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.
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.
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