I really need to learn to do things in moderation. It’s not like me to take it easy. It’s all or nothing. I’m either going to train for a marathon or not run at all. I can’t help myself. I know myself well. This is why I am reluctant to start new things. It’s going to take commitment. It’s going to take time. It’s going to take a lot of mental energy. So, when my husband said we should join the new YMCA in December, I was reluctant. I knew what I was in for. Sure enough. Just one yoga class was all it took. I felt so good, so strong. Who wouldn’t want to feel like that every day or at least every other day? So for eight weeks I became a yogi. I was getting so strong and flexible and I was able to hold my own in classes with yogis half my age. (okay, I’m either competitive or delusional) In my free time I even watched yoga videos: How to do a headstand. How to do Crow Pose. How to do Bird of Paradise. And then, it happened. That slap in the face that said, “you are not twenty-five years old”. Right in the middle of slow flow Sunday afternoon yoga class, not even my Power Vinyasa class, it happened. I must’ve done one Chaturanga too many. I descended from plank into Chaturanga to Up Dog and felt the twinge. Wow, that hurt. I did the rest of my Chats on my knees. I had pulled a chest muscle. I Googled “How long does it take to heal a pulled chest muscles?” I really thought I’d be back on my yoga mat in a few days. After watching videos on YouTube and reading WebMD I realize this healing process may take a while. I feel so defeated. If only I could turn back time, maybe I wouldn’t try to become a yogi in eight weeks.