My yoga teacher B teaches a Vinyasa class that’s one of the hardest classes I’ve taken. I’m one of those people who have to wipe down the mat, floor and walls near me after this class, what with all the sweating.

I started taking this class when my hip was injured over the summer; it meets at a convenient time twice a week and that was, initially, the draw for me. Because I couldn’t really do other exercise, I kept at it, even though this teacher is hard and I am lazy. B has a happy, energetic way about her that makes you want to push yourself in order to please her. Like a good dictator should do.

Though many hours of standing on my hands, holding my body weight up by my abdomen, and balance poses that make me stream sweat, I have seen results. My torso, in particular, is less mooshy and more springy, which I greatly appreciate. Between this class and my now-resumed running regimen, I’ve been feeling like I’ve been in a very good exercise zone.

And now B, in her selfishness, has found a fantastic new job many miles from here, and must suspend her classes. I am sad. I lost sleep over this last night. This is not a big enough town that can support unlimited choices of yoga classes, and it’s even harder to find ass-kicking yoga classes, whose teachers will push me the way I need to be pushed.

Boo! My body resists change in lots of ways.