Drop The Mask


Back in the day, when I was a bartender, the company I worked for would hire secret shoppers to come in and judge whether we were smiley enough. 

It sucked, not just because our jobs were on the line and being fake is no fun, but more deeply, because one of the greatest pleasures of that kind of work is talking with folks about their real lives (the joys, the sorrows, and the "meh" days in between). I hoped that the granite slab between us might be a safe space where people could bring their whole complicated unruly human selves.

I want you to feel the same way in my yoga class. (Not that I’m your armchair therapist, or that you should chug tequila between vinyasas.) But that you might feel free to drop your facades, to stash the professional perk, and just be real, just be soft, just be open. That you might feel free to wear your tired face and your gin hangover and those stinky biker shorts from 1997. 

And come, just as you are.

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