoided restorative classes. A commitment-phobe on and off the mat, I’d rather flit from posture to posture than settle in for a more prolonged experience. But my body can’t handle anything vigorous yet. I’m still recovering. Besides, I’m avoiding the Satis o
