Why is yoga so damn hard

So, yesterday I went back to yoga after more than a year. Times have changed in the meantime. Or maybe it's just the studio I went to. At the first place I ever yog'd (the Haum of Yoga, which is amazing), people were very chilled (even before the meditation session). Yes, there were a few aggressive hippies, out to prove that they were more relaxed and vegan than anyone else - like the woman who responded to an ad for organic milk on the noticeboard by saying "yes, but it's probably been pasteurised". (And there I was, thinking that was a good thing).

At the second studio I went to, things were a lot more serious. I was the only person not wearing a headband or those weird wraparound pants usually worn by the people who do flamethrowing or play with those funny sticks on the beach. Also, I was the only person who didn't feel comfortable when a tiny piano was brought out and we all started mooing and chanting together.

Things are far more fashiony at my latest spot. No printed headbands here. And I don't think I fooled anyone into thinking that the tight racerback pyjama top I had worn to bed the night before in the interests of saving time (dressing - or indeed, doing anything - in the morning is slightly traumatic for me) was legit yoga gear. Not when they themselves were decked out in special high tech fabrics that basically move their legs for them.

I am hoping that it is these fabrics also suck their bodies into perfect proportions. If not, I have to face the fact that everyone else in class has a bum like a pert Jack Russell puppy. Mine, on the other hand, is like the depressed child of a Saint Bernard and a basset hound, needing to be rolled and unrolled along with my yoga mat.

Also, these superbummed individuals are far better at, well, everything than I am. As I am a naturally competitive person, this is not good, and can only lead to injury and self-loathing. For example: the teacher announced yesterday that we would be moving into the standing splits. This is not possible, I thought, until I noticed that everyone had changed positions and I now felt as if I was watching Swan Lake, getting the same view as the floor usually does. I, meanwhile, had moved my leg only as much as would be allowed as if I were wearing an Oxford Road mini skirt. "Now, we are going to transition into the dancer, moving up and back in one smooth movement," the teacher then announced. Not possible, I again thought. She may as well have told me to perform a  heart transplant with one hand whilst making a double cheese soufflé with the other. And yet, all around me,taut bodies were transitioning away.

I, obviously, stopped trying. With the result that while this graceful ballet went on around me, I stood shamed and walrus-like in the middle of the class. I am sure no one noticed, though.

Today, I ache. I'm not stiff - oh no, I've gone beyond that to feel bruised, as if tiny workmen have been hammering at my muscles all night. I am so sore that I feel I deserve at least a six pack. But no - as when you get a hangover but did not have the joy of getting drunk, there is none to be found.

Sigh.

Paranoia pays

I'm a bit like Haley Joel Osment's character in Sixth Sense, except that instead of seeing dead people, I see disease.

I have spent most of my life believing that the world is just one big medical disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes, this makes me look ridiculous. For example, back in first year, I ran up to the san and tearfully confided to the sister that I had shared a vigorous kiss the night before and might therefore need the morning after pill. Also, I'd had a drag on a cigarette and was worried about lung cancer as I was feeling a bit wheezy.

For the first six weeks of my pregnancy, James refused to listen to me talking about the baby I was certain was on the way, instead pointing out that the bulge which had appeared above my jeans was probably just cake. He may have been more receptive to my claims had I not been making them since the first time we smooched, even though I insisted on at least two forms of contraception at all times.

My phobia has not been helped by the Internet. Because I am able to hang out online with other - I will refrain from calling us hypochondriacs and instead use the term hypervigilant health people - I have turned casual incidents into all out crises. When Leya was just six months, a Google convinced me that her pronounced startle response was, in fact, a violent form of epilepsy that would leave her brain damaged within two months. Just last month, another online search had me gently warning my mother that I may not be much longer for this earth, as a skin irritation I had been experiencing was a sign of cancer. Of course, one phone call to my doctor set me straight - and set her laughing.

I'm coming to accept the fact that, if you look long enough on Google, everything - even a hang nail or dirty hair - can be a sign of cancer. But there are times when paranoia pays. For instance, last week I noticed our Jack Russell, Sherpa, had a suspicious looking sore. Other people would have thought, "hmm, now that really is a suspicious looking sore", but not I. I knew, with the certainty of one who knows that herpes lurks on rented snorkel masks and that while a sore throat might well be the first sign of the common cold, it is also the first sign of quincy, measles and HIV, that it was a tumour. And guess what? It was. You see? If you have everything you think is a tumour checked out, you will eventually save someone.

Now, seen through others' eyes, Sherpa is a particularly repugnant animal. Not only does he have a smell, he is given to inappropriate bouts of randiness with my father and 80-year-old neighbour. More worrying, there have been times when I've been kneeling to see to Leya and he has, Norman Bates-ishly, placed a paw on each of my hips. But that doesn't change the fact that he is my first born and you can't help the people you love.

So, thank you paranoia (sounds like an Alanis Morisette song, doesn't it). If it weren't for you, our noxious little fur kid would no longer be with us.

Things on my mind

1) I don't know if I should have cut a fringe. It completely looks as if a cat is sitting on my head. it catches me by surprise every time I see it in the mirror; it's as if I expect the small pouf resting on my forehead to get up and stretch. At the same time, I look like a surprised crowned guinea fowl. Or a Hitler propaganda poster as it really gives me the look of the shtetl dweller. Either way, I think we can conclude this is not a glamorous look.

2) I am confused as to why one of my eyebrows grows faster than the other. I consider the loss of my tweezers as a great misfortune, as I now have eyebrows growing down to my upper lip (oh wait, that's something else entirely. Different but equally unfortunate). My face therefore looks misshapen and vaguely Picasso like. Then again, this may be where that fringe comes into its own, creating a hiding place for the wayward eyebrow.

3) I am really not sure about Jared Leto. I have to agree with a colleague who feels that he is incredibly handsome, but at the same time looks as though he might be into really weird, dirty things. A night with him would probably involve a third person, or possibly a stuffed panda, is the way she put it. I on the other hand, although admittedly not in a position to cast aspersions on anyone else's hair, am baffled as to why he wore his shower hairstyle to the Golden Globes. When I had long hair I made sure no one ever saw me looking like that.

4) It is really upsetting when your mother ends a conversation thus: "...and I think my medication might be making me go blind. Have the most wonderful day, I love you, chat to you tomorrow."

5) I appear to have given birth to the rudest person in the world. Yesterday, Leya was surrounded by a semi-circle of adoring fans; women in their thirties whose biological clocks had become audible as soon as they caught sight of her. They clustered around her telling her how pretty she is, and asking where she got her skirt from, and asking why she had taken her pigtails out. And my daughter, all 16 months of her, looked back at them, smiled and said quite clearly: "Go away." This makes me feel really bad about my parenting skills.