The first mistake was sleeping until after seven, because my
best thinking takes place way earlier. 

On a good morning, I sit with my coffee at 5:30, before
anyone else is awake.  I review my
calendar for that day.  I meditate. I
chant “om.”   I practice yoga postures.  I listen to music I like.  I take a few hours to ease into life before
the kids barrel down the stairs, the dogs beg to be fed, and the chase to get
to the bus stop or weekend morning soccer practice begins.

So it should have come as no surprise that waking up at 7:15
would throw a huge monkey wrench into everything. My best thinking hours were gone,
and my chances of efficiency slim.

It would be a busy day, sandwiched in between a long line of
busy days, that began a week prior with my first day at a new job, shuffling
around Miss F. to daily mandatory cheer practices in preparation of her first
competition, a relative visiting from out of town, and the deadline for the
monthly magazine that I edit looming.  Somewhere
in the back of my mind, I knew I had to be ready for the yoga demonstration
that I was asked to give at our town’s fall festival, but I had not given one
thought to how I would execute.  The date
and time were marked on my calendar, yet I had no plan.

Not only did my post 7:00 a.m. wakeup contribute to my lack
of plan, but I was also groggy after working on my magazine deadline until
almost midnight the night before.  Anyone
who knows me knows that I don’t do midnight. And the morning after midnight, I
am never at my best.

To add to the disarray, my eyes felt funny.  Allergies? 
Dryness?  Fatigue? Whatever it
was, my contact lenses were not cooperating with them, and my hair, which would
be sans shampoo due to my poor time management, would be tossed up in a messy
top knot and forgotten about. 

I was not looking at all like a Fierce Diva.

Here’s a visual. 
If you absolutely insist on having one.  

I arrived at the festival late, and hurried from the back of
the parking lot to the tent occupied by the yoga studio where I teach.

“Where’s your shirt?” R. asked as I arrived, meaning the
imprinted shirts for the yoga studio.

“I couldn’t find it,” I explain apologetically.

R. rustles around a box stowed under a table, and I wriggle
into the pink, size children’s large T-shirt that she tosses to me.   

I stand next to R. passing out fliers for the studio, while
chatting up the locals that I know from the pool, the schools, and around town. 

The day passes so quickly, that our scheduled demo time is
minutes away before I realize I don’t have a plan.

In a panic, I grab R. 
“I can’t go out there by myself,” I say. 
All of the other schools giving demonstrations have huge groups of
people with them.  The dance schools and
karate dojos have arrived with armies of students to show off their expertise.   

“You’ll be fine,” R. reassures.  “Just do some yoga.”

My mind races.  My
going out there and doing yoga by myself would not impress anyone, nor would it
help advertise the studio.   Perhaps if I
had advanced skills, I would dazzle the crowd with scorpions or other enticing
postures, but I don’t even trust my headstand enough to try to hold it for a
long period of time in the parking lot of our town’s municipal center. 

I needed bodies.  If I
had bodies, I could teach a class. 

I had an idea. 

I run up onto the stage next to the demonstration site and
grab the microphone.

“Good afternoon everyone, who would like to try some yoga
today?”

People turn their heads to me, the girl in the pink T-shirt
with the glasses and the top knot standing on the stage. “Yoga is a 5,000 year
old mind body discipline,” I continue.  “It
gives you strength. It builds flexibility. It teaches you how to manage stress
and quiet your mind.  There is not anyone
anywhere who would not benefit from a yoga practice.  So who wants to take a complimentary fifteen
minute class with me right now?”  

I repeat different variations of this greeting over and over
again for several minutes until I recruit a few volunteers.

It’s a small crowd, but they are enough to have helped me
create an “event” on the fly.

I take them through a few postures that work with shoes,
without mats, and in a parking lot. I run around and fix alignment while
calling out cues. After a ten minute vinyasa flow, I applaud them and invite
each of the volunteers to take a complimentary class at R.’s studio.

I am so glad when it was over!

It could have been more.  Much more. Had I pre-recruited some people
from around town, we would have had an impressive turnout.  And numbers attract numbers, meaning, the
larger the class, the larger number of onlookers it would have enticed. But
that’s hindsight.

I’ve been living on the fly a lot these days.  As much as
I like preparation and predictability and plans, winging it has been an
exercise in itself –  and perhaps a healthy
one – given my other nick name is “The Fierce Control Freak.”

Spontaneously jumping up on a stage without a plan, looking
my worst was actually kind of good for me in a strange way.    

It has me feeling a little kick ass.

Namaste, Divas!