I hate this new yoga class.
Correction: The class is not new. I am new to it.
The teacher tells us to let go of any judgments we may have, but I can’t stop judging her.
Her voice reminds me of a certain type of person she may or may not be.
Her smile has a sharp edge that could cut you in a way you might not notice til you saw the blood.
We are supposed to flow but it feels more like we are rushing to get somewhere.
But. The teacher is not responsible for what I do here today. I am.
I fume in silence, my mind racing as my body bends and stretches, folding and unfolding.
I slink out afterward, vowing never to return.
And yet … I feel taller now, as I get out of the car on the way home and stride into the post office.
Whose fault is that?