I’ve been a competitive athlete for most of my life. Competition is something I identify with wholeheartedly as a part of me. Like anyone else, I like to excel and win. As I digress out of my prime athletic years, opportunities for success in this realm are fewer and farther between. And as it happens, my victories from my younger years have taken a toll on my body so that I’m no longer able to run around like a spry spring chicken. This has brought me into new fitness ventures, the most recent of which is Yoga.
I understand that yoga has become all the rage, largely among the green juice-drinking housewives of any affluent city. They either are carrying a small dog or a yoga mat, speed walking to somewhere important, like the nail salon. They look fit enough, so I thought I should give this yoga thing a try.
I asked my friend what yoga is, and she said it’s really good stretching. But isn’t just stretching really good stretching? Sit down, touch your toes, it’s all good. I also heard yoga called a spiritual discipline. If I had any discipline with my food in the first place, I wouldn’t need to be in yoga.
So, I thought going into a stretching class targeted toward pixie housewives would be a magical relaxing way to suddenly lose 20 lbs. I did not know that yoga is really the art of anorexic contortionists mocking those of us who can’t support our entire body weight on one hand. I spent most of the class in a shameful crouching fetal position they call child’s pose. Whenever I tried to enter downward dog or upward cat I would nearly topple over. I felt the sideways glances of the ballerinas around me - Oh, you can’t stand on one leg and hold the other above your head? How sad for you. But all I could think every time we were told to change positions was WHY? Why the F would I ever want to do that? Ask around to people who have played competitive sports and they aren’t calling out the practice of crouching camel toe as the key to their success. What was most embarrassing was that in this BEGINNER class, everyone knew exactly what move to make every time she called out an Indian term, like somehow everyone became fluent in Sanskrit.
After the session concluded, the teacher approached me with her Namaste hands covered in prayer beads. “Welcome to the club,” she smiled saintly. “It will change your life.” It was clear by my bruised wrists and ego that I was a first-timer. I did not know what a Chaturanga was, but now that I have experienced it, I’ll stick to the workouts that are strictly in English.