That time my bra strap popped off in front of a famous yoga teacher

Before I jump right into something, I like to mull it over for awhile. So, when I first discovered Ashtanga yoga, a challenging and authentic style of yoga which has not made its way out here to the suburbs yet, I first started practicing at home. It was love at first Surya Namaskar. I wanted to find a teacher of my own, because lineage and the student-teacher relationship is so very important in Ashtanga. I combed the interwebz and found the perfect studio in the city, 45 minutes away, and decided that I’d go and check it out.

And then I waited a year. I was so intimidated by this place, by how famous the teacher is, by my own limitations, that I just couldn’t bring myself to go. Last week, I finally jumped in feet first.

It was amazing. I was starstruck in meeting the teacher, who is world-renown and yet super sweet and welcoming. He asked me to start the series while he watched and there, during my first forward bend, in the presence of a yoga rockstar, my sports bra strap popped off and flailed about wildly. And then the other one popped off.  The only possible way to fix it would have been to whip off my top and try and reattach both straps. Clearly, not an option. And so, I stuffed the straps into my cleavage and carried on, attempting to regain whatever shreds of my wounded dignity remained.

It must have been the atmosphere, the practice, the breathing. On another day I would have wished for the earth to swallow me whole after a scene like that. I took this in stride. I smiled, shrugged and just kept going and I had the best yoga practice of my life. I was pushed beyond what I thought I was capable of, surrounded by amazing individuals practicing at their own level of ability and inspiring me to keep learning.

Yoga has so much to teach me, and this lesson of rolling with the punches was a great start to a new practice with a new teacher. I can’t wait to go back.