Thursday mornings are now reserved for yoga and I’ll be leaving soon – very soon. Last Thursday was my second class, and I managed to do the one thing the instructor asked us not to do at the first class. I was late. I didn’t even know I was running late until a few minutes before I arrived. I thought I had plenty of time. Then I noticed the clock in the car, and totally deluding myself, I convinced myself it was a couple of minutes fast.
The instructor hadn’t closed the door yet, but the class had already started. It was like one of those anxiety producing dreams. You’re sitting in your desk at school, and you’re wearing nothing but your undies.
I understood immediately why she warned us not to be late. In a class such as this, you manage to disturb every single person in the room when you’re late. I had to wedge myself in between two people, forcing them to scoot over to make room for me. Then the entire row had to adjust for them. Then I had to roll out my mat, remove my flip-flops and put my water and purse down. By this time everyone was looking at me – at least it felt that way. Good golly, Molly! It took ten minutes for my heart to stop racing once I joined in with the class.
I hate being late, and I really don’t like when someone else is chronically late. Once in a while is fine, but when someone keeps others waiting as a matter of routine, it feels like disrespect. I once had a friend who was very late for every single thing she did. She would arrive at the event all flustered and babbling about how much she had to do before she arrived, how busy she was, how busy her kids were, blah, blah, blah.
I apologized to the instructor at the end of class and she was gracious, saying that everyone is late occasionally.
But I know she was thinking, let’s don’t make this a habit.
Don’t worry. Being late defeats the whole purpose of this class – that zen thing goes right out the window (more about that later).