Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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The weight of one hundred and six eyes bored down on me in a thick, deafening silence. The sterile scent of bleach cleaner replaced Shanti's cinnamon incense, and large, bulky muscles replaced my usual feminine crowd. A tickling sensation crept up the back of my neck, raising the hairs.
Some eyes glared with defiance, a side effect of forced participation. Several others were locked in work mode, ready for a new challenge. Only a couple blinked. One particular pair looked at me as if I was the only one here, not seventy-on-one. Heat burned in Sam's gaze from the back row, center position.
"I know what you're all thinking." I avoided Sam's smirk. "Yoga is for girls. Do you know yoga helped rehabilitate your quarterback's shoulder and improved his ankle stabilizer strength and balance? That it can help with injury prevention, sharpen your mental focus, and stress relief?"
"And getting to work out with me instead of Jeremiah for two hours a week is the icing on the cake." Hummed laughter pulled up the corners of my mouth. "But you might wish for him back on some days."
Sam wasn't done with yoga after all. And neither was Houston's management and training staff, who approved my development class. Signing the one-year contract was surreal, and I was unworthy of the salary attached. Its gravity didn't grip me until I rolled my mat over the astroturf on Houston's practice field. The voluminous white ceiling overhead required the wireless mic hitched over my ears.
My yoga instruction expanded beyond the limits of my life plan, but a thrill surged through my veins. A new challenge, almost a hundred new challenges, and I couldn't fucking way to meet them head-on. 'Yoga Strength and Flexibility with Mia' was the class name, the sales pitch, and the words on the team calendars. But I had much more lined up for the bi-weekly class of fifty-three and a separate class for the team's coaches, trainers, and front office staff.
Yoga wasn't only body conditioning and stretching, but I tore out a few pages from Michael's manipulation manuscript to convince them to accept yoga in their weekly schedules. Before changing their language, I first needed to use words they understood.
Sam taught me that.
Our one-on-one basement sessions continue, with a lot less serious yoga and a whole heap more fucking. I didn't mind the slack in his practice; Sam kept up with the parts he needed. During preseason camp, he endured enough pressure for the start of the upcoming season.
Words other than 'too much' couldn't express how I felt about Sam's extended kindness in setting me up with an interview for this position, which included traveling with the team for road games. Shanti was disappointed to see me give up most of my classes, but she understood. I returned every Tuesday and Thursday until my class found a new, permanent home in Sam's rehab center.
Good thing I like a challenge.
For this meat-packed crowd, I focused on the stress relief angle and the physical benefits of working and loosening their large and small muscles, challenging their stabilizers. I replaced the Sanskrit words with their English counterparts and directed my cues at specific anatomical terms. My lavender towels were traded in for dimmed lights, and my Chakra focuses smoothed into controlled breathing and silent rest.
