Yoga-Groupie

I began yoga about a year and half ago.  I had gone to a few classes a time or two and even own a DVD or two, but hadn't gotten really serious about it until a year or so ago.  I started for the physical benefits, and over time it has transformed itself into much more than that.  I began classes with Yogi Liz at 24 Hour Fitness, and instantly gravitated toward her.  I took two classes a week with her and soon became a full fledged groupie, showing up at her other studios and even a yoga workshop or two.  How times change, at one time it was such a great dream to be a groupie for Poison, Motley Crew, or heck even for Dave Matthews Band, and now I found myself being a yoga groupie.  It's comical how your priorities change with age, two kids, a husband, and laundry duty, and now I dream about working at a job I can wear my yoga pants at all day.

To my dismay, Yogi Liz has recently left for Dubai, to be a yoga-guru on an international level, sigh, and I am partially jealous that I can't pack all I own in a suit case, sling my yoga mat over my shoulder and hit the trail with her, and live my own version of Eat, Pray, Love.  Despite my mild depression over the fact that she has left, I continue on. I keep going to yoga classes, sizing up all the other teachers, comparing them to Liz and feeling horribly deflated by the fact that I can't seem to find one that I like nearly as much!

So there I sat in yoga, seven o'clock at night, trying desperately to quiet my monkey mind and settle into my meditation pose.  And next to me is a much too skinny girl, wearing some sort of polyester pants, shiny, tight pants, smacking and popping her gum.   For heaven sake, the girl hadn't even taken her socks off.  She is obviously not serious about this yoga bit, but at least her outfit is nice. SIGH...just breath.  Obviously this poor girl has no idea that I am soothing a broken heart-chakra, and really need to center myself.  So I breath a bit deeper, close my eyes tighter, and continue to listen the the instructor fail at being Liz, but she's trying.
Downward facing dog, breathing in, breathing out, cat cow, breathing in, breathing out, boat pose, and still the girl next to me is smacking her gum, and she has re-done her pony tail 15 times, flicking overly straightened, overly dyed blond hair onto my mat.  DEEP BREATH...can't this twit tell I am nursing serious wounds over the loss of Yogi Liz?  I struggle through an hour of class next to this girl, wishing I hadn't.

I role up my mat, gather my stuff, and get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking depressed, sad, and mopey..BOO...I sling my mat into the car and vow to try again another day. 
Despite the fact that I can hear blondie smacking her gum in my sleep, I won't give up on my yoga.  I get a moment to myself where I can center myself, strengthen myself, push myself, and in the end of class snooze on the floor for the best 5 minutes of my day!
Who knows, maybe I'll get crazy and go to yoga school, and become a guru and have my own groupies!  Ahh...the possibilities!

NAMASTE