Official*

Given the opportunity, your average human being (well, this one, anyway) can rationalize just about any sort of behavior; all it takes is a plausible excuse and most of us (well, me, anyway) will find a way to justify even relatively egregious actions in the name of some principle that makes what we’ve done seem reasonably acceptable.

In this case, though, my transgression was pretty minor.

I’ve been one pose away from having been given the full Ashtanga primary series to practice under the watchful eye of my guru, Saraswathi. Having stopped me after Maricasana D the first week I was here in Mysore, she has then—following my triumph in binding both sides of the pose the same day the Steelers lost in the Superbowl—been slowly doling them out to me, a pose or three a week, depending on my progress and who knows what else.

Most recently, before my family and I left for Goa, I received Ubhaya Pandangusthasana and Urdva Mukha Pascimattanasana in a single day, leaving only Setu Bandhasana, a pose I usually get away with in the led class, even when, like on Saturday, I am in the front row, right where Saraswathi can put the kibosh on me should she so desire.

So today, I figured, “What the hell,” and “Besides, it’s my last week here,” thereby justifying my decision to assay that final posture even though I hadn’t officially received it.

Bad man, I know, but it’s my last week here, okay?

Of course, no sooner did I complete it and move into the finishing postures than my teacher arrives alongside to ask me in her sweet, but commanding voice: “What you do?” the question she poses to people as a way of ascertaining how far they’ve gone in the practice and whether they’re ready for a new pose.

Busted!

Upside-down in Sarvangasana, I mumble first, “Urdva Mukha Paschimottanasa,” but then have to come clean: “Setu Bandasana,” I admit, guiltily.

“You do it correctly?” she asks.

“I think so,” I say, never sure, really about the “correctness” of any posture, meanwhile steeling myself for whatever punishment will now ensure.

She takes a beat, obviously, in my mind, deciding whether to ban me from the shala for life or just the rest of my time here.

But then: “Okay. Tomorrow you stand up for backbends.”

I almost fall out my pose with relief.

It’s taken six weeks, but I’m back to where I was in the length of my practice when I arrived.

Now, though, I’m official, albeit today—I admit somewhat guiltily but tempered by the excuse of this being my last week here—with an asterisk.