This is the year I will touch my toes. I know I have made this resolution before – seven years in a row, to be exact – but this is the year I follow through. Come mid-late spring (or late-late spring at the mid-latest), I will be able to reach past the crook of my ankle and caress the fine hairs of my toe knuckles. By the time summer rolls around, I will be making the beach bunnies swoon as I hook these feelers around all ten of my little piggies. Who knows? By next December I might be able to reach my ankles from behind.
But these are vain conceits. Perhaps the real reason why I must learn this year to touch my toes is so that I may properly teach my students. For seven years I’ve taught my yoga class possessing not a half-ounce of flexibility myself. For seven years disappointed students have raised their hands to ask when the PowerPoint will be through and the folding chairs dismantled for some actual posing. I throw a fit every time. Relax, the student undoubtedly says. “If only I were a competent practitioner of yogic meditation I could relax!” I shout into the student’s face. And so goes another student. “Flexibility isn’t measured in ounces, you fucking idiot!” they tell me on the way out. Maybe they’re right.
But quit I will not! Too long I have not been able to touch my toes. Too long have I brought shame to a splendid art by calling myself its “teacher”. And too long have I left my feet unscratched, my shoes untied, and my acute athlete’s foot unattended to. You might ask, “Why don’t you bend your knees? Or bring your feet up to meet your hands?” Lead me not into temptation with your sound logic! None shall distract from my path to salvation. Nirvana is laid at my feet. All I must do is reach it.