It started with black tights, black boots, and a black tulip dress. An hour later, I was picked up by a coworker to go to yoga. Hair wet; curls loose and frizzing and walking around in public with runner leggings and a long t-shirt, I left bacon sizzling in the oven. My usual coffee had not been purchased from Dunkin Donuts, either. My friends bullied me into working out. It's not that I didn't want to be active, but I hated the way it messed with my morning routine: Wake up, listen to Rihanna's, "Do Your Thang," get pretty, drink coffee, write, and then work.
Melting into the mat in 89 degrees with a trickle of sweat slipping from my neck and between my breasts, I almost forgave my comrades for their peer pressure. Legs were criss-cross apple sauce style and hair was in a messy bun, barely hanging in the elastic, and yet it felt right.
With one leg in the air and head buried into my chest, through the heavy breathing I could hear the instructor say, "People always fight against the wobbles. You don't fight them, upi use them to help you balance." In that moment, I cared about nothing other than finding a way to keep my ass and foot in the air. However in the aftermath with sore shoulders, a tight neck, and a bit of regret, I thought about what he said.
I had hoped that with a strong start in the morning with breakfast (bacon, yo), a good hair do, and a sleek outfit that I would find some balance. . With work and sleep (mixed in with lots of Vampire Diaries episodes) taking up most of my life's hours, it was nice to feel out of sorts. Yet, it was in the in consistency(the wobble), I found stability.