The only time I ever tried yoga it was with a glamorous gay friend who took me to his glamorous mostly gay class – I ended up scrabbling about like an injured frog in a forest of beautiful men doing perfect head stands.
Four years later I’m getting ready to go to another yoga class, because anything is better than having the time to think about whether or not I am pregnant. All the mental games and bargaining with the universe are doing my head in. My period is due today, it’s not here, and I am planning to take a test tomorrow morning, all things going well. In the meantime I’m flickering between telling myself there’s no way I’m pregnant (because if I am won’t that be a lovely surprise, and if I’m not maybe I won’t be so sad if I’ve already accepted it), and silently pleading with the universe to please please please let me be pregnant.
An hour of thinking about breathing and bending myself into awkward positions can’t really hurt. Wish me luck.