Endorphins Are for Real

Monday morning, my friend Aimee suggested an impromptu yoga class. At a new (to me) place. At 8 o’clock in the morning.
The morning had not started well. I had reset my alarm for an event on Saturday and forgot to set it back to its normal time, so I overslept. And none of my evening preparations had happened the night before, for a variety of reasons, so I had lunches to pack, uniforms to lay out, backpacks to check… But somewhere between stuffing lunches and doing the girls’ hair, I found 10 seconds to fumble in my closet for yoga attire. My self-talk went something like this: “What does someone wear to a yoga class… probably yoga pants… I don’t own yoga pants. Should I wear a leotard. That would be ridiculous. I am not Jane Fonda. Omygoodness I am so old. I remember Jane Fonda in a leotard. And I don’t own a leotard. Do I have a bathing suit that looks like a leotard. Seriously? Who wears a bathing suit to a yoga class? Or a leotard? I need to sleep.”
I settled on black leggings and a longish black tank and patted myself on the back because, for maybe the third time in my life, I was going to exercise.
I showed up at the studio, prepared for a sleepy morning yoga session, when Aimee approached me. “They changed the class,” she said.  It was no longer sleepy morning yoga or yoga of any description. It was something the instructor, who was, predictably, gorgeous, called “classic hi-lo with some dance…” or was it “dance with some hi-lo.” It didn’t matter. I had no idea what she was talking about. So I spent the next hour in a room with with this toned, bubbly instructor and a few other women, some of whom (like Aimee) I knew. They all wore yoga pants and had that relaxed air of people who had done this before. They were coordinated. They had rhythm. I felt gawky and uncertain, skinny arms and legs flailing, jumping around trying to keep up. Years of avid couch-sitting had not prepared me for this. I consoled myself with the fact that the class was too intense for anyone to pay attention to the new girl in the back. And I survived.
That morning, I bounced my way through coffee with friends, a visit to my mom’s house, a trip to the grocery store, straightening the house, picking up the girls, a dinner with extended family, and still found the energy to host a skincare party at my home, chatting away with friends until nearly 11pm.
And I wasn’t even leveled. Sure, I was a little bit tired when I finally made it to bed at 11:30, but not in that so-zonked-it-hurts-to-smile kind of way. Instead, I had spent the entire day happy. Energetic, Optimistic. Bubbly, even. I had not felt this good in a long time. Not even after I found those adorable Kate Spade ballet flats at TJ Maxx. This was (slightly!) better.
So I had to ask myself: Is this what all the fuss is about? Is this why my perpetually toned sister and lots of other super-cute friends get up way earlier than necessary to participate in an activity in which lipstick is optional (though recommended!) but sweating is not. Have I been missing out all these years?
Nah! It was probably just a fluke.
Endorphins