All my instructor said was: “Your practice is looking so much better. Your feet, your legs…it’s a big jump up from where you were.”
Not exactly: “Wow! You’re the yoga equivalent of Michael Phelps! We’d like to feature you in London 2012!”
But boy was I in seventh heaven.
Let’s start with the fact that I have a crush on my yoga instructor. (Because, really, what’s the point of taking an exercise class if you don’t develop a crush on your instructor?) She’s warm and encouraging and has this lovely, mellifluous English accent. It’s like taking a class from a giant bottle of jojoba bath oil.
Read the rest of this post about why I love yoga over on Better After 50…