Mallory Reynolds and the Great Yoga Catastrophe

Another Unscheduled Midlife Crisis

Mallory Reynolds did not “do” yoga.

She once described herself as “about as flexible as a government website,” which seemed accurate. But after her doctor suggested she “incorporate light movement,” and after her friend Tiffany sent her a 40% off Groupon for a beginner’s class, Mallory decided she could tolerate one hour of pretending to be a pretzel.

What she did not expect was Goat Yoga.

She had no idea until she walked in and saw twenty people in athletic leggings and two enormous wooden crates labeled “CAUTION: LIVESTOCK.”

“Oh no,” Mallory whispered. “Oh, absolutely not.”

But the instructor—who radiated the sort of serene confidence that comes from owning too many crystals—clasped Mallory’s hands warmly.

“You must be Mallory!” she beamed. “Your aura said you were on your way.”

“My aura also says I should leave,” Mallory muttered, but it was too late. Someone had taken her shoes.

The goats were released.

They were small, enthusiastic, and apparently deeply committed to their craft. Within seconds they were climbing people like they were bouldering routes at REI. One goat, wearing a tiny purple bandana, trotted straight toward Mallory with the purposeful energy of a tax auditor.

She backed away. It followed. She backed further. It trotted faster.

“Oh my God,” Mallory whispered. “Why is it making eye contact?”

The instructor called out, “Remember, goats are drawn to resistance!”

“Great,” Mallory replied. “My brand.”

The class began with “Gentle Mountain Pose,” which Mallory interpreted as “standing there, regretting every life choice.” As everyone inhaled deeply and exhaled gratitude, the bandana goat hopped onto Mallory’s yoga mat and promptly fell asleep.

Mallory froze.

“Uh,” she whispered, “this one’s defective.”

“You’ve been chosen!” the instructor exclaimed.

“Can I return the blessing?” Mallory asked.

Her question was ignored because the next pose was Downward Dog—something Mallory had only ever done while retrieving dropped tortilla chips from under her couch. She was halfway through attempting it when the goat decided her back was a convenient platform.

Thump.

Mallory went down like a folding table at a tailgate.

The entire class gasped. The goat looked offended. Mallory’s soul briefly left her body and hovered near the ceiling.

She tried to stand, but now both goats had determined she was a warm, slightly confused hill and climbed aboard. They bleated proudly, as though conquering a national park landmark named Mount Anxiety.

“Breathe through the discomfort,” the instructor called.

“I’m breathing through goats!” Mallory snapped back.

Finally, the class ended, and the goats were lured away with organic beet pellets (Mallory made a mental note to never eat anything purple again). She retrieved her shoes from some wicker basket that definitely violated health codes and limped toward the exit.

The instructor waved cheerfully.

“You did beautifully! Will we see you next week?”

Mallory stared at her, bruised in places she previously thought were theoretical.

“Yes,” she said. “But only if the goats get a Groupon too.”