My neighbour asked me if I wanted to go to a power yoga class with her.

 
By class, she meant, sign up for ten sessions over the course of as many weeks, share the driving and make fun of each other often.

 
Done.

 
I haven’t been in an organized, weekly yoga class for five years and always wished in the back of my mind (where my feet would hopefully one day touch) that I had stuck with it but kids, school lunches and caramel-cashew-toffee-crunch ice cream got in the way, pushing my dreams of bending and stretching in practically illegal ways aside.

 
I had forgotten how nice it was to stretch.

 
I had forgotten what it felt like to inhale fully and exhale so deeply.

 
I had forgotten what my yoga mat, a mix of sweat, vinegar and floor dust smelled like.

 
I love when the instructor reminds us not to worry about what’s happening on anyone elses mat, the adult equivalent of “eyes on your own papers!”

 
I love the challenge of trying to reach as far above my head as my arms can go while barely remaining attached to the rest of my body and then finding that energy to reach one millimetre more.

 
I love trying to contain my laughter during the final resting pose when the Annie Lennox song, Into the West blasts the lyrics “On the horizon” because I’m delirious at this point.

 
I love when the instructor (Yoda?) suggests we eat a small amount of plain yogurt before class if we need to have something to tide us over but I still have sauce from the ribs I scarfed back in the car on the tips of my fingers.

 
Get out and do something for yourself today. Something that scares you a little. Something that encourages you to just breathe.