I remember the first time I did yoga. I was in a warm, smelly gymnasium, surrounded by my fellow sixth graders. The lights were dim, and my hippie-dippie sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Harris was leading us in the zen practice she loved so dearly. I stifled laughter the entire time. The idea of pretending to be a tree or a chair could not seem crazier to me. I thought it was so stupid and did not care for the experience at all.  More than 17 years have passed, and I’ve not only come to love yoga since then, I recently started my training to become a certified yoga instructor. Maybe it’s the added stress life has handed me since the somewha